#direction nulle part

[baheuldey]

WrackWagen III, 2024, acrylique sur toile, 35 x 49,5 cm

[yeyinde]

With his marriage on the rocks, Price ends up drinking himself into a stupor at the bar the night after his wife of fifteen years tells him she wants to separate. It's where he finds you—a man's walking midlife crisis. Much younger. Too pretty for your own good.

Just passing through, he can vaguely remember you telling him as you twirled a black straw around the drink he ordered for you. Whiskey sour but with cherries instead of lime.

He grimaced around the thought of it, but couldn't seem to peel his eyes away from the way you curl your tongue around the red cherry floating in your drink. Too goddamn pretty for your own good.

Too soft, too.

He feels it when he places his hand on your thigh—to steady you, he tells himself when you start to wobble on the stool—the soft meat of your body giving so easily under the weight of his thick, grizzled fingers.

You don't belong in a pub like this where the floor is always sticky, the wallpaper is probably still made of lead, and there's gum stuck to the underside of the table. Despite the smoking ban, the room is clogged with dense tendrils of smoke. No one lifts a brow when he pulls a cigar from his front pocket, and strikes a match to light it. Puffing away in the corner with a too pretty, too young thing leaning into him, asking can I give it a try?

It's wrong. He feels it in his bones. A siren wailing in his head. Leave, go home. Don't look back. And maybe that's what you are:

a siren

because he peels it from between his dry, chapped lips and feels his heart throbbing in his chest when you lean over him, his lap, eyes still locked on his in the near the perfect pastiche of an early 90s pornography video—amateur, grainy around the edges; soaked in that glossy, faded old film filter—and wrap your cherry red lips around the hilt, lashes fluttering as he swallows thickly and rasps out that's it, sweetheart, now suck—

Feels his age acutely in the ache of his thighs as his muscles tense, drawing tight together when your eyes close, pinching in disgust around the heady mouthful of maduro, but mm, love, ain't supposed to swallow it.

The gleam of unshed tears pooling against your lashline catch beautifully in the warm, lambent glow of the lights overhead that are undoubtedly older than you. Lachrymal. He feels it in his guts like a stone. A thick lump of smouldering coal he has to try and breathe around.

The eight—nine, maybe—whiskeys he had since he sat down and grunted his usual order at the barkeep catch up with him all at once the moment a single drop spills over, and those cherry red lips part, embarrassed, and the smoke in your voice, the raw, scorched wound of untested flesh doused in tobacco fill the hole in his belly when you say I've never done this before and, soft, shy, sweet: will you teach me?

It's awash in the jaundiced spill of winter lights. Blue hour bathed in orange. There's a mark on your thigh when he pulls his hand away, damp palm leaving a stain in the soft cotton of your pants. He's not sure why that renders all logic in his head null, but it stabs into him like a pickaxe through the temple. Sudden, violent, and jarring.

His hand cupping you through your pants, feeling the heat of your cunt on his still-wet palm. Growling in your ear when you tremble against his chest about how he has a lot he plans on teaching you, sweetheart, so be a good girl, and come home with him—

He doesn't make it that far.

Unbuttons his trousers the moment you climb into the back seat of his truck, legs spreading in anticipation for him to fill the split of your thighs, and curl a single finger in his direction, a silent comehither.

Marionette on strings, he follows. The obeyance rankles down his spine but he's too far gone to give it much more than a passing, agitated flick. Ignoring it in favour of wrestling his trousers down his hips, and pulling you on his lap.

It's every part the indecent, goatish drunk hookup he vaguely remembers from back when he was some approximation of your age. Pawing clumsily at your cunt in a selfish, perfunctory preparation. Unpractised despite having decades of experience throbbing insistently in his temple, muted under the cloying haze of too much alcohol and the manifestation of his fantasies come to life in his lap, perched so prettily above his aching cock.

Pants into the mess he makes of your neck about how much better he'll be later. Take you home, eat your pretty pussy out until you're nearly ripping his hair out from how good it feels, and then he'll fuck you on a bed. Proper, he grunts, snaking a hand down between your thighs to grip his cock, the other peeling away from the warm, tight heaven between your thighs, fingers slipping out slick and sticky, smearing it over his fat, weeping head.

"need you," he grunts, barely cognisant of much outside this concupiscent ache in his belly. This hunger he's never felt before. Just mutters, slurs, need you, need this pussy. Come on, love, let me in—

He pushes against your opening, flared head splitting your folds so obscenely that he's almost desperate with the need to commit the sight to memory. So fuckin' pretty—

You whine, mewling above him as his slick fingers squeeze your waist, pulling your down over him. Forcing his cock into you as you bable about it being too much, god, it's too much, too big—ego feeding, incendiary. Mesmeric. If it's meant to slow him down, or make him stop, it slips through the cracks. Eaten alive in the fog.

His hand pushes against your throat, fingers folding over the span of it. Gripping tight. Holding firm as he catches your gaze and plants his feet on the ground. The noise you make when he bucks into you from below, forcing the rest of his cock into the impossibly tight squeeze of your cunt is snuffed out when his hand spasms, closing into a choking grip.

Seated deep inside you—too deep, it's too much, please—he feels heavenised. Bathed in bliss. Nirvana. Can't quite wrap his head around how good you feel beyond staggered grunts that spill from his sweat-slicked lips, and a needy, urgent roll of his hips, unable to pull away from the euphoric clench of you swallowing him down.

It's an eye rolling pleasure. The kind that rips through his belly and drags him to the brink in an instant. All heat. A molten, velvet clench. Primal. All animal seeking a warm, safe latibule.

He thinks of the womb and it's primordial incalescence as he works himself into you, head blanketed in a dizzying, almost delirious spot of pleasure. Soporific. And that's what you are—an overwhelming sense of sempiternal warmth. Something every fibre of his being wants to crawl inside of.

And he does. Over and over again. Peels his hand from your throat to curl it over your nape instead, pushing your mouth against his in a scorching, bruising kiss. Laying claim, eating your moans from between your teeth, chasing the cherry sweetness that lingers. Making a mess of you with the sweat that drops down his temple and the spit that slicks your chin.

Inside you, too. Spilling in your cunt with a belly-deep groan. It rips through him like a head cold, a fever, and leaves him feeling warn and sore. Unable to keep up with the gutpunch of his pleasure as you cling to him tight and mewl in his ear for more.

(Something he plans on giving you for the rest of his life if you'll let him.)

Makes it to his house somehow. Fucks you in the foyer because the sight of your bare, cum-slick thighs shakily climbing up the stairs, knees pressing together to keep his release inside, is enough to rent him in two. And it does. Spilts him down the middle until all that's left is want.

Avarice. Greed. A hunger so deep, it rattles his bones when his belly growls.

Spends himself dry inside of you, unwilling to pull out even for second. Falling asleep with you slick and warm around his cock. Content for the first time in ages. Slipping into a sleep so deep, he wakes up at noon the day.

But you're gone when he does, leaving nothing behind except deep scratches down his back and the pair of panties he stuffed in your mouth last night to keep you from waking the neighbours.

Despite regretting not tying you to the bed and slipping the ring his wife left on the end table on your finger, it's cathartic.

Just—

Not meant to last. His fleeting siren. A secret he'll take to the grave because if it ever got out, it would ruin his reputation. His family. Everything he worked hard for.

And when his wife changes her mind two weeks later and comes back home, life returns to normal. He's once again the dutiful husband. Provider. A good, honest man even though he finds himself dreaming of you as he lays beside his wife, your scent still clinging to his pillow. Hungry. Unfed.

But this is the way it has to be. Must be.

Until his siren comes back to haunt him three weeks later when you turn up again, back in town and pregnant with his child.

[synchodai]

I get this impression that House of the Dragon doesn't get that "named" heirs aren't really the norm in Westeros. If it were that easy for someone to just give everything to their favorite child, Randall Tarly wouldn't have needed to force Sam to go to the Wall and Tywin could have simply chosen Cersei over Tyrion as heir of Casterly Rock.

If we look at the history Westeros borrows from, the concept of "naming" heirs wasn't really a thing in medieval England. Landed gentry didn't have direct say over the order of succession until the Statute of Wills in 1540. Before then, land and subsequent titles could only be inherited through agnatic primogeniture.

Agnatic primogeniture prioritized the living, eldest, trueborn son. Claims can only be passed on patrilineally. This means that a grandaughter can inherit a claim of her grandfather's titles through her father, but a grandson cannot be given the same through his mother. However, if his mother finally does have land and titles under her own name (not under her father's), only then does her son and other children enter the line of succession.

The reason it was like this was because it kept land and titles under one family. Daughters are less preferred because when they are married, they become part of their husband's family — meaning that any titles they receive will be inherited through a new line. This wouldn't be an ideal situation because it gives two families claims to the titles. The more claimants there are, the more unstable the hold the owner has.

In other words, agnatic primogeniture was practiced for stability. Because back in the day, titles weren't just property or land. They came with governorship over a people, so a stable and predictable transfer of titles was necessary to avoid civil conflicts and questions of legitimacy.

A landed lord or lady wasn't given the right to designate heirs for a few reasons:

Most of them were vassals who oversaw the land in the name of someone higher up. It technically isn't even theirs to give away (see: feudal land tenure).

The wishes of a human being are less predictable than having a determined line of succession based on birth order. What if he becomes incapable of declaring an heir either through illness or disability? What if he's captured and a bad actor forces him to name this person heir under threat of violence?

People died unexpectedly all time. This was before germ theory and modern medicine — child mortality was extremely high. With no refrigeration technology, a single poor harvest could mean dying from starvation. Bandits, cutthroats, and raiders were a constant threat. They could not afford to rely on a person choosing a different heir every time the old heir drops dead, because the landed lord/lady could die just as suddenly.

Even 21st century families stab each other in the back over who gets grandma's house — so imagine having an uncertain line of succession in the middle ages over a life-defining lordship and without a modern-day court system to mediate.

Going back to HotD, whenever Targaryens did go against the established line of succession, they could only have done it by consolidating the support of their vassals. Only royalty seemed to have the power to bend agnatic primogeniture, but even then they were beholden to it.

When Jaehaerys I ascended the throne over Aerea, it was mainly because there were those who saw Maegor the Cruel's act of disinheriting Jaehaerys as null and void. This restored Jaehaerys place in the line of succession above Aerea.

And when Rhaenys was passed over for Baelon, Jaehaerys had to convene his lords and offer compelling reasons as to why — her young age, her lack of an heir, her Velaryon last name, etc. It wasn't a given that just because she was a woman that she was ineligible. If he was doing it purely out of misogyny, he still had to legally justify his misogyny in order to strip away her rights.

Even after consolidating support, the book mentions Jaehaerys I and Viserys I's respective hold on the crown was still weakened. Even though their claims were backed by reasons cosigned by a powerful majority, they still had to ensure the security of their rule through other means. There were people who doubted their right to rule, and those people had to be placated with gifts (by Viserys) or intimidated into submission (by Jaehaerys).

So we come to Viserys I who never gave his vassals a reason why Rhaenyra should supercede his three sons other than, "I said so." Had he convened with his lords and maybe made the argument that a first marriage takes precendence over a second one, then maybe he could have set a new precedent and gathered support.

But no, he didn't. He relied on the power of his own words and the lords' personal oaths — oaths that he didn't exactly plan how he would enforce posthumously.

And the Realm did not choose to adopt a different succession law after Jaehaerys's designation of Baelon in 92 AC or the Council of Harrenhal choosing Viserys on 101 AC. If those two events did change anything, it was that now women were exempt from the line of succession for the crown and only the crown. It did not set the precedence that monarchs could freely choose heirs. It did not upend the whole system; it only made a tweak, as most lawful policy-changes do, by carving out at an exception. It was a committee, not a revolution.

Before and after the Dance, no other monarch, lord, or lady "declared" an heir that went against agnatic primogeniture, save for Dornish who have cognatic (equal-gender) primogeniture instead. Ramsay had to get rid of Roose Bolton's living trueborn son AND be legitimized by the crown in order to be recognized as heir (only a crowned monarch can legitimize baseborn children which is another world-building pillar a lot of people miss). Randall basically had to force Sam to abdicate because he wanted his younger brother to inherit instead. And of course, Tywin despite his intense hatred of Tyrion is forced to acknowledge him as his heir.

The rigidity of the line of succession is a major and constant source of conflict in the series, so it baffles me that people really thought that characters could just freely choose their heirs. That's why we have a civil war. It wasn't a misunderstanding. It's the expected consequences of someone carelessly going against a foundational tenent of the society they inhabit.

[girlbeyondthegrave]

I Watched Beetlejuice Beetlejuice a Third Time: More Things I Noticed

Here’s my previous list for those that haven’t read it. Enjoy!

A lot of people on this post I made thought that the dog in the MacArthur Park sequence was Taco from the Ghosthouse segment where Beetlejuice appears in the audience. I am sad to report this is not the case. Taco is a chihuahua, and the dog that appears is more of a terrier. However, some people on Reddit wonder if the dog is the one that ran out in front of the Maitlands’ car and killed them. I haven’t rewatched the first movie yet to check.

When Beetlejuice stitches Lydia’s mouth shut, she’s more exasperated than afraid. She literally tries to yell, “COME ON!”

Beetlejuice looks so offended on Lydia’s behalf when Rory calls her codependent. Like, “Is he serious right now? Get him, babe!”

Beetlejuice appearing before Delia can finish summoning him furthers the eavesdropping theory I made in my earlier post, and if we go off that theory, we can explain by Beetlejuice wasn’t that bothered by being summoned away at the wedding. He’s overheard Lydia’s desire to take her relationships slow and her reluctance to marriage. (Which is most definitely because of him and the fact that the last living person she loved tragically died—even if their relationship was over before that point.)

In the film, Beetlejuice is the ONLY person that agrees to help Delia find Charles, which we see her do at the end of the movie. This means that Beetlejuice kept his word and helped Delia, and he didn’t keep her away from Charles after the wedding fell through.

“MacArthur Park” plays when the studio intros roll, during the wedding sequence, and the end credits—three times when we have three different iterations of Beetlejuice and Lydia’s dynamic, fun fact. This is meant to be their song, and although the song is about a doomed relationship, this part sticks out to me: “After all the loves of my life / You’ll still be the one.” It doesn’t matter if Beetlejuice gets the timing right. It doesn’t matter if Lydia marries him. He considers her “the one.” He’s always going to wait for her, as conveyed by “Right Here Waiting.”

Astrid opens pages about violation 699 and summoning sandworms via trapdoors. I understand that was meant to “foreshadow” later events and explain why she knew how to do those things, but the terms for 699 are barely on-screen, so it’s hard to catch the part where it lays out how bringing Lydia illegally into the afterlife makes her contract null and void.

When Delores appears at the church, there’s a huge gust of wind, and the Handbook moves, but NOTHING ELSE MOVES with that precision until Delores moves Lydia away from the altar. This is kind of a stretch, but I personally think it’s possible that Beetlejuice saw Delores, and he purposefully sent the book in Astrid’s direction. If we go off my eavesdropping theory, he clearly knows Astrid is a smart girl. Plus, he stopped her from getting to the book earlier, so he knows it’s a threat.

When Beetlejuice has a dramatic entrance or exit, it’s very intentional. He does a whole dramatic couple’s therapy bit for Lydia and Rory. He does the earthquake through the model with a slow rise from the smoke. But we’ve also seen him appear in straightforward ways, too, like how he appears randomly to spook Delia. Beetlejuice controls his entrances and exits, and so his dramatic exit at the end is intentional. He allows Lydia to send him away. He makes a big show of it. Lydia has been manipulated by Rory for years. He’s tried to control her and stifle her. When Beetlejuice lets Lydia send him away and makes a big show of it, he’s demonstrating the amount of control he’s giving to Lydia. He goes because SHE wants him to, not because he can’t stop her from saying his name.

(Editing to say that this post confirms the dog is Tim’s dog.)

[alienssstufff]

Last Life Apocalypse AU [PROLOGUE 3/3]

EULOGY (23/10/NULL):

Surveillance footage of the Eremita Local Cemetery on the 23rd of October (Year: NULL). The following is a transcript of several discrepancies timestamps 00:18:15, 0:24:09, 06:24:15 extracted from Camera 3 and has been archived upon cease of investigation.

PROLOGUE: [PART 0] [PART 1 - lineup] [PART 2] [PART 3]

>[READ ARTICLE?]

00:18:15 , 23/10/NULL:

[SOUNDS OF A CAR ENGINE, MODEL UNSEEN]

[FOOTSTEPS ON PAVEMENT]

A singular flashlight hits the surveillance wall held by a shadow out of camera shot.

[FOOTSTEPS ON GRASS]

[SOUNDS OF PAPER RUSTLING]

GRIAN: (muttering) [UNTRANSLATABLE] GRIAN: You know how busy my schedule is to not show up to the service. GRIAN: -and I know you’re not actually there – None of you are. GRIAN: But I promised Timmy to visit you. GRIAN: He’s in the car right now- probably bawling his eyes out worried sick about the both of you. It took a lot to convince him and Lizzie to let you do this and even more to keep your cases open I– GRIAN: I shouldn’t be mad, I shouldn’t be – but I am. I’ve ‘ad a long hard think the month since you left and I’m actually furious.  GRIAN: Scar, I know I’m not the most open of the two of us -you’re aware of my situation just as I am of yours. And as your friend, I've been respecting your personal space… But if it’s gotten this serious I really wish you could’ve told me… Told anyone! GRIAN: Does Cub know?... Does Bdubs know?? Or have they been lying to me too.

[PAUSE]

GRIAN: The LNC have been looking after the office since your disappearances went public. GRIAN: -Not sure what they’re doing with that I don’t go. Not a part of that. GRIAN: No one can find any of your wills if you wrote them. GRIAN: (laughs) like I doubt it. I don’t even need to check your room to know it’s in utter shambles in there. That’s your responsibility. GRIAN: (pause).... That's your responsibility when you get home. I’m done.

00:24:09 , 23/10/NULL:

GRIAN: I really don’t know what else there is to say to any of you. Joel I’ve left my condolences with Lizzie, if you want to hear what I have to say tell it to her. She’s the real person the two of you should be apologizing to. GRIAN: I’m going. Come back if you really want to talk.

[FOOTSTEPS ON GRASS]

[FOOTSTEPS ON PAVEMENT]

[SOUNDS OF A CAR ENGINE, MODEL UNSEEN]

06:24:15 , 23/10/NULL:

[DISTANT SOUNDS OF BIRDS, BREED UNDECIPHERABLE]

It is of note that the external lights operate on a timer, set to turn off at 0600 sharp in accordance to the sunrise. While the positioning of the camera and the facility is orientated to face the east, no direct sunlight can be seen here.

[SOUNDS OF BIRDS, BREED UNDECIPHERABLE]

Small shadows pass within camera shots. Flying in the northern direction.

>[TRANSCRIPT ENDS HERE]

[brailsthesmolgurl]

RETRIBUTION

SEQUEL TO DAMNNATION. kindly read the prequel to get a better idea on the story's direction. I know I promised an alternate ending, where angst is not involved, but I want to prolong this pain for you masochists :> Enjoy this long, hefty, and incredibly hurtful read. But, it is okay my lovelies, I shall have a good-comforting parallel-universe ending written for you guys this week. SOOO pls do keep up with my profile :)

The legend goes on, with the God of the Sea failing to protect his beloved. His fate was decided for him by his people, but now, he shall take fate upon his own hands and remake his own endings. But, does fate falter? Even to a God?

Warnings: Angst Angst Angst Angst, Spoiler to Rafayel's Lore and I put in some of my own zesty twists to the lore, Deaths and Bloods and some okay maybe not some descriptive gore.

Rafayel walked across the sandy paths of Lemuria, in his human form, with his beloved laid peacefully in his arms. Rafayel did not even bothered to shift back into his merman form as he wanted to dedicate the mundane's death to his people. Or rather, to show how much he loves her, by being a shadow of her, a human, walking amongst Lemuria. A promise he had always given her.

"You promise to show me Lemuria someday right?" He remembered the way her face would light up when he tells her stories of Lemuria. From how Lemurians had sourced for various kinds of sea stones from different parts of the ocean to build their homes to how Lemurians were created, to what do their daily routines consists of and many other kinds of stories that a man could ever dream of hearing from an actual Lemurian.

There was not a moment that y/n was ever bored of it. Instead, whenever he visits, it naturally became a conversation starter. Y'n would ask him of the most random things. "So do Lemurians possess any gardrobes?" Rafayel nearly spat his tea out, snapping his head towards her when she mentioned about toilets as they were having snacks in the middle of the night within her chambers. "Or perhaps they just do their business wherever they are allowed to---" Before she could even finished, Rafayel would have his hand on her lips, to silence her before she continue ruining his appetite for the rest of the night.

The swipe of his fingers on her pale lips reminded him of those days. She is no longer smiling now, eyes and mouth closed, her skin looked ghoulish under the water, skin reflecting light whenever the lightning above struck the surface of the sea. Rafayel's face is a sheet of calm demeanour, but the soul that lays beneath the hunk of this man is a roaring sea, just like how he summoned for the storm before he stepped foot into the vast ocean.

Fishes and various kinds of sea creatures that used to swim along the pathways are not seen nor found within miles of Rafayel's sight. None of them were brave enough to be within his presence as they knew the aura that Rafayel had emitted. It is no doubt that sea creatures are much smarter than Lemurians. Every step he took made the sea creatures scattered further away, burying deeper into their hideouts, scared for their lives.

Rafayel stood in front of his kingdom, eyes pinned against the marble white towers that he calls home. Cheers and laughters could be heard from the banquet hall, where the Lemurians were probably herded, awaiting for his return for a grand celebration towards the revival of Lemuria. But Rafayel was far from a celebratory mood. "We have arrived, my love." His voice monotonous, no hints of happiness nor giddiness, nor sadness, nor disappointment. Just numbness. A man with feelings bears empathy and sympathy, but, a man without feelings bears emptiness, null and void of all emotions.

He continued his course, holding onto y/n tighter in his arms. He had the initial thought of wanting her body to rest within his chambers before he commits bloodshed. But, having an audience might not be a bad idea. Instead, Rafayel wanted this. He knew that she could not be able to tell nor see, nor to be there to stop him, but he wanted her soul to watch him commit this, to execute damnation upon his kind. All he wanted, was to show her how much he loves her, to the point he is willing to do this, to be a mad man.

The heavy doors leading to the banquet hall slowly opened with a chant of a spell. Rafayel's eyes staring straight ahead, his once two-toned irises had now dissolved to be a dark maroon colour. His guess was right, all of the Lemurians were gathered within this hall, laughters and conversations filled the environment. But, almost abruptly, the laughters and conversations seized, and Rafayel could care less about the whispers that started to take place within the silence.

It did not took long before some of the Lemurians sensed something was off and they started swimming towards the heavy doors. Rafayel chanted something under his breath and the doors slammed right in front of their faces. The ones who tried to escape were shocked, but none of them made their move to question why the God of the Sea had a dead girl with a gaping orifice on her chest within his arms and why did he chose to present himself in a miniature form of a mere mortal. Practically the size of an ant compared to the average 2m Lemurians surrounding him.

"Your highness!" Arvia was initially cheerful, emerging from the crowd before he spotted the girl the God was holding onto. He stopped in his tracks, wanting to turn back before he felt a strong force pulling him towards Rafayel. Arvia faced Rafayel, eyes bulging when the invisible force coiled around his neck. "Your highness.... please!" The young merman coughed, the crowd watching in horror.

"You were the messenger weren't you?" Rafayel asked, eyes looking past the young merman, not even sparing him any last bits of attention.

"I was only...executing...what...was being....told..." The merman replied, his breath getting more restricted by every passing second. "I did...not...know...of...the ceremony. Please...I just want to save---"

"Your highness, no!" A mermaid appeared from the crowd, with blonde hair curling like tendrils on land, hazel eyes staring at the young merman before darting over to Rafayel's figure. She happened to be Arvia's mother. "He did what he have to...To save us all." Her sentence made Rafayel's right eye twitched slightly, fueling the God's wrath even more. "Then," Rafayel turned his head and angled it upwards to stare at her right into her eyes. His dark eyes could quite literally burn a hole through her soul as she finds herself talking back to a God. Not just any God at this moment, for he has taken his stance as a vengeful God. "Should it be justified? That I am only doing this to save my beloved?" Before the mother could even say anything, Rafayel only exhaled his breath and Arvia's head immediately got cut off clean by the invisible force. The head's eyes blinked a couple of times, floating upwards towards the surface, while its body sank onto the sea floor, twitching as it goes down. Blood seeping out into the ocean waters, creating symbols guided by the waves.

Lemurians within the banquet hall went into immediate panic, screaming and screeching, wanting to leave the banquet to save themselves. Rafayel looked up, watching as the Lemurians tried to flee. Like a bunch of fishes trapped within a fisherman's net, pushing against one another and fighting for whatever that is left for their puny lives. His voice was hushed, but clear enough to be heard within the hall. "Don't worry my people, you shall only feel the hurt that I had felt." And all of the screams halted.

...

Amund dragged himself across the sea floor, a trail of blood painted by his very own body fluids. The man was in agonizing pain, nearly to the point of passing out. Just a while ago, he was getting all cozy within his own chambers before he heard loud screams that travelled through the sea rifts. But it did not took long before it stopped so he took no mind to it, figuring it was just another norm for those celebratory parties. Not segregating the mischievious ones from the docile ones, that is just an invitation for a mishap to happen at a party.

He heard a swoosh coming from the side of his house and his door slammed open to reveal the God of the Sea, in his mundane form, covered in splatters of blood from head to toe. Amund's jaw dropped when the screams finally registered into his head. The screams may just be caused by this man standing right in front of him. The very girl Amund had tortured set securely within Rafayel's arms. Rafayel's unusual calm demeanour is not part and parcel of his personality, which further solidified Amund's questions to himself.

"Your high---" Amund was literally smashed through the walls of his house and the merman landed roughly onto the sand pile behind his house. Rafayel walked through the hole, eyes still hollow and face expressionless. "Pleas---" Another slam through another wall. And this repeated for a couple of times, until Amund was laying on the sandy pathway in the village, blood pooling out of his mouth. He tried to escape, pushing himself up and trying his best to get his tail to wag so he could generate enough momentum to give him a boost off of the ocean floor.

"It was a fairly easy instruction." Rafayel spoke, finally. Maroon eyes boring into Amund's skull. "And yet, you failed." Rafayel knelt down, showing Amund the girl he was holding onto the whole time. "You had deeply failed me, Amund. And you had failed Lemuria." Rafayel stood back up on his feet, licking his lips and looking back towards the towers that he had walked out from. "For what you had done to her, death would only be the easy way out for you." Rafayel's eyes turned a darker shade and Amund let out a blood curdled scream, begging for his highness' mercy.

It has been a while, with Amund crawling on the sea floor. Dirt and rubble trapped under the old man's nails. Some of his nails however, were ripped off due to him being tossed around---his failure to hold onto anything to slow down the impact, caused some of his nails to be ripped right off of his fingertips during the impact---with Rafayel's invisible force whenever he tried to plead for the God's mercy.

Rafayel had managed to pluck out the merman's scale, piece by piece. Lemurians scale are used to make lethal weapons not only on land, but also in the waters. Yet, they are the hardest to harvest as pulling off ONE scale would equate to a human ripping off their whole scalp in one go. So, one could only imagine the pain Amund is going through currently. Amund could barely crawl, eyes swollen from the sand that had entered his tear duct and hoarse voices turned into silenced croaks.

If Rafayel was not holding onto his beloved, he would have easily been the one to pluck out Amund's scales one by one. Rafayel's blinding rage had deluded his mind, as he watched the merman who is the reason behind his lover's death. "She was going to be my mate, my lifetime mate, for this upcoming season, do you know that?" Rafayel scoffed, tears stinging at the back of his eyes.

"But you had to just test my patience, and my capabilities as the God of the Sea. Hence, what you had experienced today, shall never equate to the pain you made me go through. For you had taken my fate, my people's fate upon your own hands." He gave Amund a good kick and the guy groaned in agony, facing down as he regurgitated blood. "What I did today, was nothing but a mere taste of what I am capable of. AS A GOD." His last sentence carried a strong surge of disgust, his bloodlust psyche temporarily separated his status between Amund, an ordinary merman and himself, which is made to be a God.

"I curse...curse her." He managed to choke out and Rafayel's eyes widened, immediately leaping forward to grab the merman's head to face him. The merman croaked out his very last laugh, taunting Rafayel's actions and the last sentence of his was spoken in Lemurian, a rendition of a chant to curse y/n to be reincarnated into a sea witch.

Rafayel's blink of an eye sparked his evol, and he stood there, watching the eternal flames that was casted on Amund burn the merman from what was left of him into a pile of dust, waiting to be consumed by the planktons that lives within the sea water's ecosystem. Tears unknowingly flowed down his cheek and trickled onto his lover's face. The show is over and so is his wish to see her to be a mundane again in her next life. Rafayel held her corpse closely and tightly to his body, soft sobs finally leaving his lips as he faltered to the sea floor.

...

Hundreds of years has passed. And hundreds of years, Rafayel had travelled the seas to search for her. To at least sense any signs of her presence. Ever since the massacre, Rafayel was tied down by his own guilt, for not only failing to protect his lover, but also being the sole reason for the extinction of Lemurians. How uncanny, a legend that tells the tale of a God seeking vengeance upon his own kind just because they had killed his one and only lover. That tale would surely be pure nonsensical or would and could possibly generate pure hatred from anyone who hears it.

Rafayel could care less, like how he heard the screams of his people in their very last moments, the sound of blood and tears splattered across the once white and pristine walls that they were confined within. The sound of Amund begging not to be killed---with his throat slowly giving up on him---the last curse that he uttered and the last sounds that had bubbled from him when he was lit up with Rafayel's evol.

A hint of humming caught his ears and the man stopped his movements, ears twitching in directions to catch onto the tune. A tune only he has ever whistled. With a gesture, dolphins came surrounding the God in circles, by command. "Find out the source for me, yeah?" Rafayel asked and the circling dolphins chirped in return before they dispersed into all directions.

Rafayel's heart skipped a beat, out of nervousness? He had no idea, he still has not gotten used to the idea of his heart being whole again. Because his heart has only been whole only when he was with her. He does not need a whole heart, he only needs her to fill in for the whole of his heart. And for that moment, he shall forever await.

One of the dolphins returned, whistling back to catch the God's attention. Rafayel looked up, and without hesitation, grab ahold onto the dolphin's fin and he was led towards the source of the humming. The dolphins brought him through the kelp grounds, where his people would usually come by to forage for food when they migrate to the northern side for warmer waters during the changing in seasons.

The dolphin led him to the side of the cliff, where it plunges down to the deepest part of the ocean. Creatures beneath those waters are indespicable, and no Lemurians had ever dived that deep. And that includes the God of Sea himself. The humming came again, this time further confirming that the source of the sound came from down below. Rafayel turned around to look for the dolphin, but the poor creature had left him all alone the moment it dropped him off here.

With a deep breath and a puff of his chest, the purple haired God swam deep into the dark waters below. All of his senses heightened to the max as he himself would not expect what he might encounter. Legends were told that there lives a sea serpent so huge that it could engulf the whole world if it awakes. And that was the only legend that still kept Rafayel on edge till now.

His fear dissipated almost instantly when he spotted a faint light in the far distance within the dark. You see, Lemurians although are half-fish and half-man, they do not possess infrared vision that allows them to see in the depths. Within the depths, Rafayel's flames do not work as well as this is the place where Gods are not exactly welcomed. He sped up his swimming when he noticed the light bounces further down into the dark. Pause. Then the light comes back up, but this time, at a very high speed.

Noticing a huge shadow, Rafayel turned and immediately started charging full speed towards the cliff again. But due to the darkness of the waters around him, the God found himself entrapped in the darkness, bumping and hitting himself against the cliffside. The bone-crushing, chomping sounds that came from behind him made him not-one-bit curious to see what was actually chasing him. Right when he was about to be gnawed by a creature, he heard a voice calling out in a language he had not heard of and he blacked out.

...

"I think he is waking up." A voice whispered next to Rafayel. "His eyes are fluttering."

"Is it? Oh yeah, he does look like he is awakening." Another voice intruded, deeper, but not enough to be known as a man's voice.

Rafayel slowly opened his eyes, before he was met with two snailfishes. One with a red while another is tinted with a blue hue. His eyes darted in between the two fishes as he was trying to comprehend if they were the ones talking earlier.

"Good morning." The red one spoke and Rafayel gasped, moving away from the fish. His pupils blown out as he was shocked. He has seen fishes all of his life, but he had never encountered talking fishes. EVER. But making spells to make fishes talk is definitely a skill only a sea witch possesses. This gave Rafayel a thought, maybe she felt lonely down here so she made herself some friends.

"You scared him Red." The blue one spoke this time, and it swam closer towards Rafayel, using its spiny fins to mimic how a mundane would usually talk. Gestures, as what was taught to the snailfishes, is a common courtesy of good body language to humans. But given the snailfishes had never been in contact with any humans, they took the closest resemblance to what their highness looked like. Rafayel looked just like a human to them.

With parted hair and two eyes, a nose and a lip. He is obviously a human to their knowledge. "We are not going to hurt you." The blue fish gestured it's small fins in circles, speaking slowly for each word, afraid that the man before it would not understand them. "Our master ask us to care for you as she went out to gather some food."

"Who is your master?" Rafayel asked as he sat up, kindly hoping that it was the girl he had awaited for many years. "Where is she?" His excitement made him winced, his head still hurts, a side effect of a sea witch's spell.

The feel of the water temperature shifting made the two snailfishes swam off to one of the tunnels. Rafayel took this time to observe his surroundings. Contrast to the dark waters he was in just now, he is currently in a cave like structure, with huge seaweeds and some pebbles laid out beneath him and a sea lantern hung up at every corner of the cave to provide some decent lighting. For a moment, he did not believe that he is in a sea witch's abode.

The walls had paints on them, some forming artworks of the seas above, and some were writings written in what Rafayel assumed to be sea witch's language. Rafayel stopped at one of the drawings, it was a rough sketch of Lemuria. Seeing the sketch, his breath hitched in his throat. The past memories of his massacre surfacing again but he forced it down. Not willing to show weakness in such a foreign territory. Below the sketch, there were symbols that Rafayel could not read. But he decided not to further crack his head.

The fishes returned and Rafayel's heart dropped to the bottom of his tail when he was met with her. The girl who he had always been waiting, the girl he had committed massacre for, the girl that had made him suffer with loneliness for the past hundred years. Y/n is now in front of him, but other than human legs, it was swapped with a black and singular long tail, resembling one a Moray eel has. Her once brunette curls took on a much darker shade, the same as the waters below here. The curse happened after all, for she had became the sea witch of the depths.

"You are awake." Y/n spoke and oh how he missed her voice. The voice that produces the best laughters and asked the most silly questions. Yet, with this version of her, her voice held none of those characteristics he remembered. It was deadpanned, the lack of emotions nearly made Rafayel winced. With his lack of a response, the sea witch looked towards both of her friends. "Does he happen to be a mute?"

"He spoke to us just now, but more like engaged us in a question or two." The blue snailfish chirped, swimming back to the side of Rafayel. The same fin that used to make gestures came to give a pat onto Rafayel's cheek and the merman turned to look at the fish in question. Seeing Rafayel's reaction, the fish hurriedly swam back to its master. "He is a human as you described right? Right, master?"

"Not quite, Blue." Ironic, Rafayel thought. It is very ironic of her to name things exactly based on the way they looked. It has always been a habit of hers. She placed the seashells she had harvested neatly onto the floor and she swam over to have a closer look at Rafayel. "I think, his origins are of a mermaid." Her eyes are now a different shade of colour, black irises match the shade of her pupils. Another staple for a sea witch. "I apologise for the black out you had to experience earlier on. I had to cease the Angler Fish from rising towards the surface as I did not want it to disturb the ecosystem as of above."

"Do you know of my name?" Rafayel asked, a glimmer of hope shined in his eyes as he really wished for her to remember at least a slither of memory of him. For he had been her one and only lover in her past life. But with the way she raised an eyebrow and tilted her head, his hope got extinguished like a fire that could not be ignited.

"What do you seek for, Lemurian?" Y/n swam back towards the pile of sea shells she had collected and she grabbed one of the bottles from above her shelf. Examining the shells one by one before placing them into the bottle, only the ones that has spots on them would be chosen while the other would be tossed aside and the two snailfishes seem to be having a feast with the leftovers.

The turn of her head got her to look him right into his eyes. The warm glow emitting from the sea lantern casting a soft glow on her face. Just like the time when he held her in his arms, on top of the rock. He tore his eyes away from her, his cheeks burning from how affected he was from her gaze. But he answered her. "I came here for a potion. A potion to cure me from my wandering heart." ...

It took y/n 100 days, a cycle between 50 days and 50 nights to produce the potion that Rafayel had requested for. Shortly after the interaction, Rafayel had returned back to the shallow seas, as he could not bear to watch the love of his life not knowing him for who he is and who he was to her.

His last words to her before he departed to the shallows was, "Once the potion has been completed, I shall meet you at the sea stacks by dawn. The one far north." He said, index finger pointing towards the said direction. His eyes does not meet hers before he left. That was how heartbroken he was. His heart wearing him down day by day as he waited for the potion to be crafted.

During the 100 days of wait, he kept going back and forth between the waters and land to keep himself occupied. But the land served him better as the mourning of the princess had ended long ago. When the princess went missing, the King sent out every single one of his troops to search for the lost princess.

Rafayel purposely placed her back onto the sea stacks so she could be found easily. Knowing the God, he would have kept her by his side even if she were to be nothing but a bag of bones, but he knew, her people would want to know of her whereabouts. Even if it would only bring them to her corpse. He could not give himself anymore liberty to take her away from her people, like how he had singlehandedly perished the people of his kingdom. He did not turned his head back at all once he had left her there, swimming away in full speed so that he would not be discovered and caught, and to save himself from crying anymore.

The beloved princess' death was mourned by all. Every citizen within the Kingdom's grounds were in tears, regardless if its a man or a woman, an adult or a child. That was how loved she was. Her people mourned for her for nearly five decades, and that was how long Rafayel refused to surface and to walk on land. Every time he closed in to the shores of her kingdom, the sounds of the cries of her people would strike his ears. He became so used to it that he would visit the same place every day, by dusk, just to silently cry and mourn with the people of her kingdom.

He would not even go anywhere near his kingdom either. For it was filled with the bones of his people. The people that he used to cherish, that he would always go back to. But now, all he returns to, is a dead and eerie silence. The bloody stains of his people had now hardened, taken over by sea crustaceans as Lemurian blood offers a lot of benefits to the sea creatures. If any Lemurians lived past that day, Rafayal would definitely earn the title of 'The God Who Went Deranged'.

The day has finally came, where they shall rejoice by the sea stacks. Rafayel was already waiting there since dusk, body floating above the waters, facing up towards the bright skies painted in pastel yellows and reds. Blobs of clouds that seemed so edible Rafayel wished he could fly instead of swim. A bunch of bubbles surfaced next to him and he slightly turned his head, watching as she emerged from the waters, holding two vials in her hand. Her face expressionless and cold as the first time he had met her in this life.

"Here." She handed him one of the vials and he took it, repositioning himself from having to float, to facing her directly. "Are you sure this is what you desire?" Her question caught his attention, his mixture of lilac-lapis orbs stared into her obsidian ones. "Because your memories will be perished forever, do you know that?"

Rafayel looked at the vial, the contents of the fluid is watery, and takes on a sheen of coral-like pink. "My mind is set." His eyes caught her again. "This is what I had desired when I met you that day." His words although does not hold any meaning to the sea witch, but it held meanings that one could never fathom, within the God of Sea's memories.

"This is usually done between two, one to forget while the other to contain the forgotten memories." She explained, holding up the vial to her eye level as she continued. "And since you do not have anyone you want to consume this with, I shall be the one to contain your forgotten memories."

As expected, Rafayel knew she was going to say this. He had never once mentioned anything about the Lemurians being extinct. Neither did she asked. Always putting people ahead of herself, her nature still seeped through from her past life that it has easily become one of her core personalities even till now. Rafayel silently sighed in his own mind when he looked at this woman in front of him. The lover that he had sworn his life to, became the lover that was seemingly a stranger to him.

"We shall consume this together, and with a chant of a spell, hence the void of the memory shall take upon its place." Rafayel pulled the cap open, mirroring her actions and they drank the mixture together. Rafayel winced at how bitter the content tasted but y/n seemed unaffected, as sea witches are not equipped with a sense of taste as most of their potions tasted wicked as their personalities had always been portrayed to be. "Well enough to start?"

"Hu-Ayr-Tey Ta-Fa-Fu-Lei." Rafayel chanted and he watched as y/n's eyes widened. Finally, a reaction from her. Not in the way he had hoped for a reaction of course. You see, Rafayel, being God of the Sea, although had never travelled through the deep waters and had never knew of the Sea Witches' language, but the spells equipped by the sea witches were born out of a God's nature. Should there be benevolence, there shall be malevolence. Just like how Rafayel's massacre is a proof of a God's malevolent nature taking place physically, a sea witch's spells are born out of a God's mentally twisted nature.

"What have you done?!" She held onto her neck, feeling herself struggling to breathe as her neck is closing up on her. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!" She raised her voice, looking at him with anger that starts to paint her face a shade of red. "How do you know of this spell?!" She was in disbelief, eyes shooting daggers into the merman in front of her. Rafayel showed no amusement though, his eyes although were entirely focused on her, his heart crushed.

Fate in general, creates thousands and millions of possibilities towards one's ending. For a God, fate should easily be nothing but a just another miniscule issue within their palms. But for Rafayel, the moment he fell for a mundane, was the moment he signed a blackmail for himself. He has to gamble with fate now, just like with any other mere mortal. The only advantage he got is that he could look into the near future to help him better plan out his upcoming course of actions.

This happening now, marks one of his course of actions. The fate he had chosen was to kill y/n with his own hands, so she could be reincarnated to be a human in her next life. Then, he could take place as a man, on the land, seeking for her love and attention, just like how a mere mortal would. Yes. Rafayel, the God of the Sea, would risk his status of being a God just to be a human, just to be with her. "This is the only way." He spoke to her, as he watched her slowly lose her memories to swim, her tail, now a pair of legs, flailing clumsily in an effort to save herself.

The spell that he had uttered, does not only make her forget her own identity, but it makes her forget everything, wiping everything off of her memory and giving her a clean slate. A reincarnated soul would always remember bits of their past lives, that is how deja-vu and realistic dreams come about. But this spell would wipe her memory of her past life as well. As bad as it sounds, Rafayel sees this as the only viable way for him to live his next life, having to protect her. All the other courses of action, would only lead to more bloodshed and he grew tired of it.

The tears came flowing again, watching his beloved struggle to breathe as she started to choke onto the seawater that is rapidly entering her lungs. Rafayel could only watch, he could not interfere as it would ruin the course of her next life. Heart wrenching, gut punching, every other word of torturous feeling would describe him perfectly at this moment.

Y/n reached out her hand to him, desperately looking at him and clawing for him, seeking for his help to drag her out and onto solid land. But his refusal seemingly made her accepted her fate. Her pupils then slowly stopped moving, her body slowly stopped thrashing and twitching as she continued descended deeper into the waters. A scene that reminded him deeply of Arvia during his last moments.

Once the bubbles had stopped surfacing out of her agape lips, Rafayel swam down as fast as he could, and he held her cold body in his arms again, closely studying her very last moments. Her eyes were opened, in a state of shock and acceptance, lips blue like the shade of his lapis-coloured eyes, tail had now taken form into two legs, her body stiff and hollow like how she was when he first found her in the past 100 years. The curse was finally broken, but it also broke Rafayel. With shaky breaths, he uttered. "In your next life, I promise you. I promise. You shall only ever hear of my name as to be Rafayel. I shall no longer...be the God of the Sea."

Parallel Universe Ending is Out: Salvation

I love doubling the damage sometimes, this one-shot had became somewhat of a small series. I enjoyed using a bit of my gore movie visual experiences within this piece of writing. Thank you for the ones who wished for a sequel. I hope this makes you bawl your eyes out.

But do not worry, I am already starting on a not-so-angsty ending that takes place in a parallel universe. I don't think this series would continue on as I think it is best to leave it to you lovelies' vast imagination.

As usual, any requests you want me to write? I can write it for ya :)

Have a good day and pls cry for me lovelies :)

[rhenysz]

Your dead eyes

Prologue

Summary: Lifeless eyes were what haunted you all your life, many people say that death was lurking around your eyes, maybe it's true. Maybe you just see things that other people don't.

Pairing: Azriel x Archeron!reader fem.

A/n: I'm very excited, I had this idea in my head for a year and it's finally going in the right direction. English is NOT my native language so I asked an AI for a little help, please if you see something wrong let me know! I'm also very insecure about this, I hope you can read it. Good reading.

*I kept switching between Y/n and You, I'm confused about what to use.*

Word count : 2.1k

Warnings: Nothing yet

Next

The cold wind cut through the entire house; the windows, made of old and worn wood, could no longer contain the icy air. Each breath was held to alleviate the hunger sensation that coated your stomach.

Stay strong. That was all that echoed in your troubled mind as your dull eyes aimlessly wandered through the house. Yoir hands were clasped together, trying to gather as much warmth as possible near the fireplace where Nestha had seated her on a rickety chair with numbered days.

Your sister stood by yor side, posture resembling that of a true queen, a face sculpted in marble, pure disgust in her eyes for the man seated next to her. While Nesta displayed her discontent with their father, you preferred to pretend that his existence was null.

"Feyre." Elain's soft, hushed voice made her turn her head towards the sharp creak of the door. There was Feyre, the youngest of the three but older than you. "Where did you get this?" Hunger was so intense that Elain didn't even inquire about the blood covering her sister or the apparent fatigue on her face. Only pure interest.

"Where do you think I got it?" Her sharp words in her hoarse voice did nothing to diminish Elain's widened eyes, directed at the deer carcass in her arms.

"Will it take long for you to clean it?"Not her not Nestha, and certainly not Y/n – only Feyre. Taking a deep breath, you stood up, feeling for the chair and taking slow steps toward Feyre, but stopped upon hearing her father's rough and worn voice.

"Feyre, how lucky you were today to bring us such a feast." Nesta by her side only chuckled maliciously, as she did at any word that came out of the man's mouth. Pure scorn.

You extended your hands to find the worn table where Feyre had placed the deer. Feyre, your sweet Fey, straightened her back while casting a brief glance at Nesta and then focused her young and tired eyes on you.

"Hungry?" with pale and cracked lips, Feyre asked, a hint of a smile appearing. Your lifeless eyes sparkled for a second, your dry lips parting in a half-smile.

"And when am I not?" It should have sounded like a joke, but it wasn't. It was the reality. There were nights when you lay next to Feyre, praying to anyone who would listen, begging that tomorrow would be another day they'd go to sleep with full or at least not starving stomachs.

Feyre laughed humorlessly at the miserable situation they found themselves in; her little sister didn't deserve to live with the uncertainty of tomorrow – whether they would go hungry or cold.

Pressing your lips together, you reached out to Feyre, who quickly grabbed your hands, bringing them to her face. Your warm and gentle hands traced the contour of her lips, feeling the cracks, moving to her forehead, running her thumbs there and applying gentle pressure to her temples. Feyre nestled her face in your warm hands and let out a relieved sigh; Y/n had magical hands.

"Come on, Feyre, you need to rest." You was concerned for your older sister. Even though you couldn't help Feyre with hunting, you tried to provide relief in other ways. Silly as it may be, at the end of the day, the moment Feyre looked forward to the most was when Y/n would gift her with your those sweet hands – be it on her shoulders, back, or neck. Anything was wonderful for her tense muscles.

Feyre let out a long sigh she didn't know she was holding and, with tenderness, kissed the palms of your hands to move them away from your face, already missing your sister's touch. "Later, we need to eat." Feyre looked around and frowned. "Where's the firewood?".

You mumbled in discontent, letting your arms fall to your sides. You turned your head shyly in another direction because, even without seeing, you could feel Feyre's questioning eyes. "I tried to make her chop wood, but…"

Nesta, who was cleaning her nails, stopped and looked at both of them."I hate chopping wood. I always end up with splinters."

You shrugged with your older sister's voice. Nesta always missed the opportunity to stay silent. "Besides, Feyre, you're much better at it than I am."

Feyre gritted her teeth, making an unpleasant noise that assaulted your ears. Desperate to end the tension, you reached for Feyre's tattered clothes and pulled like a child trying to get their mother's attention."Tomorrow morning, I'll do it myself, Fey." You couldn't. It was easier for you to cut off your fingers than to hit the wood accurately, and both Feyre and Nesta knew that.

"No."

The voices of your older sisters were firm in denying you. Closing your eyes, you sighed. It has always been like that. Every time you offered to help with something around the house, you were turned down and scolded. You may be blind, but you were not defenseless, even though chopping wood may not be your strong suit.

"I'll chop, and you stay here." safe,Nesta wanted to continue, but the word got stuck in her throat, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. Since when did this cabin guarantee any safety?

Dinner was silent, only the noise of utensils and chewing, occasionally interrupted by Elain trying to start a conversation about how cold it was that morning or how nice it would be to have a new blanket to ward off the cold winds.

When dinner was over, Feyre delicately took your arm and led her to the room they shared, seating her on the bed while changing her ragged clothes for potentially cleaner ones.

"How is my drawer?" With your head tilted, your voice cut through the silence with the question. When it was just the two of them alone, it was easier; there were no constant quarrels between Feyre and Nesta, and, as cruel as it may be, there was no Elain. It was just the two of them in their little happy world.Feyre threw herself on the bed next to you, releasing the air from her lungs, and turned her face to admire her sister's gentle profile.

"Missing ink to finish." Feyre then looked at the drawer and described it with the utmost care so that her sister could visualize it. "There are two spirals in white, one descending and one ascending on opposite sides, looking like smoke perhaps. Also, there are two stars on each side with some smaller ones around."

The younger one hummed in agreement and opened the blanket to lie down, making room for Feyre to lie down too. Facing each others you felt safe, the love they had for each other creating a warm and cozy atmosphere even with the wind making the roof tiles roar.Running your tongue over your lips and trembling your eyes, you timidly asked, "And me? How am I?"

Opening a wide smile, Feyre pulled you into her arms and showered your head with several joyous kisses, eliciting laughter from the younger one. "You look wonderful, Y/n."

In the best of words, at least for Feyre, Y/n was gentle, not a naive and immature gentleness, but a softness that made her seem wise and older. Someone she could whisper her secrets to, tell jokes in her ear that were often so bad they made them laugh until their stomachs hurt, and then warm up in the cozy embrace of her little sister.

"Turn around." Y/n lightly pushed Feyre's shoulder, indicating she should let her go. Groaning, Feyre accepted defeat and did as her sister requested. Massage time.Sitting on the bed, your hands pressed on Feyre's shoulders, easing the tense muscles.

Feyre murmured, "Oh my..." You chuckled quietly, proud to offer your sister a bit of relief. Then, still somewhat distracted, Feyre muttered again, "I killed a wolf."

Your hand recoiled, and her dull eyes widened.

"You what?"

The next morning, Feyre and the other sisters had already left for the village with the wolf's leather to sell, while you stayed home with your father.

"How about gloves?" Feyre asked, singing with bright eyes, like a little puppy.

"No. I want nothing for myself. Go and buy yourself something and please," You exhaled and squeezed between your eyes, "don't let Elain sway you with her complaints."

Feyre's shoulders slumped in defeat, and she nodded, but soon verbalized her response for you to understand."Alright... no gloves then."

The day passed painfully slowly with no one to entertain her. Your father was not the most suitable for such a task and seemed content to sit by the fireplace with the wood Nesta had chopped, after much fuss.Despite all her strong personality, Nesta was great for you, in her own way, but she was a great older sister for you.

The day passed slowly . Your sisters returned in the early evening, and despite all of Y/n protests and grumbles, Feyre gifted her with a small object.

"A hairpin?" You asked with a faltering voice. "Fey..." a pout formed on your lips, and your eyebrows furrowed.

"It was cheap! And I couldn't resist; it was calling to me and saying so enchantingly," Feyre held her sister's face and continued with a laugh, "take me, take me, I would look beautiful in your sister's hair. Convincing, isn't it?"

"Not at all."

Feyre threw your head back and laughed."Well, I thought so. Now stay still for me."

Wrinkling her nose at the veiled order, you obeyed your sister. You disjointed thoughts ceased as you felt Feyre's fingers pulling a strand of your hair and securing it with the hairpin. "A little snowflake lost in your golden curls."

The rest of the afternoon went well, or well enough for another normal day. Y/n spent most of the time with Nesta, listening to your older sister murmur the same story from her old and worn-out book for the umpteenth time.

At dinner, Feyre joined you at the table, enjoying her warm presence and casual conversations.

A deafening roar cut through the conversations, and the sound of the door being brutally ripped off its hinges made your bones tremble along with the walls of the house. Fear flooded you in a petrifying way, turning you legs into jelly.

"ASSASSINS!"

The creature's voice dripped with cruelty and rage. Slim hands grabbed your shoulders and pushed your body toward the wall opposite the voice. Elain crouched with you, holding you in her chest, pressing your ears protectively to muffle the voices.

Being blind was never something you resented; there was no reason to lament something nature decided before was born. But in that moment, in that peculiar situation you found herself in, all you wanted to do was see. See who was directing such anger at your sister, see Feyre's bravery confronting something immensely more powerful than her, and see the exact moment your other half was taken away from you.

You shouted for your sister, shouted until yor voice became hoarse and worn out, shouted until you succumbed to exhaustion, and when you had no more strength, you lamented being the only one who remembered your sister.

Time was relative with Feyre's absence. Some days passed quickly with a good pastime, while others dragged painfully. There were also days when neither happened, and those were the worst.

On those days, you could hear Elain babbling throughout the house about her engagement, Nesta commanding the house – no longer falling apart – like a general, and, worst of all, you could hear the damn noise of that fancy cane you got from your older sister.

"I don't need this." Nesta frowned at the denial, considering it childish.

"Others will ask, and I don't want anyone looking at us like we're animals because you're clinging to the walls to walk," though her words were cruel, Nesta stood firm in her point.

You pressed your lips into a thin line, you fists clenched the white silk dress that adorned your body, baring your teeth like an animal, you snarled, "I'll use it outside. Inside, I refuse."

It didn't happen. You was indirectly forced to use that piece of wood inside the house as well. The servants whispered malice when they saw you hitting the new furniture; the number of bruises you gained while trying to memorize the house left you worse than a bruised tomato, and you didn't want others to think you suffered abuse from your's sisters.

In addition to the obvious discontent with the cane, you also hated the balls; that's where most comments about her condition happened. It was so funny and miserable how men and women made remarks about your blindness.

A compliment that quickly came with a false pity for you, and you unfortunate disability – "It's truly a shame such a beautiful face is wasted."

Hypocrites.

You would bet a finger that those who judged you were as horrible as the monsters Feyre invented for you.

Feyre...

[gallifreyanhotfive]

Random Doctor Who Facts You Might Not Know, Part 71

On the Hermit's direction, Theta Sigma once fasted for three days and three nights and made supplications to the powers he named, probably the Menti Celesti. Theta did not understand much of what he had written. The Hermit said that much of it he was too young to remember. (Novel: Timewyrm: Revelation)

The Master was wounded when he was burned on Sarn, so much so that he wore a mask to hide them. (Short story: A Town Called Eternity)

When the Fifth Doctor unmasked him, the Master ordered the townspeople to kill him and left. The townspeople strung the Doctor up and hanged him. He was saved by his respiratory bypass. (Short story: A Town Called Eternity)

The Master had also hypnotized dinosaurs, who were brought back by the Fountain of Youth. Before he could command the dinosaurs to attack, the Fifth Doctor shot him with a gun. While recovering, he was tied to a dinosaur, so when the dinosaur ran away, the Master was dragged on the ground after it. (Short story: A Town Called Eternity)

Upon being angered, the Patriarch told the First Doctor, "You claim to know what is good? You, who championed the people of Greece, and yet left those of France to be massacred? You, who burnt Rome and yet sabotaged your friend’s attempt to save the Aztec race? You, who coldbloodedly arranged for Rebecca Nurse to die, and dragged Katarina into a conflict she could neither understand nor survive?" (Novel: Salvation) (I decided to put the whole quote there instead of paraphrasing because I enjoy it immensely.)

Turlough once got eaten by Pieter Stubbe, a Loups-garoux (or type of werewolf), but he didn't die because he was holding silver. He got regurgitated instead. (Audio: Loups-Garoux)

Gloria Swanniker was a criminal who once impersonated the Doctor by drugging the Seventh Doctor with a Time Lord neurotoxin, stealing and wearing his clothes, wearing a wig, and using a hologram face and voice recording. She then had herself shot with a fake laser and tried to convince them that she was the Eighth Doctor. (Audio: A Life of Crime)

The Seventh Doctor almost regenerated after being parasitized, nearly drowning in the oceans of the Artifact, and receiving artificial respiration, but his form stabilized. (Novel: Parasite)

Plasti-Discs are security devices (and also invitations) used by the Braxiatel Collection that are keyed to the owner's bio-emissions. Wolsey (the cat) has one fastened to his collar. (Novel: Professor Bernice Summerfield and the Doomsday Manuscript)

Braxiatel has admitted to missing his brother, the Doctor. He knows, however, that the Doctor is out there, and that is what real family is. (Novel: Tears of the Oracle)

One time, the Second Doctor acknowledged that people's lives depended on his ability to return to the TARDIS. He had crossed his fingers and made a silent prayer to the "gods of his own people." Then he was caught off guard by another violent tremor, thought about how for everyone's sake he had to stay conscious, and then blacked out. (Novel: The Murder Game)

The Feast of Omega is one of the Gallifreyan holidays. (Novel: Happy Endings)

The Seventh Doctor's TARDIS once brought him to Nineveh, a null space. Upon investigation, he found a junkyard full of old TARDISes. He encountered the Watcher of Nineveh. The Doctor tried to fight back at first but instead decided to run away as the Watcher had no corporeal existence. The TARDIS, however, was not a sanctuary because the Watcher could inhabit TARDISes. The Doctor was saved when the Watcher recognized that he was only in his seventh body, so it was not his time to die yet. (Comic: Nineveh!)

Horseshoe crabs are a very advanced species that have greater genetic engineering technology than humans do. When the Seventh Doctor was thrown into the sea, the horseshoe crabs brought him back to the surface. (Short story: The Southwell Park Mermaid)

When he was young, the Doctor believed humans to be a myth. (Novel: The Shining Man)

First 1 Prev 70 Next 72

[satans-codpiece]

Ramattra Lore Collection

All screenshots collected Aug 2023 - Nov 2023

[this post brought to you in May 2024 by me forgetting i had stuff in drafts]

Ramattra is 28, built March 29th (Overwatch official website)

-Ramattra was "created early in the Omnic Crisis." -Commander class of omnic, with innate battle knowledge -Ramattra was "seeking direction" -Ramattra was at Shambali for years before recruiting Zenyatta (Overwatch official website)

-Ramattra recruited Zenyatta at an omnic rights protest (Overwatch official website)

-At the time of Uprising, Null Sector had followers -Uprising was denounced by the omnics of London -Null Sector went underground after Uprising (Overwatch official website)

-Ramattra struggled with the concept of sentience as a gift -Ramattra recruited Zenyatta. I believe the "Mondatta" in 2nd paragraph is a typo as developers commentary & concept art show Ramattra recruiting Zenyatta. (General Invasion entry, unlocked after Gothenburg)

-Genji believes Ramattra possesses "no self-preservation and suicidal recklessness" (Resistance - Genji)

-Genji and Ramattra have never met, but Zenyatta spoke of him often -Zenyatta believes Ramattra left "with doubt clouding his soul" (Liberation - Genji)

-Before leaving Shambali, Ramattra was almost killed by humans in Nepal -R-7000s are largely in hiding or dead (Ramattra: Reflections)

-R-7000s were "never made by human hands" -R-7000 parts are only available through other R-7000s' destruction (Ramattra: Reflections)

-Ramattra directly blames Mondatta's teachings for not improving the world faster (Ramattra: Reflections)

-Ramattra and Zenyatta were at the monastery together for 3 years (Ramattra: Reflections)

-Ramattra wants to hurt humans who hurt omnics (Ramattra: Reflections)

-Ramattra curses! (Ramattra: Reflections)

-Even when acting "gently" Ramattra can hurt humans -Ramattra feels guilt and anger about this (Ramattra: Reflections)

-Ramattra was well known as an omnic liberator (Ramattra: Reflections)

-Before Uprising, Ramattra believed omnics needed to stop waiting on a savior and save themselves. (Ramattra: Reflections)

-Ramattra chose his own name to honor Aurora, but also associates it with his mistakes (Ramattra: Reflections)

-Ramattra showed Nameless, Zera, and Lanet his omnium 2 years before Uprising -Ramattra's omnium is "buried by thick slabs of ice and stone", goes "through a shaft of ice", and is largely underground -Ramattra's design aesthetics are similar to Anubis's, "built by machines for machines" -Ramattra was designed and built at this omnium

-Ramattra notes the power of united omnics even against their will -but Ramattra also wishes to inspire omnics to find unity

-Zenyatta wanted to fight, but Ramattra talked him out of it -Ramattra "nearly got Zenyatta killed."

-Ramattra rejects letting omnics fight in Uprising because they are not expendable

-Mondatta denounces Null Sector

-Ramattra says Mondatta is a traitor to the omnic people

-Ramattra can slip into rages given the right provocation (confronting slavers + dishonoring Lanet's death)

-Ramattra will make omnics join him

[generic-sonic-fan]

Prompt: Rouge donated to a charity. Shadow and Omega discover the fact. Much reaction and investigation into whether Rouge has been replaced when they weren’t looking

(I'm fully aware that you probably meant this prompt as crack/a joke but you submitted a prompt to me, team dark angst mcgee. I'm not sure what you expected lmao. Some minor trigger warnings for implied abuse and of course Shadow's ever-present mental health issues.)

Gas Light

Shadow held a receipt in his hand. The top was torn off, but the bottom showed not an insignificant amount of money. That was not the most troubling part.

"Thank you for your donation!"

The sentence splayed across the bottom of the thin paper made him feel uneasy. He couldn't figure out why. A donation, likely to a charity of some kind. It was so, perfectly. . . like himself to do such a thing.

But he hadn't donated anything recently. He had no memory of this receipt. The logical part of his mind told him that this clearly meant one of the other two had donated something instead, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he was missing something.

He sat there for long enough that by the time Omega returned to the apartment, all the light had gone from the windows. He didn't realize he was sitting in the dark until Omega turned on the light.

"WHAT IS THAT?" Omega's optics telescoped outwards slightly, his usual gesture for trying to get a look at something that was far away.

That answered one question at least. Shadow waved him over. "Not sure."

Omega extended his claws, and Shadow handed the receipt over. Holding it closer to his optics, it only took a few milliseconds for him to scan it.

"SHADOW. THIS IS AN ABNORMALLY HIGH SUM." Omega paused. "IS TODAY A DATE THAT IS PARTICULAR TO YOUR PAST?"

"No." Shadow hissed.

"THEN ELABORATE."

"It's not mine," he said, before adding quietly, "I think."

"THEN IT IS-" Omega stopped himself.

"Exactly."

"SCANNING FOR INTRUSIONS." Omega dropped the receipt and began inspecting the seal around the living room window.

"No one else has been here."

"YOU DID NOT GO ON YOUR PLANNED MOTORCYCLE RIDE?"

"No. I stayed here."

Omega rotated his head around to look at him for a few seconds, before resuming his inspection.

Shadow joined him. "Are you able to scan for footprints?"

"AFFIRMATIVE."

"How about old Chaos energy?"

"YOU SAID THE RECEIPT WAS NOT YOURS."

"Just check."

"SCANNING. . ." Omega stood up straight and his head rotated like a swivel. "NEGATIVE READINGS. ALTHOUGH CHAOS ENERGY DISSIPATES RAPIDLY FROM THE VICINITY AFTER IT IS USED."

His heart beat faster. "Maybe I brought it back with me through a chaos control one time."

"CHAOS CONTROL IS DIRECTED VIA WILLPOWER. IT IS NOT EXERTED ON RANDOM OBJECTS AROUND YOU. VERIFY?"

"Yes, but-"

"THEN THAT HYPOTHESIS IS NULL."

"What if it was stuck to my shoe?"

"THE SOLES OF YOUR SHOES ARE NON-CONDUCTIVE."

"There has to be a reason this is here!" Shadow snapped. "Come up with something!"

"DO NOT TELL ME WHAT TO DO!" Omega shouted back.

Before Shadow could reply, someone fiddled with the door lock. Shadow brought his fists in front of his chest. Omega drew his weapons.

Rouge stepped in, looked at the two of them, and gave them a very puzzled look.

"Rouge, has anyone been following you?" Shadow asked.

"No?" She cocked her head.

"NOT THAT SHE KNOWS OF."

"I'm telling you, I don't think anyone has broken in!"

"Woah woah woah," Rouge walked between them, "explain what's going on."

Shadow picked up the receipt from the ground and showed it to her. "We can't determine where this came from."

"Oh, that?" Rouge grabbed it from his hand and crumpled it into a little ball.

Shadow caught her wrist.

"Geez!" Rouge snatched her wrist back. "It's just some trash!"

"You never have receipts for any purpose," Shadow pointed at her. Then he pointed at Omega, "and you would never donate anything."

"AFFIRMATIVE."

"That leaves. . ." Shadow paused. "Me. It leaves me, but I don't remember donating anything."

Shadow. Relax." Rouge made a calming gesture. "You're working yourself up over nothing. It's mine."

"Someone's extorting you?"

"Huh?"

"You should have told us if someone was blackmailing you."

"IDENTIFY THE PERPRETRATOR SO THAT I MAY DESTROY HIM!" Omega pounded his fists together.

"Guys! Nobody's blackmailing me. I'm a little insulted you two thought I wouldn't be able to take care of something like that myself." She crossed her arms.

"Then who are you and what have you done with Rouge?"

"CHARITABLE BEHAVIOR IS UNBECOMING OF ROUGE THE BAT!" Omega drew his weapons again.

"BOYS!" Rouge yelled. "Relax! You got me! I'll tell you what this was all about!"

"PROVE IT."

She sighed and flew off down the hall. Shadow and Omega crowded around the door to her bedroom to find her rummaging through the trashcan beside her desk. She flicked a chewed piece of gum off her glove before pulling out another receipt-looking paper. She opened her other hand and began uncrumpling the one she'd taken from Shadow.

When she returned, she held two halves in her hands.

The top read 'H.A.V.E.N.'

"There," Rouge said. "Believe me now?"

"I don't understand." Shadow replied.

"It's undoubtedly due to your influence," she pushed him aside and walked towards the living room, "so go ahead and gloat."

"THE ACRONYM DOES NOT MATCH ANY IN MY DATABASE."

Shadow and Omega followed her back to the living room as she sat down on the couch. She grabbed the remote, turned on the television, and found her favorite channel.

"Which charity was it?" Shadow repeated Omega's question.

She huffed. "It's the one Topaz is running a little dime fundraiser for at her desk. Leave me alone."

---

Agent Topaz wasn't at her desk the next day.

"MATCH FOUND." Omega reached forward and grabbed a cardboard box off her desk.

The box was black, decorated on all sides with a purple ribbon. On the top was a slot to insert coins. On the front, bold purple text spelled "H.A.V.E.N." Written below were the words "Healthy Alternatives to Violent Environments."

"CONDUCTING INTERNET SEARCH. . ." Omega hummed. "RESULT: THIS ORGANIZATION IS A SHELTER FOR VICTIMS OF DOMESTIC ABUSE."

There was a silence held in those last two words, palpable in the air the moment they left Omega's voicebox. For the first time Shadow wondered if this was what it was like for everyone else when he mentioned anything to do with the raid on the ARK.

Shadow looked at Omega. Omega looked at him.

"Let's not ask her about this again." Shadow eventually said.

"I CONCUR." Omega placed the box down exactly where he'd found it.

[bet-on-me-13]

Jazz joins the Suicide Squad to save Danny

So! Danny got caught by the GIW. And it was Public too.

Jazz can see absolutely no way to save Danny. The GIW Base is heavily fortified, she has no help aside from Tucker and Sam, and public opinion is against Ghosts, so nobody would want to help her protest his Capture. Maybe a few teenagers from the high school, but absolutely none of the adults would help.

So she does the one thing she can. She contacts Amanda Waller.

Waller had previously approached her Parents about buying some of their tech off them, for her "Specializes Task Force" to use in case they ever came up against a Ghost.

From the short interaction Jazz had with Waller, she knew one thing.

That Woman would do ANYTHING, to protect the Government she worked for.

All Jazz needed to do, was offer her something that outweighed the value of capturing Danny. Information. The Infinite Realms, the True Biology of Ghosts, the Psychology of Ghosts, the Power Structure of the Realms, and so much more. Waller needed to know everything she could about the Realms to feel secure, to feel like her Country was safe. She needed Information.

And Jazz had that in spades.

As the daughter of the Leaders on Ectology, and a friend to multiple Saptient Ghosts, including the Kings and Queens of various Realms, she was uniquely qualified to provide all this information.

And Waller was impressed. But she still felt like she needed a little more, and seeing as Jazz was a highly trained Martial Artist due to her Mom, and had been taught enough about mechanical engineering by her Dad to constitute a Major in in, she saw potential.

She saw a Pawn. Perfect for placement on Task Force X. Her Suicide Squad had been missing an extra member recently, and Jazz was the perfect fit.

So they made a Deal.

Danny Fenton, also known as The Phantom, would he released from Government Detainment, alongside any other Sentient/Sapient Ghost in their possession. They would he protected from further Detainment until further Notice, and the Town of Amity Park would be left alone by the GIW Indefinitely.

In return, Jazzmine Fenton would be hired on as Amanda Wallers On-Call Consultant for anything related to Ghosts and the Realms. Additionally, she would be employed as a Part Time Member of Task Force X, answering the call of Duty whenever is is directed as her, No Questions Asked. (Or the deal would be null and void)

But she would Endure it. Because she and Waller had one thing in common.

She would do Anything, to protect her little brother.

[e642]

Je suis dans le train et la seule chose que j'aimerais à cet instant c'est qu'il ne s'arrête jamais. Quand les trains sont vides, les sièges vacants, l'air léger mais silencieux, le paysage défile, j'ai toujours une sensation de calme absolu. Je suis dans un sas qui m'apporte de la sécurité. Je suis comme coupée de l'extérieur. C'est une sorte d'entracte des fois pensif, des fois productif. J'aimerais être seule au monde. Quand les conditions sont réunies, c'est l'un des rares endroits sur cette planète qui ne m'angoisse pas à mourir. Les seules émotions capables de me traverser sont la nostalgie, la mélancolie, l'affection, le manque.. les émotions que j'appelle faussement négatives. Même si elles peuvent faire du mal, elles sont tellement douces qu'avec parcimonie, c'est juste agréable. Je suis fatiguée. Je suis sûre que je dormirai tellement bien dans un train en direction de nulle part et partout à la fois.

[apomaro-mellow]

Hot for Teacher(s) 11

Part 10

The smell of a pup was usually a fresh, neutral scent on their own until they officially presented and it ripened with the unique scent of adolescence. It was why scenting one’s child was important. A way to mark them as your own for the whole world to know. And it was typical of parents to do this before seeing their child off somewhere, particularly school.

Shawn never really noticed before now how sometimes his classmates would smell just a little different, depending on who scented them. He wasn’t the only one with one parent but Daniel got to see his mom on weekends, and Elodie still talked to her dad. Shawn was the only one with a single parent with no contact with his other. And he wasn’t complaining. But now that he noticed, he wondered if other people noticed his single note of a scent.

No one had ever made him feel bad about it but maybe they were just being nice about his situation…

Eddie greeted his students in the morning, usually with a high five or a fist bump. “Warm up’s on your desks, make sure you have a sharpened pencil.”

Elodie got to her desk before unpacking and looked at the worksheet. “Do we get to color?”

“What do the directions say?”, Eddie asked, encouraging her to read.

“‘Color…your fa…vorite food’. Yay!”

Eddie told her good job before seeing to the other students and making sure unpacking by the cubbies went without any drama. It all seemed to be going well, so he turned his back. Of course, that was when he heard shoving and the beginnings of a wailing cry.

Shawn was at his desk while Mr. Munson tried to soothe Yasmin. She bumped her head against his leg like she was much younger than six, a move that would normally get an adult to scent her and assure her she wasn’t in trouble. Mr. Munson just gave her a pat on the head and reminded her that the cubbies had names and she couldn’t just put her things wherever she wanted, but also Daniel shouldn’t toss other’s belongings onto the floor.

Mr. Munson was really nice like that, giving head pats, and high fives, but he never scented any of the students. That would be weird. But would he scent Shawn? Where did they stand, now that he was dating his dad?

After school, Steve came and he rubbed Shawn’s cheeks. “You’re like my cute mochi thing. What do they call it? The white thing?”

“Cinnamoroll?”, Eddie and Shawn said in unison.

“No, the other thing. The rabbit.”

“That’s Cinnamoroll, Dad. Now please release my cheeks”, Shawn said.

That just made Steve squish them together more. “No, there’s something else. And I’m pretty sure that’s supposed to be a dog anyway.” He let Shawn’s face go and looked up at Eddie. “We still on for tonight?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world”, Eddie promised.

Shawn waited until they were in the car before asking. “What’s tonight?”

Steve smiled. “He’s coming over for dinner.”

“What’re we having?”, Shawn asked, trying to look nonchalant as he played with his seatbelt.

“I was thinking cockroach legs and frog’s eyes”, Steve said, snickering at the look of disgust that he caught in the mirror. “Well what would you serve then?”

“Make your own tacos. I saw you taking out ground beef earlier.”

“You know what, that could work”, Steve agreed. Nevermind that Shawn also would’ve seen the different vegetables on the counter, as well as various sauces which could only be used for tacos. Christopher Nolan, eat your heart out.

Eddie would be spending the evening with them as it was decided that he should do so without it being a date. He and Steve knew they worked well together, now it was time to add Shawn to the mix. He would only be his teacher for a few more months after all. And then in a few years, he would probably be Steve’s. So keeping them apart for that reason was about to be null and void.

Steve had Shawn finish his homework at the table while he started cooking. Eddie arrived about half an hour later, knocking at the door. Steve sent Shawn to get it only because he was washing his hands from touching raw meat and he recognized the roar of Eddie’s van by now. 

“Well, if it isn’t the man of the house”, Eddie smiled when Shawn opened the door.

“Are you here to sell cookies?”, Shawn teased.

“Hmm, no cookies, only pie”, he said, bringing one from behind his back.

Shawn shrugged. “That’ll work.”

He let Eddie in and they joined his dad in the kitchen. Eddie greeted Steve with a kiss, who smiled when he saw the dessert Eddie brought. 

“You didn’t have to.”

“I didn’t. Safeway did.”

Dinner was a fun affair. Probably the only low point for Shawn was when the two of them randomly broke out into a song that he didn’t know and even danced along to it. Did they not see how embarrassing they were? The tacos were good though. Shawn liked to put a ton of cheese on his. 

“Hey, you got something there”, Eddie said in the middle of eating.

“Where?”, Steve asked, trying to look at his own face.

Eddie put a swipe of sour cream on his nose. “There.”

Shawn laughed enough to shake his own taco (#3) and make half the ingredients spill out onto his plate. After eating, Shawn helped by bringing the dirty dishes to the sink and helping Steve wrap up the leftovers while Eddie got to washing. Shawn got to take his slice of pie to the living room so long as he ate at the coffee table, leaving the two adults alone.

They were shoulder to shoulder as they washed and dried. At one point, Steve put his head on Eddie’s shoulder and they paused for a moment, soaking it all in. It was only one night but this one night boded well for their future. Once the dishes were done, they joined Shawn, who had taken up the middle of the couch. Without a word, they sat on either side of him. Shawn had it on a kids’ sitcom, but honestly it didn’t matter what they were watching. 

Steve and Eddie’s arms were across the back of the couch so that they could touch, leaving Eddie’s side open for Shawn to lean into. Shawn let out a yawn, full and tired. Then he bumped his forehead against Eddie’s chest. His eyes bugged out, looking at Steve for a sign, approval, something. He didn’t want to spook Shawn by using his voice though. Steve’s eyes were glistening a little as he nodded. 

Slowly, Eddie brought his arm down and rubbed his wrist against Shawn’s hair and cheeks. Steve could just barely hear the coo of contentment. When they were sure he was asleep, Eddie gathered Shawn in his arms and carried him to his room, Steve leading the way. 

“Wait for me in my room”, Steve whispered so that he could give Shawn a bit of privacy while dressing him down in his pjs.

Eddie waited faithfully, sitting on the edge of the bed when Steve finally came in. They spent the night sharing slow kisses, building each other up while using just their hands to finish the job. It was still a school night, after all.

From then on, Eddie took some time to scent Shawn while he was fully awake, sometimes even at school. The other students didn’t think much of it but the week after just happened to be the school-wide spelling bee. A few parents were in attendance. Steve couldn’t make it, as it was the middle of the day, but Eddie promised him pictures.

Shawn took first place, almost stumbling on the word ‘lightning’ but pushing through. The awards were given and parents congratulated their kids, getting pictures as well. Eddie kept himself available, only about half of his students’ parents showed up. Shawn showed his trophy to a friend who was standing by their dad.

He knelt down by Shawn. “You want me to get some pics for your dad, kiddo?”

“Mr. Munson’s gonna text my dad, right?”, Shawn beamed.

“That I will”, Eddie promised.

It was such a benign interaction that Eddie didn’t think a thing of it. But in that moment, the other parent caught a whiff of Shawn, who smelled too similar to Mr. Munson. And texting a parent? On its own, not strange but he’d been careful not to give out his personal number to anyone. He communicated mostly through emails. Sometimes a flyer in the kids’ folders. It was all just adding up to something fishy in his opinion…

He voiced as much to his wife when he got home and she just didn’t see it.

“Are you trying to say Shawn’s dad slept with the teacher so he could win the spelling bee?”

“I mean I’m not saying that exactly, but it seems kind of rigged, doesn’t it?”

She called their daughter down from her room. “Is your friend Shawn a good speller?”

“Yeah, he can even spell some second grade words. They ran out of first grade words to give him.”

“Well, your daddy didn’t mention that.”

“I just think we shouldn’t rule it out.” A lot of the parents knew each other, at least in passing. So it was no secret that Steve was single. Of course, most would never suspect he was dating his son’s teacher but considering the scent he was carrying…

As this was brewing on Eddie's side, from Steve's past a familiar face approached closer and closer.

Part 12

Fun fact: that actually happened at my school's spelling bee. Two of my first graders spelled so well, they had to move on to second grade words. Don't praise me though, they came to me that smort.

Taglist

@anne-bennett-cosplayer @aol19 @lololol-1234 @gregre369 @attic-cat-blog

@hippieg1rl420 @spectrum-spectre

[cowboygenesis]

3: the mandalorian | din djarin x reader

part 3 of the "brown eyes" series: masterlist and spotify playlist. | buy me a coffee?

pairing: din djarin x reader chapter warnings: none. word count: 6.4k series summary: din settles on the distant planet of lazure prime while seeking a safe-haven for his son. unbeknownst to him, the choice leads him to unforeseen threats—and a deeper connection he never thought possible. notes: edit: chapter 1 and 2 have been revised for more length and clarity. enjoy! welcome back after the hiatus! i felt pretty demotivated to write due to illness, but we're so back. a little more fluff for you this time as well as TONS more dialogue. it's not my strong suit, but i'm working on it! as always, thank you for reading.

Gods, you were a fool. A kriffing fool— draped in a thick cloak with a basket weighing on her arm.

You filled it with a great variety of items this morning. Dew jam, oatcakes, squash, the usual; they sit tightly packed beneath a checkered cloth, together with something extra you had whipped up the night before. It’s another family recipe, one you found while rummaging through an old lockbox a few years back.

You were excited with how the little care package came out when you left your cottage this morning, but now? You’re starting to regret it a little. The thick, woven handle digs into the soft inside of your forearm, leaving a swirly, grooved mark. You’ve been swapping it from arm to arm, but the length of your journey has proven the technique null.

The autumn leaves woosh beneath your boots as you take step after step down the off-beat path. A soft light trickles in through the rich verdure above, helping you navigate through the otherwise dim wood.

I mean, just how hard was it to find a massive clump of metal within a forest you know so well? You thought your navigational skills were better than that, but alas.

You’ve decided to see them again— or rather, find them yourself. It’s been a few days since the two left through the gate of your cottage, and realizing they’ve made no appearance in town since then, you worry— Especially for the little green kid. You’ve seen him clear a bowl of stew in minutes, so his appetite must be large; you don’t want him going hungry.

You tighten your grip on the basket and push forward, leaves rustling and crunching underfoot. A faint breeze stirs the branches above, sending a shower of orange and gold cascading down around you. The forest feels alive, as it always does, but today, its energy is sharp, almost expectant.

It feels like it’s watching you.

You pause for a moment, squinting ahead into the dimness. The trees stretch endlessly in every direction, their trunks gnarled and twisted, their shadows long and foreboding. You tilt your head, listening for anything—a hum, a clang, a voice. But there’s only the rustle of leaves and the soft whistle of wind.

Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe you should turn around, head back home, and let them come to you if they need anything. But the thought of the child’s wide, curious eyes stops you.

You sigh and readjust the basket one more time.

“Alright,” you murmur to yourself, the sound of your voice oddly comforting in the silence. “Let’s find that damned hunk of metal.”

The deeper you go, the more the forest seems to shift. The off-beat path becomes narrower, the underbrush denser, and the golden light overhead dims as the canopy thickens. You find yourself glancing over your shoulder more often than you’d like to admit, though there’s no reason to. You know this forest like an old friend.

The basket shifts on your arm again, pulling your focus back to the weight of your task. It’s the same sensation you get when you’ve bitten off more than you can chew—a creeping discomfort that makes your steps heavier.

You stop by a thick stump, resting the basket on top and stretching your aching arm. You stand there for a moment, taking in the sight of the forest.

And then you hear it.

A faint hum, almost imperceptible, carried on the breeze. Your head snaps toward the sound, and your heart leaps in your chest. It’s mechanical, unmistakably so. The first hint of relief blooms in your chest as you grab the basket and press on, your pace quickening despite the ache in your legs. Maker, you’re out of shape.

The hum you were following dies off, replaced by something else—a rhythmic thud and a low, frustrated groan. You freeze, listening intently, your breath catching. The noise isn’t mechanical. It’s human.

Panic flares in your chest as your mind jumps to worst-case scenarios. What if someone’s hurt? What if—

The thudding stops abruptly, replaced by a muffled curse. You press forward, stepping carefully over the underbrush. The closer you get, the more distinct the noises become—metal clanging, footsteps pacing, and the unmistakable sound of muttered words.

When you finally reach the clearing, the sight before you is… overwhelming.

The first thing you notice is the massive body of the ship taking up most of the area, its shape unlike anything you’ve ever seen—a hulking, double-pronged behemoth with a vaguely intimidating silhouette. Or at least, it would be intimidating if it weren’t for the state it’s in.

The hull is battered, dented in places that look far beyond easy repair. Scorch marks streak the sides as if it’s been under heavy fire. You think that their landing was a poor one, until you finally come close enough to see it.

Graffiti. Bright, chaotic streaks of paint cover the ship, turning its exterior into a cacophony of crude symbols and messy lettering in languages you don’t recognize.

And then you see him.

Din is crouched near the ship, a toolbox at his side and his back to you. He’s wearing a simple flight suit, the dark fabric clinging to his frame in the autumn breeze. His armor is gone, except for his helmet, which glints dully in the scattered sunlight. His broad shoulders are hunched, his movements methodical but tense as he works on some exposed wiring beneath a warped panel.

He mutters something under his breath—too quiet for you to make out—then slams a fist against the side of the ship in frustration. The loud clang makes you flinch.

You step closer, the leaves crunching softly beneath your boots. “Din?” you call out hesitantly, making sure to avoid startling him.

He stiffens, his head snapping in your direction. The dark visor locks onto you, and for a moment, neither of you says anything.

“It’s just me,” you add quickly, lifting the basket a little as if it might somehow explain your presence.

Din exhales, the sound faintly audible through his helmet. He stands, his full height making the ship behind him seem smaller. “What are you doing here?” he asks, his voice low but not unkind.

You see it then, when he faces you. Without the protective layer he usually dons, you catch a small patch of skin above the hem of his shirt. It’s tanned, smooth, and lined with a thin layer of slickness.

Maker, you’re staring hard. But how can you not? Without most of his armor, he feels so much more relatable, so much more human.

He says your name, but you barely register it throught he haze of your musings. It sounds surprisingly gentle coming from his lips, even through the modulator— just enough to shake you awake with that deep baritone that makes your spine tingle.

“I came to check on you,” you say, revealing your form fully by stepping into the clearing. Your eyes dart back to the ship, taking in the full extent of the damage.

Din follows your gaze briefly, before grunting in frustration.

“Is this… yours?” you ask quietly, approaching further.

He nods, though he doesn’t seem particularly proud of the fact at the moment. “The Razor Crest.”

You look back at the battered vessel, taking in its unique, oblong shape.

“It’s… big,” you comment quietly. You try to avoid commenting on the damage.

Din snorts quietly, the sound barely audible. “Not exactly a compliment, but I’ll take it.”

“Oh, but isn’t it?” you retort through a small grin, trying your best to cheer him up. Is it even possible? You’ll take your chances.

“You tell me,” he sighs, crossing his arms and taking a step forward. You then notice the source of the hum you had heard before: a handheld smelter lying by a metal box of other tools.

“What happened to it?” you ask, stepping closer to inspect the mess of graffiti. You gently place the basket near the hull’s open ramp, trying your best not to peek inside. “Did you… did you—”

“We didn’t crash,” he says quickly, almost defensively, as if doubting his piloting skills was the worst offence you could commit right now. “I found it this way on our way back from…”

Your cottage. You suddenly feel a pang of guilt, feeling like the ship is in this shape partially because of you. I mean, if you had just let them go on their merry way, this could have been avoided.

“I’m sorry,” you speak softly, and Din takes a step forward. His arms are still crossed as he sizes you up.

“What for?” he questions.

“This could have been avoided. I knew you were stationed in the forest, so maybe if I had just—”

“Stop,” he cuts you off sternly, raising a hand. You oblige, giving him a polite, albeit sad smile. “You have nothing to do with this. I should have known to land deeper inland, deep enough to avoid these Maker-forsaken kids.”

“Kids?” you echo, incredulous. Your eyes linger on the garish graffiti, the crude streaks of paint mocking the once-imposing vessel. “They did all this?”

He nods, his shoulders visibly tightening. “It’s just cosmetic. The systems are fine. Mostly.”

“Mostly?” you repeat, stepping closer. “Din, this ship looks like it’s been through a war zone.”

He doesn’t reply, and you can tell he’s not in the mood to elaborate. Instead, he crouches again, reaching for a wrench and returning to his work.

You hesitate for a moment before moving to stand beside him. “Let me help,” you say softly.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you cut him off gently. “Besides, I can’t just stand here while you’re trying to fix this mess on your own.”

He looks up at you, his visor tilting slightly. After a long pause, he nods, gesturing for you to kneel beside him.

As you settle into place, your fingers itching to inspect the intricate mechanics, a wave of curiosity mixes with an odd, unexpected warmth. You’ve always been drawn to machines, but seeing this ship—Din’s ship—up close feels different, almost intimate. You’ve always believed that a vehicle said a lot about their owner.

Your fingers quickly unbuckle your cloak, letting it settle on the ground around you. You groan softly at the skirt pooling there— it’s not the ideal attire for the work you’re about to do, but it’ll have to work. You could take it off if you felt desperate enough, but parading around in a pair of bloomers didn’t sound all that appealing with Din around.

You reach into the metal toolbox and dig around, quickly fishing out a flathead screwdriver. Turning it in your hand, you glance at the section of exposed wiring Din was working on. It’s a mess of tangled cables, scorched ends, and fraying insulation—a nightmare to anyone but a seasoned mechanic.

Din watches as you inspect it, his helmet tilting slightly. “You’ve done this before,” he says, not quite a question.

You smirk faintly, tugging a stubborn piece of wiring into view. “Let’s just say I’ve seen my fair share of ships in worse shape than this.”

“Worse?” he echoes, a hint of skepticism in his tone.

“Oh, much worse,” you reply, carefully stripping a length of wire with practiced ease. “You’d be surprised what passes for a ‘functional’ ship on the wrong side of the galaxy.”

He hums in acknowledgment, shifting his focus back to another part of the panel. The silence between you is comfortable, punctuated only by the occasional clang of tools and the rustle of leaves in the forest. If he’s curious about your ‘past life’ so to speak, he doesn’t ask.

As you work, your eyes drift over the Razor Crest’s exterior. Even battered and vandalized, it has an odd charm—a utilitarian design that speaks to functionality. You can’t help but feel a pang of admiration for the ship, even if it’s not your personal style preference.

“You built this?” you ask, glancing at him.

Din hesitates, his hands pausing mid-motion. “Rebuilt it,” he admits after a moment. “It’s been through a lot.”

You nod, your fingers deftly splicing two wires together. “I can tell. It’s solid, though. Strong,” you reach for the handheld smelter, smiling, “It suits you.”

He glances at you, and though you can’t see his face, you can feel the weight of his gaze. “Solid?”

You snort, focusing your gaze on your handywork. “It’s a compliment.”

“The way ‘big’ is, right?” he retorts, and you can almost feel the light jest in his tone. It makes you feel giddy all of a sudden, and you let him know with a toothy grin.

“Quick learner.”

For a while, the two of you work in unison, falling into a rhythm. You hand him tools without needing to ask, and he quietly adjusts the parts you’re working on when your hands get in the way. It’s a strange kind of camaraderie, but it feels… right. You’ve almost missed this.

Eventually, you sit back on your heels, wiping a smudge of grease from your cheek. “There,” you say, gesturing to the now-repaired section. “That should hold, at least until you can get proper parts.”

Din inspects your work, nodding in approval. “Not bad,” he says, and you swear there’s a hint of warmth in his voice. Maybe you are getting better at reading him after all.

You grin, brushing off your skirt and gripping your cloak as you stand. “I’ll take that as high praise.”

As Din rises to his feet, you catch a glimpse of something out of the corner of your eye—a small, familiar figure peeking out from the open ramp of the ship. Grogu. His wide eyes gleam with curiosity as he watches the two of you, his tiny ears twitching.

You smile, lifting your hand in a small wave. “Hey, kiddo,” you call softly.

Grogu lets out a delighted coo, waddling toward you with surprising speed. He stops just short of your legs, tilting his head up expectantly.

His eyes are slightly squinted, the few strands of hair on his head mussed. You realise he was probably taking a nap just now.

You crouch down, reaching for your basket.

“I brought something for you,” you say through a wide smile, pulling back the checkered cloth to reveal the carefully packed food. Grogu’s ears perk up immediately.

You withdraw a small, paper parcel, flipping over the folded top and handing it to Grogu.

He looks inside with a delighted chirp, reaching his little hand in.

“It’s smoked, dried eopie,” you explain as Grogu withdraws a piece of the leathery meat, “It’s a very popular snack here. I prepare it myself, for the winter.”

Din sighs, crossing his arms. “You’re spoiling him,” he says, though there’s no real reproach in his tone.

You glance up at him, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “Someone has to,” you reply as Grogu begins gnawing at the treat.

“He likes it,” you note, your gaze lingering on the little green child.

Din shifts slightly, the leather of his gloves creaking as he adjusts his stance. “He likes anything edible,” he replies dryly, but there’s a softness to his voice that betrays his affection.

You settle back onto your heels, still holding the basket. “I figured you might need some supplies anyway,” you say, turning your attention back to Din. “Judging by the state of things, you’ve been busy.”

Din doesn’t respond immediately, his helmet dipping slightly as if considering his next words. You can’t help the way your eyes drift down to the collar of his shirt, watching the skin there in a certain awe. Without the armor, you can tell the full extent of his figure— strong, taut, and takk.

“It’s been an adjustment,” he finally admits, and you hope you weren’t staring. Not like he’d point it out to you.

You nod. “Well, you two aren’t alone,” you offer gently. “Not while you’re here, at least.”

He looks at you then, the T-visor fixed squarely on your face. Even without seeing his expression, you feel the intensity of his gaze—a silent assessment.

“Why?” he asks, his voice low.

The question catches you off guard, and you pause, the leaves rustling softly in the breeze swirling between you. “Why what?”

“Why are you helping us?”

It’s a fair question, and one you’ve asked yourself more than once. Still, faced with it now, you struggle to answer.

You glance at Grogu, who’s now clumsily climbing into your lap, his snack still firmly in grubby hand. He looks up at you with wide, trusting eyes, and your chest tightens.

“I want to,” you say finally, brushing a gentle hand over Grogu’s head. It’s surprisingly soft, like a fuzzy peach. “Everyone deserves a little kindness.”

Din doesn’t reply, but the slight tilt of his helmet suggests he’s mulling over your words. After a moment, he nods—a small, almost imperceptible gesture. You’re surprised your answer seems to have sated him, because you’re not sure if you believe in it yourself.

Grogu coos again, leaning his small frame against you, and you can’t help but smile.

“It’s not a hassle for me,” you elaborate, placing your free hand on the basket. “And it’s not much, anyway. But I want you to take it.”

Din takes a step closer, possibly eyeing the contents.

“What’s in it?” he asks.

You lift the cloth, revealing the carefully arranged contents. “Just a few things to make your stay here a little more bearable. Well… at least for a while. Some of it’s for the kid, but there’s plenty for you, too.” You almost can’t help yourself winking at your little jest, but finally decide against it. You hope your smile is enough. “I don’t doubt you’re capable of just hunting for food, but this is a lot tastier. I promise.”

Din’s visor tilts toward you, and you imagine he’s raising a skeptical eyebrow beneath the helmet. “You didn’t have to do—”

“Din,” you cut him off softly, meeting the blank of his visor. You’re grinning now— there’s recognition in your eyes, for him. For his repeated refusal. “That’s why I did.”

It’s quiet between you for a moment, save for the whistling wind among the treeline and Grogu’s soft smacks as he gobbles down his treat.

“Thank you,” Din says finally, his voice quieter than before.

You nod, your smile tinged with pride now. “You’re welcome.”

Grogu chirps again, leaving your skirted lap and instead clambering up Din’s calf. The man shifts slightly, watching the baby coo. You chuckle, imagining the two speak in a language only they can understand.

“Well,” you say, clapping your hands, “Since I’m already here, how about I make myself useful? You’ve got a lot of work left on the ship.”

Din sighs, eyeing the ship again. The wireage you managed to fix together was only a dent (literally) in the overall damage, and you have a gnawing feeling that he’s probably still set on doing it all alone.

But then, he gestures toward the toolbox. “If you insist.”

Oh. So it was that easy, after all.

You grin, grabbing at your skirts and relocating towards the toolbox. “Don’t worry, Din,” you say as you kneel by another scuff. “We’ll have this old bucket flying in no time.”

“Old bucket?” Din echoes, the faintest hint of amusement in his voice.

You smirk, not looking up as your hand reaches for a wrench. “I call it like I see it.”

—

As the sun dips lower in the sky, the three of you fall into a comfortable rhythm—Din focusing on the structural repairs, you tackling the wiring, and Grogu happily alternating between supervising and snacking.

At some point you realise you’ve fixed the biggest holes, and all that’s left to tackle is the graffiti. Not a problem, it’d be a quick wipe-down.

“I think we’re done here,” you nod as you stand, breathing heavily as you wipe a bead of moisture from your temple. “Didn’t even break a sweat, right?”

You catch Din crouching by the toolbox, his visor on you. You give him a smile, curious if he’ll retort.

Din tilts his helmet slightly, a gesture you’ve learned to peg as amusement. “You’re sweating,” he points out, his voice flat but tinged with that subtle dryness.

You roll your eyes, flattening out your skirt. “You try untangling thirty-year-old wiring and not breaking a sweat.”

Grogu coos in agreement—or at least, you take it as agreement—his tiny hands clutching a stray bolt he’s found on the ground and beginning to chew on it.

Din stands, his full height momentarily casting a long shadow over you in the golden light of the setting sun. You feel dwarfed under his stature, even sans armor— his aura is palpable, unbreaking, making you feel safe by just being in proximity.

“I’ll handle the rest,” he says, nodding toward the graffiti-streaked hull.

“You sure?” you ask, brushing your grease-stained hands on your skirt. Oops, you hope it washes off. “I don’t mind.”

“I’m sure.” He turns toward the ship, reaching for a cleaning rag from the toolbox. “You’ve done enough.”

You hesitate, watching him move with the kind of purposeful efficiency that seems ingrained in everything he does. It feels odd to step back now, after working together so seamlessly. Still, you decide not to argue.

Instead, you glance down at Grogu, who’s now investigating the hem of your skirt. “What do you think, kid? Think we did a good job?”

Grogu babbles something indecipherable, holding up his prized bolt like it’s the galaxy’s greatest treasure. You laugh softly, crouching to his level. “I’ll take that as a yes, little guy.”

Din pauses mid-wipe, glancing back at the two of you. “You don’t have to stay,” he says, his tone unreadable.

Uh… is he… throwing you out? It’s a little hard to tell as usual, but you feel like niceties are lost on someone like him so you imagine that if he wanted you gone, he’d tell you outright.

You huff, brushing your hands together. “I know. But maybe I’ll keep you company a little longer.”

Grogu looks up at you with a chirp, reaching out a hand with the bolt still inside, like he’s offering you a prize. You chuckle, gently taking it between your fingers and closing it within the safety of your palm.

“…Plus, we should probably check the ship’s functionality on board,” you add, finally feeling bold enough to match Din’s gaze. It’s a little rude of you, you think, forcing yourself onto his ship. But you’re right, it’s important to check for vitality.

Din stands silently for a moment, his helmet tilting slightly as if considering your suggestion—or perhaps your audacity. It’s always hard to tell what’s going on behind that visor.

Din finishes wiping the last streak of graffiti and tosses the rag back into the toolbox. “Come on,” he says, his voice low but clear. He gestures toward the open ramp of the Razor Crest, his broad frame silhouetted by the fading light.

You blink, surprised by the invitation. “On board?”

“That’s where the control panel is,” He nods once, already moving toward the ship. Of course you know that, it’s not what you meant.

You start to speak, but the words die in your throat. Maybe it’s better to keep things simple and not question his decisions. Again, if he wanted you gone, you’d be gone by now.

“You said we should check the systems. Better you see for yourself,” he adds, and it’s reassurance enough for you to accept.

You glance down at Grogu, who chirps in approval, waddling ahead of you onto the ramp as though he’s in charge of the whole operation. So kriffin’ cute. Smiling, you follow him, stepping carefully onto the metal incline.

The Razor Crest’s interior greets you with a utilitarian glare, the faint hum of dormant systems vibrating beneath your feet. It’s not what you’d call cozy, but there’s something oddly comfortable about it—a machine stripped down to its bare essentials, much like its owner, you think.

Your eyes drift around, taking in the details. Crates and compartments are stacked neatly in every available space, each labeled with lines of some sort of code.

You catch a few, small doorways, and imagine those to be separate rooms of some kind. You don’t approach out of respect, but your curiosity simmers quietly beneath the surface.

“It’s nice,” you say earnestly, “A lot cozier than I thought.”

He tilts his head to glance at you as you reach a wall-bolted ladder. His hand rests on one of the upper rungs as he surveys your expression.

“Cozy?” he repeats as if the word was completely foreign to him.

You shrug with a soft smile. “It’s lived in.”

He keeps his eyes on you for a second longer before replying again. “It does its job for now.”

You bite your lip then, mulling over his words as he finally moves up the cockpit. You linger there for a moment, looking down at Grogu who’s now holding his hands up, boring into you with those big eyes of his.

“Come on, little guy,” you smile, crouching down to capture him in one arm as you ascend the ladder.

The Razor Crest’s cockpit is what you’d expect it to be; lined with control panels, a main seat for the pilot— Din— and two tucked just by the wall. The throttle and yoke look just about usual, and so do all the finders. The only step away from the mundane are the panoramic windows that give a thorough view of space, or in this case, the treeline stretching ahead.

You watch as Din takes a seat, eyeing down the familiar controls. He toggles some buttons, you don’t see which, but the ship eventually thrums to life with a steady hum.

You sigh in relief, until you see the pilot chair swerve a 180 to face you. Your breath stills a bit as you look into Din’s visor, his posture lax as he leans to one side.

You stall there a while, clutching Grogu as your brain short-circuits. You think it’s the way he’s rolled up his sleeves to reveal more tanned skin, or his spread knees— he sits there like he owns the place, and he damn well does.

“Well?” he questions through the modulator, and you need to blink a few times to get back to the present.

“Well?” you repeat, forgetting the point of your visit altogether.

Din sighs, dropping his helmet slightly before he stands tall again. In this smaller, more confined space you’re forced to be in a near-uncomfortable proximity— so close, you can almost see his chest rise and fall with the steady breaths that he takes.

He takes a step forward, and now you feel a thumping in your ears. You think it’s some remnants of the primal fear you’re ought to feel in the presence of someone so domineering, like a prey in a completely foreign domain— his domain.

He looks at you, and your neck cranes to match his visor. Your lips are parted in hopes of breaking the silence, but it feels put on pause as his gaze penetrates your soul. You can’t see it, but you sure as Maker can feel it resonating within your lower tummy.

“The control panels,” he finally mutters as his arms extend towards yours. You panic for a moment before you feel him cradle Grogu, removing him from your oddly tight grip to press him against his chest.

“Oh,” you whisper, watching as Grogu whines in protest. Your eyes move to Din’s visor, then to the control panels behind him. “Right. Right, yeah. Let me check it out.”

He nods, and you sidestep to get to the interface. You plop down in the chair, and swivel around a little to get comfortable before finding the buttons you’re looking for.

“Fueling external power,” you mutter, running down the familiar script in your head. You press a few buttons, and the ship hums again.

“Verifying onboard generator,” you continue, voice growing quieter, but you know you’re being monitored closely. You eye the satnav and nod, repeating the same for the two altitude indicators.

“Everything seems intact,” you murmur, your fingers rapping at the edge of the panel. The lights flicker slightly as you sigh. “Power levels are stable, thrusters are operational—though one of them might be lagging a bit—and navigation is responding well.”

You swivel in your chair to face Din and the kid, and your throat tightens as you’re forced to look up.

There he stands, arms crossed and sans Grogu. You catch a little green in your peripherals, sitting comfortably in the jump seat, but you don’t dare focus on him as Din stands mere inches from you, his stature easily towering over your seated form.

“Lagging thruster,” he repeats, his tone as even and unyielding as ever. “That’s manageable.”

You nod, swallowing against the sudden dryness in your throat. Is he intimidating you on purpose? Maker, if so…

“Yeah, but it could strain the other systems over time. I’d recommend recalibrating it sooner rather than later.” you nod, trying to keep your tone professional. It feels a artificially stiff compared to the friendly lilt you’ve been using with him so far, but it feels necessary.

Din shifts his weight slightly, the movement subtle but noticeable in the cramped quarters.

“I’ll look into it.”

You bunch your arms in your lap, feeling at a loss. Okay, he’ll look into it. That’s fine. It means your work here is done, right?

He’s still crowding your space, so you finally decide to swivel back towards the control panel. You regret it slightly, sure, but the view of the familiar forest ahead makes you exhale the tension he’s built up looking down at you like that.

Both of you stay quiet for a moment, the air between you filled with a strange ease and the soft beeps of the ship. You reach for a lever, and gently pull it down, halting the ships power supply.

As the hum dies down, you suddenly feel the need to speak. It’s too silent for your liking, and you doubt Din minds it as much as you do.

“What do you do?” you finally question, voice so steady it almost surprises you. Yes, you’ve vowed to keep things light and professional between you when you noted his apprehension, but now that you’re here, on the Crest? Helping him sort out his systems, bring him food, cradle his kid? Maybe it won’t hurt to get a little friendly.

“I…” he begins, weighing his next words carefully.

“You don’t need to say if it’s too—” you begin, but are promptly cut off.

“—I’m Mandalorian.”

Okay. Okay…

Maker. A Mandalorian.

Everything comes flowing back to you, the memories, the knowledge. That’s why he seemed so familiar: the armor, the visor, his privacy concerns.

You try to recall all you know about his kind. You’ve heard the tales, the legends if you will— weaving through the countless cantinas you’ve drank at in your life, the hulls of ships you’ve worked on, your old coworkers.

The Mandalorians are mercenaries, bound together by a common religion and principles— their creed.

“Do you still want to stay?” you question, toying with the armrest as you await his response.

You don’t need to wait long, however, as Din sighs softly through the modulator.

“Yes,” he affirms, stilling behind you. Even when you don’t face him, his presence looms over you.

“Why?”

You can tell he’s thinking by the way the silence fills the air between you again.

“It’s complicated right now,” he finally answers, and you heed the subtlety— he’s not ready to tell you. Whatever the reason might be, you know you don’t want to pry more than you already have.

“Okay,” you nod sympathetically, though you know he can’t see you right now. “That’s fine.”

As if on cue, you see him appear by your side. His arms sit firmly against his chest, and he surveys you quietly.

“Why aren’t you curious?” he questions quietly, and you can’t help but shrug as your body angles towards him in the chair.

“I am,” you admit, taking a look at Grogu. He’s sitting in the jump seat still, toying with the screw he found previously.

“Then why don’t you ask questions?” he continues, and your eyes come back to his visor. Does he actually care to know?

“You don’t owe me your story,” you reply simply, playing with the hem of your skirt. “I want to know, but you don’t need to tell me anything. I’m happy to know your name, your ship, your rules.”

He stays quiet, letting you speak freely. You wonder if you’ll say too much.

“But your story?” you continue, swerving to face him fully now. “It’s not for me to extract. It’s for you to share, if it feels right.”

As he listens, you give him a smile. You wish you could see his face now, if only to know if he returned it.

“Strange girl,” he mutters through the modulator, voice low but perfectly audible. Your lips part at the name, nose rouged.

“I mean it,” you nod, turning to Grogu again. When he catches your gaze, he chirps sweetly. “If you couldn’t tell already, I’m not exactly indifferent to your fate.”

You see Din shift slightly in your peripheral. When you look again, you see his arm extended towards you, large palm welcoming your own.

You watch it a while, eyeing his visor as if to make sure of his intentions. When his figure stalls like that, you finally reach out.

Your palms touches the soft, worn leather of his, fingers trembling as you feel his grip tighten. But you’re watching his face now, or where you think his eyes might be, your own sparkling with curiosity.

He effortlessly brings you upwards, letting you move off the seat to match his standing figure. You’re close to him, mere inches as your hand hovers in his. You want to squeeze, intertwine, feel, but before there’s time, he withdraws.

“Thank you,” he finally speaks, and the thrum sends a vibration through your chest. You hold back a soft gasp, his touch gone yet ever so vibrant on your skin. “For everything.”

You can only nod, nearly cross-eyed as you survey him so carefully.

Your lips part to speak through the electricity between you, but you’re stopped in your tracks by a soft force grasping at your boot.

When you look down, you see the little green child pawing at your calf. When you look up to Din again, you see he’s moved back a few steps, surveying Grogu alongside you. The electricity is gone almost as soon as it had appeared.

“I think he likes me,” you chuckle, leaning down to clutch him in your arms. When you stand up again, Din’s helmet shifts between his child, then you.

“It’s all those treats you’ve been feeding him,” he replies, and despite his flat tone, you know he’s joking with you.

“What?!” With smiling eyes, you scoff loudly, eyeing the green ball down. He coos, smiling up at your faux-shocked face. “Can you believe it, baby? Your dad doubts our love.”

“You bribed him,” he elaborates, tone softer than before. You smile mischeviously.

“I did no such thing,” you retort dramatically, smoothing down the child’s fluffy, fur-like locks. “Our bond is genuine.”

“Oh, yeah?” Din questions, but the tilt of his helmet and the tone he adresses you with makes it feel almost… taunting. Domineering.

“Is that a challenge? Are you challenging me?” you reply, and can’t help the chuckle that rips from your throat as you look at Grogu again, “Tell him he doesn’t want this, Grogu.”

The Mandalorian laughs. It’s similarly soft, rumbling as before, and sends your heart into overdrive for a second as you look up at him with a self-satisfied grin. Such a beautiful sound, yet so precious and rare.

“Oh, and he finds it funny, too,” you fake frown at Grogu, who reaches his grubby hand out to his dad. You sigh happily, passing the baby to the armored man who cradles him with a softness that makes your heart skip a beat.

You look at each other, smiling— or, you’re smiling and praying hard that he is, too.

Grogu chirps, showing Din the bolt he’s been chewing in the jump seat this whole time. The man grabs it with his thumb and forefinger, looking at it with a sigh.

“Little troublemaker,” you smile, but the words are honeyed. Din nods at you.

“Don’t encourage him,” he warns softly, and you laugh.

Peace settles over the cockpit for a moment as darkness settles through the window. The control panel provides just enough illumination for you to catch your reflection in the Mandalorian’s visor.

“It’s late,” you finally point out, nodding towards the large window. Din doesn’t need to follow your gaze to know you’re right. “Thanks for showing me the Crest.”

He nods as you move towards the ladder, lifting your skirt as you hike a foot against the first step.

“Are you…” Din begins, but his voice halts as you look up at him. You know what he wants to say, but perhaps might think it too much. You don’t.

Still, you don’t wish for company on your walk home. You’d feel bad in the rare (but very possible) case that someone comes back to wreck their hard work once again.

“I’m okay,” you nod through a sympathetic smile as you descend one more step. “I know my way back.”

Din stills for a moment, mulling over your words before he nods slowly. You think that letting someone tread through an unlit forest at dusk might go against his protective nature, but again, he has no reason to feel that way towards you.

“Goodnight, Din,” you nod through a chuckle, then look to Grogu. “Bye, baby!”

He bubbles with a soft giggle, and you match it with your own. It’s not nearly as cute, but melts into a sweet, joyful symphony in the silence of the hull.

You keep descending the steps, but before you fully disappear out of view, your smile breaks into a grin as you spot Din watching over you, his firm posture making you feel secure even as you lose sight of his visor.

Your laughter rings through the ship as you leave, cheeks plump, pink, and aching.

The air is chilly outside, and you breathe in deep as you walk towards the thicket. With one last glance back at the Razor Crest, you spot the brilliant sunset painting the horizon behind it as the wind tangles your hair.

[old-school-butch]

Hello again <3

I sent you an anon that you replied to on April 1st, which was me asking how ex-TIFs are received back into womanhood. Your reply gave me a little foothold which ended up very comforting as I started coming out rapid-fire to all my friends as detrans. this is primarily a message for other people in my situation, who are afraid and might want a template of what you might expect will happen once you do come out with it.

Predictably, most of my friends dropped me; I've 3 friends left. Two of which continue to support trans people but can accept that i have different opinions (as long as i'm "not mean") and one of which has seen the gender critical arguments, accepted them, and agrees. So, heavy losses, but not total losses. My two siblings seemed to sigh in relief and reveal that they never believed in genderism at all, which is odd, because in my 10 years of being trans not one of them challenged me on it. my mom fell into heavy guilt over "letting me" do all this, although i was 18 when i took testo and 19 when i got surgery, so she really could not have stopped me, legally. i suppose she mainly grieves knowing that had she had the right arguments she could have saved her kid this, but i've told her she is not to blame and i hope she recognizes that.

i haven't received any real harassment, not from anyone that i PERSONALLY know, though my family has received... harassment targeted at me? my sister had a classmate begin sending her copious pro-trans propaganda (contrapoints videos) which she instructed should be sent onward to me (sis did not comply). hilarious how my 10 years of direct experience is suddenly null and void and i'm assumed to know nothing about transness.... 6 months ago i was helping people sensitivity-write trans characters. now, i'm told i can't speak for the trans experience at all, and that i do not know what it's like to be a transmasc person. told that i need to listen to the arguments more carefully, that i don't LISTEN, when i literally lived this for 10 whole years. girl, on god? they tell me i don't get it and need to educate myself. and have empathy of course.

but in general, detransing, i've discovered that there are PLENTY of people who do not actually believe in genderism but who will play along simply out of fear or social pressure. my friends aside, who i knew through "queer" circles, everyone in my family (expect my mom) has revealed they never actually believed in it. i think this might contribute to why trans people bully dissenters so badly. they know this is the truth, that no one really buys it. i think, subconsciously, i have known that too. i never downloaded grindr, i never went into the men's bathrooms. i knew that despite testo and surgery and pronouns i could never challenge men as an equal in their eyes.

interestingly, making new friends is not that hard. I lead with the fact i'm detrans and "don't believe in all that shit" and people are VERY eager to be able to, suddenly, voice their real opinions without being called transphobic. they begin with probing questions, uncontroversial statements like "i agree they shouldn't put males in women's sports..." but if you continue to agree and not punish this daring on their part, they will reveal, with much relief and enthusiasm, what they really think. most people, normal people, really do not believe it all? i'm a brash person and can take irl confrontations quite well, hence i feel safe putting myself up as a transphobe off the bat. and people are very into this. so. the old ass saying, just be yourself.... normal people will not volunteer anti-genderist opinions on their own but when i continue to state thing after thing they open up and agree and eventually feel safe enough to admit their own thoughts. making friends, especially with non-gendie women, hasn't been that hard.

i'm going to write another message about same-sex attraction in the genderverse, but it's also a can of worms so i will make it separate from this one. again, thank you so much, for having anon on and listening, and letting us listen to each other without fear. i would hug you. to be continued

Thanks for the follow up!

My only comment is that I think most people play along out of kindness, it's not all bullying and fear, but that does impose a silence on everyone so everyone feels quite alone with their doubts.

[bird-inacage]

Love Sea Episode 4: Where Things Have Gone Astray

It pains me to say it, but I found Episode 4 sloppy in it's execution, direction and writing overall. (I'd like to preface that regardless of how much I like fortpeat, or have enjoyed the series for the most part, I personally think it's important to be able to critique a show when it's flaws present themselves, and not to blindly excuse those issues because we want so badly to like it).

The transition from island to Bangkok was a huge turning point in the story, and I'm disappointed to say it wasn't handled well. The episode felt very off-beat and clunky compared to the lovely moments we got last week. Most of the issues centre on inconsistencies in character trajectory that were set up by the end of Episode 3. So let's unpack what went wrong here.

Mut is brusquely given the cold shoulder

My biggest gripe is the treatment of Mut this episode and without good reason. Let's start by recognising that Mut has potentially left his entire way of life behind: his friends, his community, his livelihood - all on the possibility that Rak may come to love him. I don't think Mut's naively banking on this being forever, but the emphasis here is he's willing to give it all up. The lack of acknowledgement to this gesture was glaring. The boy is only 20 years old, may I stress. Rak knows the hardships that Mut has faced, which should make this sacrifice even more significant in my opinion. What little Mut has built from scratch, he's willing to leave behind. All for Rak.

Other than a few brief moments of Rak looking sheepish/guilty, he's very passive throughout. I was really hoping he'd display more initiative and maturity here as the older party (like he did at the end of Episode 3). Even more disappointingly, once they land in Bangkok, Rak has Mut trailing behind him and largely leaves him to his own devices. At points, Rak's attitude towards Mut feels borderline exploitative. Rak is the one who begged Mut to come with him, and now that he's there, he seems to be putting Mut on trial.

Mut's hospitality on the island was due to Rak being an outsider who was completely out of his comfort zone. Now they've essentially reversed the situation but somehow the default is still Mut making all the effort (and yes, I know he's getting paid, but the last 3 episodes have just attempted to establish that their relationship is beyond just monetary). We need to see some more active reciprocation from Rak that supports why he was so driven for Mut to stay with him.

We've also been shown that though Mut is incredibly patient, he's not a doormat. When Rak crosses a line, he does get angry. Mut ran away when his father offended his core values, so we know he's capable of putting his foot down. But Rak's treatment of him here roused no protest or questioning when it would be fully warranted. By the time they discuss the contract, it's a null confrontation as Mut has already conceded to Rak's demands by signing. I wish he stood up for himself more here.

Tongrak's change in demeanour

The Rak we see in Bangkok is how I would imagine his character to be at the beginning of the series. Slightly haughty and dismissive. But because our impression of Rak was intentionally reversed so early on - where we were shown his sensitivity and softness - to have him slip back into a standoffish persona gave me whiplash. Has Rak regressed to who he was prior to the island? Has his time with Mut not changed anything? We know it has, which is why this front feels performative. Why would Rak feel the need to play into this character when Mut's already seen who he is underneath? And what has triggered him to do so? His family haven't come into the picture yet. I don't think Rak really cares about Mook's judgement. So why?

I think it's a huge disservice to shrug this off with: 'oh it's because Rak has trauma', and that's why he's running hot and cold. Doing so only trivialises the magnitude of trauma as a 'convenient' excuse when the writing doesn't support itself well enough for a character's actions to feel convincingly well founded.

When I started Episode 4, I thought we'd missed a scene or were due a flashback that would signpost why Rak changed his mind. We're told it's because of his PA, but that doesn't hold up well because surely Rak would have factored that into the equation. There are plenty of ways they could have remedied this. They could have shown us that Rak was genuine in agreeing, but spirals over the enormity of such a decision afterwards, which leads him to back out. Or Rak agreed despite knowing full well he couldn't meet his promise, and only lied because he didn't want to hurt Mut's feelings. Or they could have included the phone call from his sister in this episode, which would indicate that Rak has bigger responsibilities outside of himself, which caused his decision to sway. But we didn't get anything to ground us to Rak's mindset this episode, so his mentality feels like a 180. It also makes his agreement to Mut feel flippant if all it took was for Mook to whine to change his mind.

I can accept Rak retreating emotionally out of pressure or worry, but it doesn't read that way. Instead, his actions and body language feel abruptly indifferent, oddly detached and cold. The contract just epitomises a clinical level of emotional distancing. Even when Mook voices her concerns, Rak looks exasperated. So this isn't presented to us as a reaction borne out of vulnerability. And because we don't see Rak mulling over any doubts about Mut or otherwise, his behaviour feels all the more sudden and incongruous.

Ultimately, Rak was the one who let Mut down. If Rak agreed to stay on the island because he truly cared about Mut, wouldn't he be feeling doubly guilty at present? Not only has he broken a promise, but Mut is making a huge compromise to pursue Rak. Yet, Rak's attitude seems to be: 'these are my terms, do you have a problem with that?' This challenging air feels out of place and counterintuitive to what they've set up so far. What has Mut done to deserve this? Why is Mut still the one accommodating and initiating, with seemingly no return?

When comedy is not your strong suit, do not lean into it

I have a real bone to pick with the 'humour' attempted in this episode. I know comedy is subjective, but these scenes are arguably the shows weakest moments. People underestimate just how hard it is to pull off comedy and to do it well. And the brand of humour they're going for comes across quite juvenile, slapstick or theatrical. Sadly it only magnifies Aya's acting as egregiously bad in this episode because Mook is leant on so heavily as comic relief.

Mook and Vi's presence as individuals and as a couple has also been very one-dimensional so far which doesn't help things. It's getting increasingly taxing to sit through their scenes when there's so little substance and depth there to root for. Trust me, I am trying to like them, but they're not making it easy.

At it's worst, filler offers us no further insight or advancement in either character or plot. Which inevitably makes you question why the run time is being wasted on excessively inconsequential material. That crime was being committed multiple times this episode.

This is not me writing off the series by any means. As I say in my introduction, I think it's extremely important as a viewer to retain the objectivity to recognise when there are speed bumps, dodgy choices or noticeable areas for improvement.

As I was writing this, I found myself going: 'I think I see what they were trying to go for here' and applying additional guess-work to fill in the gaps. But that's the issue. If the writing requires your viewer to do mental gymnastics to make it make sense, you've dropped the ball. I would heartily advocate for 'show, don't just tell'. But in this episode we neither get shown or told why our characters are acting like this, especially when it seems to contradict how we got here.

Let's hope next episode is only onwards and upwards.