#game forge strike again

[dksfml]

off my face - yjw

pairing: jungwon x reader genre: soulmate au, mega FLUFF word count: 6.6k summary: in a world where each person has a soulmate mark indicating where they will be touched by their soulmate for the first time, there’s jungwon—the soccer team captain you’d like to be ruined by forever—who has no soulmate mark at all. what does that make you, someone whose mark has changed color because of him? author's note: finally!! here's your most awaited blond jungwon fic that i skipped sleep for<3333 inspired by this amazing prompt my friend sent me.

One touch and you got me stoned. Higher than I've ever known. You call the shots and I follow. Sunrise, but the night still young. No words, but we speak in tongues. If you let me, I might say too much.

You sat near the front row, posture perfect, eyes narrowed as Professor Min’s lecture on ancient mythology took a surprising turn. Today’s topic wasn’t just history—it was soulmate lore, the mysterious marks everyone was born with, and the myths that surrounded them. The professor’s calm, seasoned voice filled the room, but the air buzzed with barely contained excitement. Everyone was alert, even the usual back-row whisperers, captivated by the promise of something rare: a sanctioned discussion about their most private marks.

“These soulmate marks,” Professor Min began, his gaze sweeping the room with a faint smile, “are said to be the final traces of a bond forged in a past life. Legends tell us that in each lifetime, we may be separated from our soulmates, lost to distance or circumstance. But the marks,” he gestured to his own faintly darkened palm, “are said to be the soul’s way of leaving a trail—a reminder.”

A murmur rippled through the room. Everyone had a mark, a small patch of inky darkness, as distinct as fingerprints, mapped out on their bodies. Some had them on their palms or fingertips, waiting for the day a handshake or brush of fingers would light up that mark with color. Others had them in more curious places, whispering of fated touches in the most unlikely moments.

"The legend says," Professor Min continued, "that these marks were painted by one’s soulmate in a past life, a vow made in hopes to meet again, to find each other across time."

You clenched your pen a little tighter, the faint tickle of wonder battling the urge to keep your expression blank and unfeeling. You’d always kept your interest in soulmate marks private. They seemed so full of mystery, and the idea of your soulmate waiting for you somewhere was oddly… reassuring. You glanced down, conscious of the mark behind your knee, hidden like a strange secret that even you could barely understand. What kind of first touch would even reach there? The thought was both amusing and baffling, and you stifled a wry smile.

Around you, other students leaned in to chat, loud enough that their conversations blended into a steady hum. Your classmate Arin nudged her friend, laughing as she displayed the faint mark on her palm. “I’ve been dying to know who’ll shake my hand one day,” she whispered excitedly, her eyes glimmering with hope.

But your gaze drifted just beyond Arin, landing instead on a familiar figure lounging in the middle row with his legs stretched out, looking every bit like he was born to disrupt things without lifting a finger. Jungwon. Handsome in a way that seemed almost unfair, with striking, dark eyes framed by lashes that cast subtle shadows on his cheeks, and hair the color of midnight that fell in soft, tousled waves. He had this effortless, magnetic presence that drew people toward him, like he knew he didn’t need to try.

As captain of the soccer team and one of the most well-known faces on campus, Jungwon somehow managed to look both sharp and relaxed, as if the attention his looks or reputation brought him meant nothing. You’d been crushing on him since last year, an avid fan always present at his games, cheering him on like a lovesick fool. Whenever he scored a goal, you felt your heart leap, and you couldn’t help but unleash your inner fangirl, your excitement spilling over as you screamed his name. Right now, he seemed half-listening to his friends, a hint of a lazy grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he leaned back, eyes drifting up to the ceiling before refocusing on his friends. It was that easygoing confidence that made him impossible not to notice—and, for you, impossible not to think about.

It was a boy from his friend group, Jay, who interrupted the class chatter by slapping a hand down on the table and teasing, “Come on, Won. You don’t have a soulmate mark, my foot. No one gets off that easy.” The comment was light-hearted but loaded, and more than a few students turned to look.

To your surprise, Jungwon didn’t react with one of his usual witty comebacks or careless shrugs. Instead, he just rubbed the back of his neck, a hint of something almost vulnerable flashing across his face. “No, really,” he insisted, almost apologetically. “I don’t have one. I checked a million times as a kid.”

Your pen paused mid-note, and a slight, irrational disappointment prickled in your chest. It was hard to believe, especially about someone like Jungwon, whose very presence seemed destined to leave a mark on others. Soulmate marks might be rare, but someone like him not having one? It felt impossible, like a missing piece that no one noticed until it was too late.

For a fleeting moment, you wondered if maybe he just hadn’t found it yet. After all, some people only discovered their mark when it finally turned to color. Sometimes it wasn’t a visible spot on the skin but something far subtler—a shadow in the hue of their lips that would only brighten after a first kiss, or a darkness lingering in an eye, invisible until the gentle touch of someone wiping away their tears brought it to life. The thought sent a strange warmth to your cheeks as you glanced back toward him, wondering if Jungwon’s missing mark was just waiting for the right person to unlock it.

Still, he looked surprisingly honest, a faint hint of sadness clouding his otherwise bright gaze. For someone so magnetic, it was as if he was caught drifting in space, without any tether connecting him to anyone at all.

“Alright, alright,” Jay relented, raising his hands in surrender but laughing all the same. “Guess someone’s too cool to be fated to anyone, huh?”

The professor’s voice cut back in, and you forced yourself to refocus, though your mind lingered on Jungwon’s quiet expression and the flicker of something in his eyes, something both resigned and deeply private. Could he really be alone in a world where everyone else was bound to someone?

“Imagine having your mark on your knuckles,” Arin whispered beside you with a grin, oblivious to the moment that had just passed. “You’d probably knock your soulmate out before you even realized they were ‘the one’!”

Another round of laughter scattered through the room, like a shared inside joke. The air felt charged, as if everyone were suddenly curious about each other’s marks, glancing around with new eyes. You let out a small sigh, tapping your pen against your notebook with a faint smile. As much as you tried to keep up the class president, model-student act, the idea of soulmates fascinated you in a way you’d never quite admit.

When the bell finally rang, the room filled with that familiar end-of-class chaos. You started packing up, keeping your head down—until you noticed Jungwon slinging his bag over his shoulder, looking effortlessly put-together, as usual. He laughed at something his friend said, his expression relaxed, his dark eyes flickering with amusement. But you couldn’t help catching the faintest flicker of something else in his gaze as he glanced at his friends—like a momentary, unguarded look that felt… wistful?

Okay, maybe that was just you being overly imaginative.

You let out a little huff as you slung your own bag over your shoulder, shaking off the strange pity you’d felt moments before. So what if Jungwon didn’t have a mark? You barely even knew him. Well, you kind of knew him, but from a distance—and with way more daydreams than you’d like to admit. Still, it was silly to wonder about him, right? With your head full of these thoughts, you walked out into the hallway, lost in a world where maybe, just maybe, he was wondering about you, too.

And as you brushed past a group of friends, laughing and shoving each other, your hand slipped over the back of your knee, where your own mark was hidden—quiet, waiting, and as mysterious as ever.

The sky was an endless blue, stretching wide over the school field as your class spilled out onto the grass for PE. With the teacher conveniently on vacation, today’s instructions were simple: enjoy the free time. Most of your classmates took to the field, breaking off into little clusters for a lazy game of soccer, light stretches, or simple gossip sessions by the bleachers.

As class president, you took it upon yourself to ensure no one went too far or caused trouble. Your duty, as you saw it, was to survey your classmates from a slight distance, keeping an eye out with the calm, serious gaze you’d carefully perfected. Yet even from the sidelines, your eyes found themselves drifting toward a familiar figure on the field, drawn to him like magnets.

Jungwon was at the center of the field with his friends, casual and relaxed, but his every move carried an elegance that made your pulse skip. He was laughing at something his friend said, his eyes crinkling as he kicked the soccer ball back and forth, the glint of a confident smirk tugging at his lips. His ease on the field was mesmerizing, a mixture of strength and grace that made it hard to look away.

You reminded yourself to focus, scanning the field to check on the other groups. But before you could pull your attention back entirely, a voice called out, and you saw Jungwon pivot to chase the soccer ball—only for it to ricochet off his foot, headed directly toward you with alarming speed.

In the split second it took you to react, you felt a sharp thud against the back of your knees. The impact sent you stumbling forward, knees buckling beneath you as you tumbled to the ground. Pain flared up where the ball had struck, but it was drowned out by the shock of it all.

“Oh no—are you okay?” Jungwon’s voice was breathless with concern, his steps hurried as he reached you. You barely had a chance to process his arrival before he knelt beside you, face flushed and clearly panicked. His hand hovered awkwardly as if afraid to touch you, his usual calm replaced with something far more vulnerable.

“I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to— Are you hurt?” he stammered, his voice unusually soft. He reached out gently, his hands carefully brushing against your arm as he tried to help you up. “Can you stand?”

Your mind struggled to catch up to the moment, and it took everything you had to keep your stoic demeanor intact. Jungwon was close, closer than he’d ever been, and the intensity of his worried gaze was unexpectedly disarming. Even as pain pulsed through your knee, you couldn’t help but stare, captivated by how intensely he focused on you, as if everything else in the world had fallen away.

“I’m fine, really,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. But as soon as you tried to stand, pain shot up your leg.

Jungwon’s expression shifted to one of determination, and before you could protest, he slid one arm under your knees and lifted you up, his other arm around your shoulders. The world tilted as he held you in a firm, steady grip, his face barely inches from yours. “We’re getting you to the nurse. No arguments.”

You blinked, momentarily stunned by his closeness, by the warmth radiating from him. “Oh—okay.” The words left your mouth almost on instinct, your brain still catching up with the fact that Jungwon was carrying you, his focus set entirely on you. His hands brushed your arm as he adjusted his grip, and you felt a strange warmth bloom under your skin, something unfamiliar and electric.

The walk to the nurse’s office was quiet, but you couldn’t ignore the way his gaze flickered to you, the gentleness in his expression as he murmured, “Sorry again. I’d never forgive myself if I hurt the class president.”

Your lips parted, searching for something to say, but the way he looked at you—soft, maybe even a bit shy—left you wordless. All you could do was nod, your heart pounding louder with each step as you held onto the feeling of his arms around you, wondering if he could hear it too.

It wasn’t until you glanced down that you noticed it—a faint shift of color beneath your knee where the ball had struck. The mark, once hidden and dark, now radiated a subtle but unmistakable bright yellow hue, soft and warm against your skin.

You froze, eyes wide, as the realization settled in. Jungwon was still mumbling apologies, unaware of the discovery you’d just made. Only he could have caused the mark to change; he was the only one who had touched that spot. The idea left you breathless, your mind scrambling to make sense of it all.

In the clinic, the nurse examined your knee with a quick, professional assessment. “You’ll be fine,” she declared, sending you off with an ice pack and a faint smile. But your thoughts were still racing, tangled up in the startling realization that Jungwon might actually be your soulmate.

The whole walk back to class, you replayed the moment in your mind, trying to make sense of it. Maybe it was a coincidence. Perhaps someone had brushed the back of your knee at some other time, and you simply hadn’t noticed. But deep down, you knew the truth—the mark had only changed when Jungwon touched you.

And when you returned to class, he was there, hovering near the door with a worried frown. He looked up as you approached, eyes bright with relief.

“Are you okay?” he asked, a slight smile breaking through the concern etched into his features. “I was worried about you.”

Your heart skipped as you nodded, doing your best to keep your voice steady. “I’m fine. Just… a bit shaken up, that’s all.” You felt the weight of the new secret pressing down on you, but you forced yourself to smile.

Jungwon’s shoulders relaxed, and he chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck in that effortlessly charming way of his. “I’m glad. I’ll be more careful with my aim next time.”

You smiled back, feeling the weight of the mark’s new color, of the quiet truth only you knew. As Jungwon returned to his seat, your gaze drifted to the back of your knee, where the mark lay hidden under the fabric of your clothes, now touched by color—by him.

In the days following the incident on the field, the world seemed to shift around you, humming with an energy you couldn’t quite shake. The back of your knee, where Jungwon’s touch had changed your soulmate mark to a soft, distinct yellow color, was a constant reminder of the possibility that your crush—Jungwon, the ever-handsome and kind soccer captain—might be something even more significant than you’d ever dared to imagine.

“How’s your knee?” he asked, his voice warm and tinged with that familiar gentleness that made your heart stutter.

“Oh, it’s fine, really!” You waved it off, attempting to tuck your leg further under your desk, hoping he wouldn’t notice the faint new color to the mark that still lingered behind your knee.

Jungwon didn’t seem to buy it. “Are you sure?” he asked, his brows furrowing as he leaned down, intent on seeing for himself. Before he could get a closer look, you tugged your skirt down a little farther, hiding the mark as best as you could.

“I’m sure, really,” you insisted, trying to keep your tone casual. “It’s just a little sore, nothing to worry about.”

For a moment, he hesitated, his gaze lingering on you, unreadable. Then he nodded, standing up with a quiet, sheepish smile. “Alright. I’ll trust you, but only if you promise to let me know if it starts hurting again.”

You managed a nod, clutching your books a little tighter to keep your hands steady. “I promise,” you said, hoping he didn’t notice the flicker of nerves in your eyes.

Your third shared class of the week was English, and just as the teacher assigned the day’s group work, the class began to shift into pairs. Coincidentally (or so you told yourself), the seating arrangement placed Jungwon near you that day.

“Hey,” he said, his voice soft as he approached. He offered you one of his signature, heart-stopping smiles. “Mind if we pair up? I mean…if you’re okay with it.”

With an effort to keep your expression neutral, you nodded. “Sure,” you replied, your voice steady even though your heart was anything but.

Settling at a table near the window, you both pulled out your notebooks. The task was straightforward—analyzing a poem about soulmates. You caught a breath at the irony, and Jungwon, seemingly unfazed, began reading the passage aloud. His voice, low and calm, wove through the words as you listened, though your mind kept wandering to his every movement, the way his eyes flickered thoughtfully over the page, how his fingers held the pencil lightly but with intention.

“What do you think?” he asked, pulling you out of your thoughts.

You cleared your throat, willing your focus back to the assignment. “I think…well, it’s romantic. But it’s also kind of tragic, right? There’s always this sense of waiting—like, what if they don’t meet?”

Jungwon’s gaze flickered up, lingering on your face a little longer than necessary. “Yeah, that’s true,” he agreed, his voice thoughtful. “The idea that you’re waiting your whole life for just one person…it’s a lot of pressure.”

He paused, eyes settling on you, as if searching for something beneath the calm exterior you held so tightly. “Do you… believe in it? Soulmates, I mean?”

Caught off guard, you looked down, your fingers tracing invisible patterns on the edge of your notebook. You thought of your parents, of their own lovely story about finding each other through their marks, and how you’d grown up with those tales of destiny. And now, here you were, sitting with the very boy who might be your own fated match.

“I think,” you began slowly, “that I want to believe in it. My parents…they have one of those classic stories. It’s hard not to believe in soulmates when you’ve heard stories like that all your life.”

He nodded, listening intently. “I get that. I guess…sometimes I wonder what it would be like. But it’s hard to picture when you don’t…you know, have any marks yourself.”

The quiet sadness in his tone took you by surprise. You’d never considered what it might be like to go through life without a soulmate mark, to feel like something intrinsic was missing, a feeling that destiny had passed you by. Suddenly, your thoughts flickered back to the legends the elders told—how markless people were said to carry the weight of unrequited love from a past life, doomed to wander without a soulmate to mark them in this one. The idea hung heavy in the air, mingling with your sympathy for him.

“Maybe it doesn’t matter, then,” you murmured, almost to yourself. “Maybe people without marks find their person too, in other ways.” You couldn’t help but think that perhaps Jungwon was one of those souls, burdened by a love that never came to fruition.

The silence that followed was heavy but not uncomfortable. Jungwon seemed lost in thought, his gaze drifting out the window as he considered your words. And just then, a strange sense of comfort washed over you, knowing that even if he was unaware of it, you shared a connection that went beyond what either of you could see.

“Maybe,” he said finally, and then he flashed you a lopsided grin. “Well, even if soulmates are real, maybe it’s a good thing I’m mark-free. I don’t think I’d want someone to find out I was their soulmate because I hit them with a soccer ball.”

His laughter rang out, and you couldn’t help but join him, but beneath the mirth, your heart clenched. You wanted to tell him everything—to reveal the secret that could bridge the chasm between you. But as the words formed on your lips, fear gripped you. What if you were wrong? What if he truly didn’t have a soulmate mark, and this moment of connection was just a fleeting illusion?

So you swallowed hard, plastering a smile on your face that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Well, let’s just keep that between us, then,” you replied, hoping to mask the anxiety swirling inside you.

Inside, the truth weighed heavy, a secret that felt more like a burden than a bond. Keeping it hidden seemed safer, easier—even if it left you feeling like a ghost, drifting alongside him but never truly reaching out. The thought of him being one of those markless souls—the ones who carried the pain of a love never realized—made you ache. You didn’t want him to feel that emptiness, and yet, here you were, hiding a truth that might shatter the fragile connection you shared.

Perhaps it was better this way. Better to hold onto your heartache in silence than risk shattering the bond you had built, no matter how tenuous it felt. As you returned to the assignment, the bittersweet taste of longing lingered on your tongue, mixing with the thrill of possibility, leaving you torn between the hope of what could be and the fear of what might never come to pass.

Finally, during your biology class, your teacher assigned a laboratory cleaning rotation. By the luck of the draw—or maybe a twist of fate—you found yourself paired with Jungwon. It was supposed to be a simple task, but as the two of you gathered supplies and began tidying up the classroom after hours, you felt the weight of every quiet moment.

Jungwon appeared beside you as you straightened a stack of textbooks, arms full of markers and erasers. His casual, laid-back attitude only heightened the quiet thrill that being near him sparked in you. As he handed you an eraser, your fingers brushed slightly, and you pulled back quickly, heart racing.

"Are you always this… serious?" Jungwon teased, his lips curving into a half-smile. "I mean, you don’t have to look like we’re cleaning the whole school."

You rolled your eyes, fighting back a smile. “It’s just how I work. I take tasks seriously.”

He nodded, still smiling. “You’re impressive, you know. It’s like…you’re always so composed, like nothing rattles you.”

Caught off guard by his observation, you froze momentarily, not sure how to respond. Behind your serious exterior, you were anything but composed—especially around him. Before you could answer, he turned away to tidy the bookshelves, leaving you wondering if he’d picked up on the effect he had on you.

After a while, Jungwon returned to the task at hand, dusting off a few of the windowsills. It was quiet for a few minutes, the sounds of your combined effort filling the room. You both worked in sync, a silent rhythm that had developed without either of you realizing it. And then, with an abruptness that caught you off guard, he spoke again.

“Hey,” he said, hesitating. “I know this might be a weird question, but… where’s your soulmate mark?”

The question hung in the air between you, heavy with implications you weren’t ready to unravel. Your heart thudded as you carefully set down the books you’d been holding, gathering your thoughts.

You felt a flush creep up your cheeks. "Um, it's… it's on my knee," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. The intimacy of the moment made you shy, and you instinctively shifted your weight, the hem of your skirt falling to cover your knee even more.

Jungwon raised an eyebrow, curiosity glimmering in his eyes. “Oh? Is it… already in color?”

You hesitated for a brief moment, weighing your words. “Uh, yeah,” you replied, biting your lip. “It changed a while ago. But it’s not a big deal.” You left out the part about him possibly being your soulmate, feeling the weight of that truth settle heavily in the air between you.

His expression shifted slightly, disappointment flashing across his features before he masked it with a casual smile. “That’s cool,” he said, his voice a bit quieter now. “I guess… it must be nice to have that certainty.”

“Yeah,” you said, trying to keep the mood light despite the sudden heaviness in your chest. “I mean, it’s comforting, I suppose.”

But beneath your words, a sense of longing stirred. You noticed how his gaze faltered for a moment, and it struck you then how much he had hoped for something different. He had seemed eager, maybe even hopeful, and the realization stung a little.

Jungwon cleared his throat, breaking the silence that had settled over you both. “So, um… did you see the last soccer game?” he asked, trying to steer the conversation in a different direction. “I think we really need to work on our defense.”

His attempt at lightheartedness felt slightly forced, and you could see a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. Still, it was nice to see him trying to shake off the heaviness from moments before.

“Yeah, I caught a bit of it,” you replied, grateful for the shift in focus. “You guys played well, though a couple of those goals were pretty close calls.”

He chuckled, the tension easing just a little. “Yeah, I think I almost gave our coach a heart attack with that last-minute save,” he said, grinning. It was an infectious smile, and you found yourself smiling back despite the weight still resting in the back of your mind.

The annual school festival arrived faster than expected, and the campus buzzed with activity and excitement. Classrooms were transformed into themed booths, hallways were draped with handmade decorations, and students wore colorful festival shirts and badges, their faces bright with paint and laughter. You found yourself stationed at the face-painting booth, brush in hand, ready to tackle the endless line of eager students.

You’d always enjoyed events like these—participating in the festival offered you a rare chance to relax and feel connected to your classmates outside of the usual seriousness you maintained as class president. Here, you were just another student, painting stars, hearts, and stripes on familiar faces.

“Hey, what’s up? Need a painter?” your friend Taeyoung called out to the next group approaching your booth. You followed his gaze and felt your heart skip when you recognized Jungwon and his friends heading your way, laughing and jostling each other. He wore a loose festival shirt with sleeves rolled up, a casual look that somehow made him even more handsome. You quickly glanced down, suddenly hyper-aware of your paintbrushes and the paper towels you clutched a little too tightly.

The booth was busy, and with most of your fellow painters occupied, it didn’t take long for Taeyoung to pair Jungwon with you. “Hey, Y/N, looks like you’ve got a VIP customer! Captain Jungwon wants to be a canvas today,” he said, a mischievous grin spreading across his face as he nudged Jungwon playfully.

Jungwon chuckled, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes—an eagerness mixed with a hint of shyness. “Yeah, I guess I’m in your hands now,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “No pressure, right?”

You swallowed hard, trying to maintain your composure as your heart raced. “Uh, right! No pressure at all,” you replied, your voice a little too bright. “What do you have in mind?”

You forced yourself to meet Jungwon’s eyes, fighting back the nervous excitement bubbling in your chest. “So… what would you like?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

Jungwon’s usual confident smile softened a little, and he seemed slightly hesitant, rubbing the back of his neck, a gesture that made your stomach flutter. “Maybe a couple of stars on my cheeks? And… maybe a small cat on my forehead?”

You stifled a laugh at his request, realizing that behind his composed demeanor, he had a playful side you hadn’t seen before. “A star and a cat. Got it,” you whispered, dipping your brush into white paint. You reached out carefully to steady his face, tilting it slightly toward the light. Your fingers lightly touched his cheek, and you couldn’t ignore the spark that jolted through you at the contact.

Jungwon closed his eyes briefly, letting out a small breath. You tried to ignore the slight flush you felt creeping up your neck, focusing on drawing a perfect star on his left cheek. You painted in silence, but every so often, he’d open his eyes and glance at you, making your heart race each time.

With one cheek finished, you moved to the other side. He leaned in closer, giving you the perfect angle. The space between you seemed to shrink with every second, the sounds of the bustling festival fading into a distant hum. You were hyper-aware of everything—the faint scent of his cologne, the warmth radiating from him, and how your fingers gently brushed his skin. When you finished with the stars, you pulled back slightly to look at your work, meeting his gaze as you did.

“They look good,” he murmured, his voice softer than usual.

You swallowed, breaking eye contact to reach for a new brush and dip it in black paint. “Now for the cat,” you said, trying to stay calm. “Hold still.”

You carefully moved to part his hair at the center of his forehead. As your fingers brushed through his bangs, you froze, your eyes widening as you saw something strange—a small patch of his dark hair was shifting, lightening to a soft honey-blonde under your touch.

“Um… Jungwon,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath as you stared at the transformed lock of hair falling against his forehead. “Your hair…”

“What about it?” He turned to you with a hint of confusion, glancing up as if trying to catch a glimpse of the change. “Did I mess it up?”

You shook your head, the words tangling in your throat as disbelief washed over you. “It’s… it’s changing color.”

He blinked, clearly caught off guard, then brushed his fingers through the area you’d touched. His movements stilled, the warmth in his expression fading, replaced by something deeper—something unreadable. The air thickened around you, a heavy silence filled with unspoken questions.

“Are you sure?” he asked quietly, his gaze searching yours as if trying to decode the truth hidden beneath your surprise.

You nodded slowly, your heart racing. “Yeah, I… I thought it was just the paint at first, but… it’s definitely not.”

The realization hung in the air, electric and palpable, igniting a spark of tension that sent shivers down your spine. Jungwon’s fingers gently traced the newly lightened strands of hair, his expression a mix of wonder and trepidation. You could feel your pulse quicken, an exhilarating rush flooding through you as you grasped the meaning behind this strange phenomenon.

Time seemed to stretch in that moment, each heartbeat echoing like a drum in your chest. Here he was, the boy you’d admired from afar, unexpectedly transformed before your eyes. Jungwon—the one who had unwittingly painted your world in vibrant colors, now literally changing right in front of you.

Suddenly, self-consciousness washed over you like a cold wave. You averted your gaze, stepping back instinctively. “I—I should go finish with the others. They’re probably waiting for me…” Your voice wavered, betraying the rush of emotions threatening to spill over.

Before you could dwell on it, a paint container wobbled on the edge of the table, knocking into your elbow. In your panic, you stumbled, sending brushes and colors sprawling over yourself. “Oh no!” you yelped, scrambling to clean up the mess.

“Y/N, wait!” Jungwon exclaimed, his eyes widening in surprise. He stepped closer, his hand closing around yours, halting your frantic movements. “Stop. Just breathe.”

His grip was steadying, grounding you amidst the chaos of your racing thoughts. “Let’s find somewhere quiet, okay? You need to clean up.” His voice held a calmness that contrasted sharply with the storm inside you.

You felt a rush of warmth at his concern, but your mind spun with confusion. “But… the booth—”

“Trust me,” he said, his gaze unwavering, a silent promise passing between you. “Just for a moment. Let’s talk.”

With a nod, you allowed him to guide you away from the festival’s noise, your heart racing not just from the moment, but from the undeniable connection building between you. The thrill of discovery was tempered by the anxiety of what it all meant, and yet, in Jungwon’s presence, you felt something shift—something new and exciting, just waiting to be explored.

He led you through a quieter section of the campus, where the walls were lined with colorful murals painted by students, the air filled with the faint scent of paint and creativity. The laughter and chatter from the festival faded into the background, replaced by the gentle rustle of leaves overhead and the distant sound of music drifting from the booths.

As you turned a corner, Jungwon paused, the air around you suddenly thick with anticipation. He glanced around, ensuring you were alone, then leaned against the cool brick wall, his posture relaxed yet focused. His gaze locked onto yours, intensity radiating from him. “My hair… it’s slowly turning blond. Isn’t this what soulmate marks are supposed to be like?”

His words hung in the air, electrifying the space between you. You felt the weight of the moment press down, your heart racing like a wild drum in your chest. “Right… your soulmate mark,” you stammered, the tremor in your voice betraying the chaos inside. “I didn’t want to say anything because I thought it might just be a coincidence, but now… it's all starting to make sense.”

Jungwon stepped closer, the seriousness in his expression deepening. “You mean you knew?” His voice was low, the edge of urgency evident. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

The air crackled with tension, and you felt your pulse quicken. “I didn’t know it was you! I thought—” you cut yourself off, frustration bubbling within you. “I didn’t want to ruin our friendship or make things awkward. You’ve been my crush longer than you’ve been a friend. Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep things from being awkward with you, especially when my mark changed?”

Jungwon’s expression shifted, vulnerability breaking through his confidence. “Your mark... is it.… when did it change? Am I—was it before… or after we met?” His voice was tight, the weight of his words hanging heavily in the air.

You took a deep breath, feeling the memories rush back. “The day you carried me to the nurse’s office, you idiot.”

He blinked, taken aback by your response. “Wait… that day? But I thought...”

His expression softened slightly, the intensity in his eyes shifting as he took a step closer. You held your breath as he knelt down, his fingers hovering over your soulmate mark. The moment felt electric, a mix of vulnerability and anticipation coursing through you.

“Can I…?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, giving him permission to touch it. As his fingers brushed against your skin, a shiver ran down your spine. Jungwon chuckled softly, the sound breaking some of the tension between you. “Can you believe this? It feels just like yesterday when I accidentally hit my crush with a soccer ball at her knees,” he said, shaking his head with a bemused smile. “The same crush I’ve wanted to approach since 10th grade but was always too afraid to mess up, especially with how she glares at boys.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the image of a younger Jungwon fumbling with his words as he tried to impress you suddenly vivid in your mind. “I didn’t mean to scare you off,” you admitted, your heart swelling with warmth. “I thought you were just… confident, you know?”

He shrugged, a hint of shyness creeping back into his demeanor. “I try to be. But it’s hard when you’re crushing on someone who’s out of your league.”

“Out of my league?” you repeated, incredulous. “Jungwon, you’re the captain of the soccer team! Everyone looks up to you.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I’m not nervous around you,” he replied, his gaze locking onto yours, sincerity pouring from his words. “It’s different with you. You make me want to be better.”

The air between you thickened with unspoken emotions, each heartbeat echoing the connection that had always been there, waiting to be acknowledged. You both stood on the edge of something monumental, the laughter of the festival fading away, leaving only the two of you and the promise of what lay ahead.

The next day, Jungwon strolled confidently down the hallway, his head of hair transformed into a stunning honeyed blonde that turned heads with every step. The shift was striking—bold, noticeable, and oddly fitting—making it seem as though he had always intended to embrace this change. Whispers and awestruck glances followed him like a gentle wave, yet beneath that cool exterior, you could see the spark of mischief in his eyes, especially when they met yours.

“Wow, he really went all out,” Arin murmured beside you, her voice a mix of surprise and admiration. “He must’ve bleached the whole thing. I didn’t think Jungwon had that in him.”

You nodded, trying to maintain your composure while your heart raced. “Yeah… surprising, isn’t it?” you replied, though a smile betrayed your nonchalance as you watched him navigate the crowd like he owned the place.

Unaware of the true significance of his transformation, your classmates continued their commentary. “Looks good on him, though,” one girl remarked, her tone infused with genuine admiration. “Like he was meant to have it all along.”

Jungwon seemed completely unfazed by the attention, wearing his new look with a blend of pride and ease, as if his blonde hair was a badge of honor that only you understood. It was a mark that connected the two of you in ways that no one else could fathom—an intimate secret wrapped in boldness.

As the hallway thinned out, he lingered by his locker, his casual demeanor slipping just a bit as he caught your gaze from across the hall. He lifted a hand, brushing back his hair with an effortless charm that sent butterflies fluttering in your stomach—a subtle nod to the secret you shared.

You walked over, your heart pounding just a little faster than usual. “It suits you,” you said, keeping your voice low, the air between you thick with unspoken words.

His eyes softened, gratitude shimmering in their depths. “Good to know,” he murmured, his tone low but filled with warmth. “After all, it’s your fault it looks this good.”

A faint blush crept up your cheeks at his words, and before you could respond, he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice even more as he added, “And don’t worry. The secret’s safe.”

In that crowded hallway, with laughter and footsteps echoing around you, it felt like you and Jungwon were enveloped in your own little world. His blonde hair, like a silent vow, was a reminder of what only the two of you understood: a hidden connection, pulsing with promise and anticipation, waiting to be explored.

[kumkaniudaku]

Sorry 2024

Summary: This is Terry's sorry for 2024. He ain't gonna mess up no more this year.

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Black!OC

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: None

Previous: *Askew

Pastel blue light filtered through linen curtains and filled the quaint kitchen while Patrice maneuvered between the refrigerator and nearby counter. She spoke a mile a minute, running through a laundry list of important tasks and updates to keep Terry aware of the day’s needs. 

He halfway listened while he scarfed down piping hot oatmeal to satisfy post-workout hunger and used his index finger to scrub backward on game film from the previous week. His receiver core was shaky at best. They’d need to tighten up in the final game of the season if they planned to start their playoff run strong and remain in the hunt for a the ever elusive state championship.

“Honey, don’t forget I’m driving your truck to work because you’re getting my oil changed during your lunch. Where are the keys?” The sugar-sweet lilt in her voice reserved for Terry and Terry only went mostly unnoticed by her husband. 

“Yeah. That’s good, baby.”

Patrice paused packing her lunch and shifted her weight to one side with a hand on her hip. “You’re not even listening to me.” 

“I heard you,” he answered, finally looking up. 

“What did I say?” 

“That you’re taking the leftovers. That’s good with me. I’ll grab something on base.” 

“I said that fifteen minutes ago. Strike two.” 

Terry’s mouth hung open for a half second as he thought back through their one-sided conversation. Admittedly, his mind was split into a million different streams of thought. Work problems, coaching responsibilities, household bills, the incoming holiday season, and its host of arrangements all fought for his attention day in and day out, leaving little room for intentional quality time with his wife. 

For Patrice, the indifference toward her when she talked to him was frustrating and getting old. On too many occasions she’d forgiven him for staring off into space or flat-out ignoring her when she spoke. If silence is what he wanted, she was well on the way to granting his wish. 

Swallowing down a gulp of water, Terry rushed to respond. “Woah, woah! Two? What was the first?” 

“I asked you to turn the dryer on last night while I took a shower and guess who woke up to wet clothes this morning? C’mon. Guess!” 

“Oh, shit.” Terry’s face contorted as he winced at the memory finally returning. 

“Oh shit. Go away.” She mocked with an exaggerated deep voice before rolling her eyes and making a face. Mimicry, in his experience since the tender age of 15, was usually the prelude to a vicious attitude that had turned many into sworn enemies for life.

“My bad, Treece. I started wa-” 

“Watching tape and forgot. Sing me a different song, Terrence.” 

The disappointment etched in her beautiful features sent Terry’s stomach into the soles of his feet. Patrice’s full lips sagged into a heavy frown as she wrestled food containers into her lunchbox without looking in his direction. He could take her mumbling her anger or sending more than a few curse words his way. But the sadness in her silence was too much. 

After pressing pause on his screen, Terry took measured steps toward Patrice to avoid disturbing an angry lion. 

He touched her hip first to test the waters. When she didn’t reject him, he moved in to take up space behind her and pull her back against his body. He pressed a soft kiss behind her ear. “I won’t make excuses. Forgive me, sweetheart. It won’t happen again.” 

Resistance faded slowly but surely as he nuzzled his nose into her neck between kisses. Tense muscles melted under his touch, relishing the extra attention meant to settle a disagreement. Anger fought to remain the chief emotion. Everything in her wanted to continue forging a war path until she was satisfied with the destruction. But she’d always had a weakness for this man with a smooth baritone and big hands that he loved to rub up and down her body.

She kissed her teeth before turning to plant a kiss on his cheek as a silent truce. “Whatever. You’re lucky I like you more than most other people.” 

“What I gotta do to get that like to a love before you leave the house?” 

Patrice pulled Terry’s bottom lip into another kiss and smiled. “It’d be great if you confirmed you used your mama’s Costco card to get the study hall snacks like we talked about.” 

Terry froze. For days he’d had the nagging feeling that he was neglecting a task. Something important but vague among all of the other thoughts and responsibilities swirling in his head. He’d hoped for a reminder, but not like this, not on the heels of wriggling his way out of Patrice’s wrath only moments before. 

Ever perceptive, Patrice didn’t need him to speak to know that he’d, once again, missed a memo. Anger was back from its short hiatus and making her body hot to the touch in a way Terry had been spared from his entire life. 

She fought to wrestle free from his grasp, her body thrashing until he relented and let her go. Terry watched her stomp around the kitchen, snatching items from the counter and forcing them into her bag on her way to the front door. He remained hot on her heels with pleas to make things right on his lips until she stopped short at the coat closet.

“Strike three! You’re so fuckin’ selfish sometimes, Terry, I swear.” She grumbled as she swapped her car keys for his on their shared personal items hook. “I thought you would grow out of that by now but here you are, damn near 33 years old, and still doing the same shit.”  

The dig at his past transgressions stung more than Terry expected. He tried to maintain his composure though the wounded man inside wanted to get to the bottom of why she’d chosen to toss such an insult out so casually. 

He took a deep breath to quell the combative questions clawing through his throat while he watched her shrug on her coat with spite in her eyes. “Look, I messed up. We don’t need to start throwing jabs back and forth. How can I help?”

His attempt to reach out for her hand was thwarted once she snatched away to yank open the front door.

“Terrence, the time to help was early this week. Hell, last night even. I don’t have time for your sorry this morning. I gotta go figure this out by myself yet again.” 

Immense guilt attached itself to Terry, producing a heavy heart as he tried to make sense of Patrice’s most venomous blowup to date. Never had she been so crass toward him, not even when he deserved it most. She’d always been the pinnacle of grace and forgiveness. What scared him most was the suspicion that she was more unhappy with his disappearing act than she’d let on in all their honest talks about their path forward after heartbreak. Half of him wanted to chase her into the early morning chill, stop her from leaving, and convince her to call in so that they could sort through every issue, past and present, until they were back on the right side of newlywed bliss. Rational thought told him that some things were best solved through action.

Bitterness fueled the remainder of Patrice’s day. Jokes in the breakroom were no longer funny. Her class clowns were less charming by fourth period. A fierce bout of irritability resulted in a pop quiz for her senior AP English class for not participating in the group discussion to her liking. Every second of every minute carried a dark, heavy cloud that she couldn’t shake. 

She wanted to scream at Terry until her chest caved in from exhaustion. She wanted to throw things across the room, destroying every item in her path until the sting of compounded letdowns, actions he wasn’t even responsible for, was distilled back into the tiny box of rage she kept tucked away in her heart. She kept it hidden on purpose. If it ever got loose, there was no guarantee she could fix the damage it left behind. 

Once school bells had rang and children were carted off to their respective homes, Patrice sat behind her desk with a small committee of cheerleaders congregating in her classroom. She kept her focus on grading the mountain of quizzes she’d created for herself, silently ready to give everyone extra credit for the attempt. 

“Ms. Ellis,” Alana, her captain, started as she dusted Doritos remnants from her fingers. 

Mikayla cut in. “It’s Mrs. Richmond now. She got married! You see her ring.”

“And you ain’t invite us?” Alana gasped, pretending to be offended. “That’s cold Mrs. Richmond. I thought we were cool.” 

“We’re cool, Lana. I didn’t know I was getting married until it happened. No one was invited.” 

“Can I at least see that big ol’ diamond up close?” 

Young girls with fairytales and romance novels seared into their perception of love begged for a chance to see Patrice’s wedding band up close. With more energy, she would shoo them away and redirect them to the bulletin board they abandoned to snack and gossip amongst each other. But arguments before work were taxing and all she could bring herself to do was push away from her desk and join them in the center of their circle with her hand outstretched for their inspection.

Oooh, ahhs, and everything in between overlapped as each young lady took her turn running their fingers up against the clear stone and white gold band engraved with her new initials. 

“I want me a ring just like this!” Camille explained as she took a picture to send to her boyfriend. 

“Can we see your husband? Is he nice like you?” 

Patrice paused. “Uh…yeah. He’s a nice man. You all should be with nice boys, or girls, or whoever you like. Don’t allow anyone to be anything less than nice to you.” 

“Okay, but can we see him,” another girl reiterated. 

“It’s Coach Richmond, duh,” Mikayla exclaimed. “They got the same last name. And they was in this old yearbook together. I saw it in Ms. Shields's class when we were having a yearbook meetin’.” 

More oohs and ahhs, this time fawning over the new football coach on campus and the picture Mikayla had saved to her cellphone. Patrice listened to them gush over the thorn in her side as she eased into a desk to take the pressure off her aching feet. 

Camille looked between the photo and Patrice with a smile. “He was your boyfriend when y’all went here?” 

“For a little bit. Right before we graduated. But we broke up that summer.” 

“How come?”

“He wanted to go to the military and I wanted to go to college,” Patrice answered after a deep sigh. “So, he went his way and I went mine because I wasn’t changing my mind. Remember that. Do what you wanna do. You have a whole life ahead of you.” 

The girls all mumbled some version of their agreeance before another question pushed the tea session forward. 

“Then how did y’all get married. He came back?” 

Patrice smiled at the memory of Terry standing on her porch that fateful summer morning. “Yeah. He just…came back. We talked and never stopped talking after that until he became my husband.”

“Did he say sorry at least?” 

“He always says sorry. All the time. He’s nice like that.” 

A chorus of swooning ‘awws’ rang out in the classroom and escaped into the hallway. Terry was nice like that. It didn’t matter that Patrice wanted to hate him and call him every name but a child of God. He always apologized and he always meant it. 

A distant smile covered Patrice’s face as she twirled her wedding band around her finger. 

Camille took the opportunity to poke fun at her coach. “Aww, look at Mrs. Richmond, y’all. She smiling big! You gon’ let him come to the AP Christmas party?” 

“That ain’t fair! I’m not in AP English and I wanna see him.” 

“Oh my God, we all gon' see him at the games. Calm down.” 

“Alright, alright, alright.” Patrice couldn’t contain her laughter at their eagerness to meet a man two times their senior with no interest in them outside of their connection to her. “Maybe you’ll meet him one day. Today, I need y’all to hurry up and-” 

A knock at the door interrupted Patrice, bringing her attention to a tall, slender young man who instantly turned heads. He smiled bashfully at all the ogling until Patrice redirected his eyes with a wave of her hand.

“What’s up, Deanté? You leave something in here?” 

“Nah. Coach Rich told us to bring some stuff to you. Where you want us to put it?” 

“Umm, I guess you can put it back here by my bookshelves,” she directed, pointing to the back of the room. Confusion created fine lines on her forehead. “I’m sorry, what’s happening?” 

Deanté shrugged in the way only teenaged boys too cool for school could before waving in the rest of his crew. Each of them came bearing the gift of snacks, carrying boxes of wholesale goodies to their intended place like worker ants serving their queen. Chips, cookies, pretzels, juices, and water stacked high along the wall instantly turned her quaint classroom into a stockroom until they’d delivered the final package. Bringing up the rear was Terry with flowers in one hand and a carryout bag from Patrice’s favorite bakery in the other. 

Pressed khaki slacks and a cotton polo fighting for dominance against his veiny bicep should’ve thanked him for making them look better than they ever could alone. Patrice wrestled her gaze away from his long legs to look away before she ended up flustered in front of impressionable children.

He lightly knocked against the door, his gaze soft and his smile welcoming. “May I come in?” 

Like the audience track from a 90s sitcom, young girls squeal in his presence, making him chuckle. Patrice rushed to control the madness. 

“See, this is why I have to keep my eye on y’all. Head to the gym and warm up. I’ll meet y’all down there.” They groaned their displeasure in a last-ditch attempt to buy more time with Terry. She re-emphasized her instructions. “Go on. For every second I have to keep looking at y’all after I’m done talking, that’s a lap. One, two, three…”

Quick feet and the threat of additional exercise cleared the room quickly, leaving Terry at the doorframe waiting for permission to enter. Patrice stood and straightened her turtleneck before inviting him inside. 

“Come in. Close the door behind you.”

Terry did as he was told in silence, hoping to appease the Queen in her castle. Patrice tried to remain stoic as she approached her portable lectern to thumb through the day’s notes and lesson plans. He deposited the flowers onto a nearby shelf then slid into a desk at the front of the class and waited for her to at least acknowledge him beyond a fleeting glance. 

Finally, she looked up and pointed at the white bag resting in front of him. “Is that for me?” 

“Yeah,” Terry smiled. “I haven’t seen you grab one in a while so I hope you still like the cinnamon roll. If not, I got the lemon loaf too. Your other favorite.” 

After all those years separating their adulthood from an entire semester of sneaking away during lunch for a warm, doughy signature roll, Patrice couldn’t believe Terry still remembered such a trivial detail. 

She bit her bottom lip to hide a smile as two short steps took her to the desk beside him. Metal creaked against the floor while they turned to face each other in seats too small for Terry who had come a long way from his high school physique. 

Terry watched Patrice quietly remove her treat from the bag and cut it in half with a plastic knife. She carefully placed one side on a clean napkin and passed it across the small gap separating them. 

She lifted her portion into the air and smiled a friendly smile. “Cheers?” 

“Cheers.” 

Their respective hunks of roll kissed the other briefly before they took big bites to satisfy early afternoon cravings. Terry chuckled as Patrice hummed her satisfaction with her eyes closed and shoulders lifted near her ears. 

A little piece of Heaven. He was happy to provide anything other than the strife he contributed hours earlier. 

“Thank you,” Patrice whispered once the delight of her first bite had passed and her eyes were open again. “It’s still my favorite. You were right.” 

He didn’t respond past a small nod and a small half smile as he watched her enjoy another bite. His thumbs nervously twiddled around themselves while he wrote and erased apologetic statements in his mind in a search for what to say next. 

“Treece, I can’t say enough how sorry I am.” 

“We don’t need to do this. I overreacted and threw things in your face.” She started, trying to stop the uncomfortable discussion before it could start. 

Terry remained steadfast. “No, you didn’t. You called me out and it was the right thing to do. I have been selfish and you’ve caught the brunt of that for a long time now. It’s not fair.” 

“I just…fuck.” Tears that Patrice had managed to keep at bay during work forced their way past her waterline before she could stop them. She dabbed at them with a napkin and took a deep breath. “I’ve had to be really independent for a long time. Relationships didn’t stop me from doing things on my own because they convinced me that asking for help made me weak. Then you came along and immediately took on more than I could’ve ever asked.”

“That’s what I’m here for, baby.” 

“Yeah, but when you stop all of a sudden or pick and choose when you wanna help, it makes me afraid that one day, you’re gonna stop altogether like everyone else. And I really, really can’t take you being like everyone else.” 

Another layer of Patrice had been shed to leave behind an emotionally raw, vulnerable woman searching for an anchor in her life. The tears were gone, but they left evidence of deep-seated hurt on her face. 

Terry reached across his desk for her hand which she offered without protest though she refused to look him in the eyes. He kissed her knuckles softly, paying special attention to her ring finger before lacing their fingers. 

Sad eyes looked across at her. “You’re my main priority. If you want me to drop all this extra shit, I’ll do it in a heartbeat. Say the word and it’s gone.”

“I don’t want that. Be honest with me. Listen to me. That’s all I’m asking.”

“Okay,” he spoke into the inside of her wrist. “Give me a chance to be better.” 

“You already are.” 

Where misunderstanding has once festered, a flower of progress bloomed. They’d traversed uncharted territory as a unit to find common ground that would lay the foundation for years to come. 

Patrice made the first move toward reconciliation, standing from her desk to meet Terry at his side. Her hands cupped the sides of his face, tilting his head up to hers as she stood over him. 

“I love you. Always. I might still be a little miffed, but I’ll get over it. Promise.” She landed a flurry of kisses on his forehead and he accepted while he wrapped his arms around her waist. 

“I understand. I’ll earn your trust again.” 

Fuzzy feelings and chaste affection in what they believed was a safe space were cut short when a small yelp and thud sent a group of girls crashing to the tile floor, pushing her door ajar.

Patrice giggled along with Terry as she turned to get a look at the spectacle. “That’s what you get for being nosey. Now get to the gym for real this time.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Richmond,” they all chanted as they scrambled to stand and scatter. 

Terry listened for them to exit hearing range before turning back to Patrice and leaning up to kiss her lips. 

“I’ll be done with practice at 6:30 sharp and come straight home. Don’t worry about dinner or anything else. Let me handle it.”

“No problem.”

Final kisses and another promise to be home on time sent Terry and Patrice in opposite directions with optimism pumping through their veins. Tomorrow would bring its own storms and issues to work out. But, those were tomorrow’s problems. 

Today, they’d lick their wounds and settle next to each other on the couch with love in their hearts and the taste of each other on their lips to make every hard time worth the end result.

-----

Let me know if you'd like to be tagged in future content.

TAGS: @planetblaque @wvsspoppin @thatone-girly @avoidthings @slutsareteacherstoo @eilujion @amyhennessyhouse @yaachtynoboat711 @jenlovey @pinkpantheris @blowmymbackout @onherereading @hrlzy @becauseimswagman1 @thiccc-c @urfavblackbimbo @blackburnbook @ashanti-notthesinger @xo-goldengirl @ariiijestertheklown @blyffe

[txttletale]

You've spoken at length about how the Lancer setting is just wildly incongruent with what the authors think it is at length, and I agree wholeheartedly. My question is, largely for the purpose of if I ever want to run a game of it again, how would you make the setting carry that tone the authors think it has without too terribly much rewriting? Say, from the point of 'there was a revolution to overthrow seccom'? I love the 'gallant warriors of liberation in giant robots' and would like it if the game actually was that.

But the more the bureaucratic apparatus is “redistributed” among the various bourgeois and petty-bourgeois parties , the more keenly aware the oppressed classes, and the proletariat at their head, become of their irreconcilable hostility to the whole of bourgeois society. Hence the need for all bourgeois parties, even for the most democratic and "revolutionary-democratic" among them, to intensify repressive measures against the revolutionary proletariat, to strengthen the apparatus of coercion, i.e., the state machine. This course of events compels the revolution "to concentrate all its forces of destruction" against the state power, and to set itself the aim, not of improving the state machine, but of smashing and destroying it.

-- Vladimir Lenin, The State & Revolution

In the heady days after the revolution, the air buzzed with potential. The future was today. Hazy, gaseous dreams of liberation patiently awaited their turn to be forged into something you could touch. But those days didn't last for long. The coalition was already a fragile thing during the revolution, and now that it was faced with the levers of Union's imperial machine each hairline crack became a chasm. The corporate armies, who had marched under the banner of the enormous profits locked away behind Harrison Armory's legal monopolies, had reached their personal horizons and refused to move an inch further. The moderates and high-class intellectuals saw the wealth that Union funneled from its edges being distributed generously to the citizens of the Core Worlds and declared a new economic paradigm of post-scarcity and mutual wealth. The anarchist cells with their mysterious reality-hacking mechs were the first to come to the only inevitable conclusion: the revolution was not over.

Now that the old order had been surgically deposed, the new order was finding itself fitting comfortably in its throne. Humbled and stripped of its previous privileges, Harrison Armory was welcomed back into the halls of power under the smiling auspices of free enterprise. Groundbreaking legislation was still being written in the halls of ThirdComm--guaranteeing the right of worlds to self-determination, the rights of clones to live freely, even radical and heretofore-unthinkable proposals laying the groundwork for an end to NHP-shackling. But the old revolutionaries had grown weary and cautious (and, of course, had begun to personally experience the economic benefits of Union's vast hegemony). To enforce this legislation, they argued, would be a de facto redeclaration of war against the corpostates, a disaster for the trade networks on which our wealth depends. To those who still harboued the hopes of revolutionary change, this was a loud and clear signal: the war had not ended. The revolution was not over.

The All-Galaxy Revolutionary Front as it exists now is a set of strange bedfellows. The disciplined combat battalions of the Communist Party fly in perfect harmony, distinguishable by their red battle flags, mass-produced in collectivized forges with reverse-engineered corpo tech. The motley individual oddities that the anarchists call their mechs, their open-source physics-bending HORUS peculiarities, strike unpredictably, in and out of ThirdComm's sight. But the one thing which binds them all, as they fight for the liberation of the peripheral worlds, for the wealth of mines and factories to enrich the people of the planets they're built on instead of fueling ever-replenishing consumption in the distant Core, is that they still have those old revolutionary dreams.

This is what it means to be a Lancer: to be willing to struggle. To acknowledge that the revolution is not over.

[raayllum]

Once again I am so completely in my Janaya feelings because they're just so well done as a ship and so refreshing as a canon queer ship in particular??

Like they're rival generals who are uniquely matched in skill! We see how good of a fighter Amaya is in S1 (she's the top General of the Standing Battalion for crying out loud) so having someone who has her even somewhat on the run in S2 immediately catches our notice, as well as just how striking Janai is, even before we know she's the Golden Knight of Lux Aurea and sister to the queen.

Then we get some fun games of cat and mouse with the two circling and outsmarting each other; Janai luring Amaya's troops into an ambush and then having Amaya outsmart her way through anyway, and Janai ruining Amaya's plan to sever the Breach as a connective point between their lands (at least temporarily). It's small, but it shows that they're not just physically matched in battle, but intellectually too, and it makes their connection / rivalry feel more personal.

But of course this starts to shift when Amaya is stranded on Janai's side of the Breach, and spares her life because there's been enough unnecessary violence, having to literally Drop her shield to do so (mm, the symbolism).

We then get a new stage of their dynamic, as Amaya is very good bad at being interrogated ("She may have told you a rather unusual way in which your body might accommodate your sword") even if Kazi tries to minimize the ruder signs along the way as an interpreter. And even when Amaya could just look at Kazi for translation, her gaze continually strays to Janai. Then, Janai vouches for Amaya to her sister and Amaya has to trust Janai in the Light trial, which is also why she asks Janai to trust her when Viren shows up and starts causing trouble.

What follows is a fire forged friendship (literally) where Janai experiences Amaya's greatest grief -- the loss of a sister -- and they support each other through the battle to come, especially now that they have a common enemy. There's even blushing, battle gazing smiles, being protective, and paralleled hand holds.

Then, when we pick up after the two year timeskip, it's quickly apparent they're in a relationship — "But there are some things you shouldn't keep secret, especially from me" — and hints at exactly what kind of traditional ceremony this is, as Janai proposes and the two embrace and kiss.

And the show always, consistently, constantly, discusses their love for each other frankly and in terms no one can mistake.

"I know [she's a fearsome fighter], that is what I love about her," "The only message is that I've chosen this amazing woman to be my wife," "I love you and I'm ready to marry you," "I only really know one thing: Amaya, I want a life with you, I want to marry you," "Our queen and her bride to be just left on a romantic picnic in broad daylight!" "I just need a distraction—that's right, wedding planning." "Is someone getting married?" "Now I know how wrong I was about elves: I'm in love with one [...] Meeting Janai, falling in love" etc etc. Even down to the little details like Amaya's sign name for Janai being a J over her heart.

I also really appreciate that they're able to be so physically affectionate, particularly Amaya towards Janai in her tenderness as well.

At the same time, they don't always entirely see eye to eye. Amaya is adjusting to a culture that's not her own; Janai is still finding her footing and more importantly her confidence in being queen, even without internal usurpation coups going on and an evil blood drinking lesbian Moonshadow elf on the loose.

They trade and gift each other's another swords so they can be by one another's side in spirit when they do have to part. They're happily planning their wedding and giving each other hope throughout the encroaching madness of their lives. They get cute little callbacks to things like "She thinks I'm cute but won't admit it yet," exchange loving looks when their tribulations are done, and love each other with their whole hearts, allowing them to provide allegorical commentary on some of the societal pushback LBGTQ+ couples receive while also never having it dominate their shared plotline(s) or arcs with one another.

I just love them a lot, and these are some of the reasons why! I can't wait for more of their relationship development in S6 and S7!

[melandrops]

The Magnus Archives Entities as Greek Gods

The Vast - Zeus

The all powerful, infinite cosmic force that is both the king of the gods and the fear of insignificance. The fear of falling, and of openness. Pray that when lightning strikes, you will not taste ozone on your tongue.

The Buried - Poseidon

The ocean could very well be a part of the Vast, but they are fundamentally opposed. The same sides of a coin, one side pewter the other side copper. Two kings that rule next to each other yet are complete opposites. Pray that his brutal storms do not swallow you whole, crushing you under the weight of his world.

The End - Hades

He is the one inevitability of the world. He waits, passive, for victims. The other gods squabble and bicker and play their games while he looks on from the Underworld and knows that he is the ultimate winner. It is pointless to hope that he will not claim you eventually. Pray that you will be contented when he does.

The Web - Athena

The goddess of strategy, of weaving and trickery and cunning. She once cursed a girl to become a spider for her insolence. Pray that she does not lay her marionette strings over you, for then you will never know free will again.

The Slaughter - Ares

The god of war, and the gleam of bloodshed in your eyes and the eyes of the person on the other end of the battlefield. Pray that the blood streaking your hands and face is not your own.

The Corruption - Aphrodite

She is love, and the unbecoming of it all. The deadly force that eats away at your soul and changes you into someone you don't recognize anymore. She whispers that she is the most good and right form of the world, but her kiss is made of rot. Pray that her love will not break you apart piece by piece.

The Eye - Apollo

The god of the sun, who sees all the occurs in the daylight. Prophecy, truth, and the goings on of the world are the way he idles his time away. Pray that you are not intriguing enough to catch his vicious interest.

The Lonely - Hestia

She is the goddess of the hearth, of warmth and of family. Yet it was she who was foisted out of Olympus to make way for Dionysus. She tends to a hearth with no visitors to warm themselves by it. Pray that she does not beckon you to join her by the empty fire.

The Stranger - Dionysus

His parties are the raucous screams in the night, and people who walk in will never walk out the same person. There will always be something a little bit off about them. Pray that when the wine touches your lips you will still recognize yourself the next morning.

The Desolation - Hephaestus

Ugly, marred and disfigured. His wife refuses to look at him. He burns with a rage that he cannot distinguish as self hatred or as loathing for the world he lives in. He toys with the fire in his forge and the burns are the only thing that bring him joy anymore. Pray that he does not look at you with that fiery hatred in his eyes.

The Hunt - Artemis

She hunts in the dead of night, armed by the protection of the moon. Occasionally she enlists help. But always, she will dedicate herself to the next hunt. Pray you are not next.

The Flesh - Prometheus

He built humans out of clay. He built them with imperfections they would see in the mirror and insecurities that feel like a gaping pit in their chest. The god of innovation is also a god who wants their passions to hurt. Pray that when he creates you, your imperfections do not swallow you whole.

The Spiral - Janus

Doors and transitions and new beginnings but also endings all rolled into one. Everything and anything but also nothing and no one. He is a two faced god of deception and lies, and you can never trust what either face tells you. Pray for truth, but there is no point.

The Dark - Nyx

She's always there. Waiting for Apollo to leave. You're not safe from her. No matter how much you try to convince yourself otherwise, the most animal part of your brain will always fear her. Pray that she smiles at you without teeth as she watches while you sleep.

The Extinction - Pan

He is the god of nature, and there is no length he will not go to in order to protect it. Mankind is but a blemish on the world. The wild, untamable forces of nature will conquer it eventually. Pray that you will be overlooked when it floods the cities and burns the crops.

[moonlight-tmd]

so what if prowl and shockwave blitzwing react to bumlebee is carrying sparking?

Oh damn uh, well.

I will take this a a separate ships reaction cuz I have no idea how to write all 3.

Ooh boy, it's gonna be a long one.

BlitzBee- I have already written something similar in this post so you might wanna give that a read. Another take would be that Bee got sparked on accident after Blitz joins Team Prime. He went a little too rough on his hummel during their nightly activities and oops, energy leak n all, they got a newspark.

Of course Bee doesn't even know until he's at 3rd week carrying. Cue the shock, panic and the confused crying on Bee's behalf. Robotic hormones be doin shit to a mech. Bee's frame is defective by forging so he's not supposed to be carrying, they didn't wanna terminate it so they thought about moving the newspark for Blitzwing to carry (he's not ideal either but more safe than Bee carrying).

Unfortunately, the newspark seemed to attach itself to Bee's spark chamber making it dangerous to perform the surgery. Bee was put on leave with strict rules of what he can and cannot do. Blitzwing was worried of course, his hummel didn't seem to take it seriously and threw a fit whenever he was told no. He tried to be around to make sure Bee doesn't do anything stupid, but alas...

He was only supposed to fly out to get a package and returned to Bee beign hospitalized in medbay; apparently Sari has climbed the tree outside the base while Bee was getting his dose of sunlight and fell- Bee managed to run up and catch her but moments later he collapsed clutching his chassis in pain.

When Blitz was asked to come into medbay after Bee woke up they didn't receive good news... There was no sign of the newspark on the scanner. Bee sobbed his spark out that day, his pitiful wailing was heard all thorough the base, Blitzwing could only hold him while he desperately tried to hold himself together.

It was difficult for all of them but the one who got hit the most was Bee. All he did was lay in his berth and not speak. He refused to eat unless Blitzwing or Ratchet forced him to. The others were extremely worried about him but understood that he needed time. Blitzwing himself was having a hard time coping and basically without a sparkmate to help him he started being aggressive.

One evening he came back home from a call with other teammates and went straight to check on Bee. He thought the scout was sleeping at first but then he noticed his faded colors. He wouldn't wake up no matter how much he called or shook him, Blitzwing just picked him up and ran to medbay.

It was then that Ratchet discovered that their newspark hasn't actually faded, it shrank to the point of not being detected by the old scanner and was now almost twice as big as it was before. It was draining Bee's frame of nutrients and energy, the scout got the appropriate shots and IVs, after he woke up he didn't quite understand what they were saying but once Blitzwing repeated the diagnosis he cried.

After the rollercoaster of emotions Bee has become basically immobile and had to be carried everywhere. He could walk on his own but after what happened he refused to even go close to whatever could negatively impact him. Walking, emotional movies, even majority of his games were left untouched for the rest 3 months of carrying. He blamed himself for nearly killing their child and he wasn't gonna repeat that mistake.

Then one night he woke up with chassis pains again, the emergence date was close so everyone was on edge. Blitzwing rushed him to medbay and by the dawn there was a bitlet peacefully napping in the makeshift baby cot. That night a storm was happening, Bee promptly named the bitty Thunderbolt after he heard one strike after emergence. It was a seeker, colored yellow and beige and purple optics, definitely taking after his sire in size.

But that's not where it ends, about 3 months later, Blitzwing got sparked and they had to get more protoforms. Bee was paranoid about Blitzwing even lifting a wing, especially since his mood swings gotten worse during carrying but he was following the doctor's orders to the word. They got a pair of twins, tiny grounders like Bee colored purple and black with faces and optics matching Blitzwing's other faces. Frost for blue wiht red optics and Flame for red with blue optics. They both got little yellow horns to contrast their colors. The seeker will grow little above Blitzwing's half of height with an aqua plane as alt, while the twins will be Bee-sized with topless jeeps as alts.

ProwlBee- It's a similar story as with BlitzBee; they get rough, Bee's sparked on accident, they find out x amount of time later BUT- they manage to get Prowl to carry the newspark. Prowl caught that something was up pretty early on so there was time. They didn't plan on it yet but there were definitely thoughts about it from time to time.

Bee however has never been more worrisome. He made sure Prowl had everything he needed and more and may or may not have been spoiling him a bit much. It only got worse when Prowl felt weaker and they had to make a check and discovered the newspark has split into 3. It was more than they expected but they would manage.

While Prowl was generally calm about everything Bee wasn't doing as good, on top of what i said earlier he also starter pulling allnighters the closer the due date was. He couldn't let himself be sleepin in case something horrible will happen. Which is why after delivering the bitties one afternoon he immediately crashed after he got a fair look at them and slept for nearly 2 days. They were triplets and definitely taking more after Prowl frame-wise with horns of course. One was yellow and gold, named Chi. The other one was silver and black, named Typhoon. and The third one (which actually emerged first) was black and yellow, they named it Shuriken. All had blue optics. All would grow to be as tall as Bee with quads as alt modes.

Now ShockBee. Longarm and Bee's relationship was more of a long distance one. Long visited sometimes but it wasn't enough for Bee. He knew Longarm had a job and couldn't just ditch it to spend time with him but he still tried to come up with excuses so that Longarm will have to stay with him for longer... never in a million years would he think of getting sparked though. Bee has tried to be more lustful as a way to keep Long around more but this was a complete unplanned event that he didn't predict.

He didn't even know how to break the news to Longarm, but he supposed it couldn't be bad since Longarm also loved him, right..? He couldn't have been more wrong.

When Longarm came to visit and Bee took him to speak in private and told him all happy, the first thing he heard was to terminate the newspark. Longarm wasn't asking for his opinion, Bee was told to do it and that's it. He argued with Long but all he got was that he doesn't want the sparkling and can't take care of it.

Bee has never seen Longarm so cold to him before. He left saying that he had something important to take care of and Bee would terminate it. Bee was torn and panicking later that evening; he didn't wanna upset his sparkmate but at the same time he didn't want to lose the sparkling that he's grown attached to in the short time he had it.

Bulkhead was there to comfort him, he suggested that he should talk with Longarm one more time before making the decision. So Bee did, he called Longarm to come visit once more and tried to talk with him about it once more. But it was useless. Longarm was set of getting rid of the newspark, even threatening to split up with Bee if he doesn't. In that moment Bee failed to recognise the one he loved and just stared at him before calmly stating he'll keep the sparkling and whether Longarm wants to be in its life it or not is his own choice. Longarm left shortly after that, saying nothing but that he knows his answer.

Bee cried his spark out at night, unable to comprehend why a mech that loved him would be so cruel. Bee was put on leave and did everything he could to make sure the newspark grows safe and strong. It all made sense once Longarm was discovered a spy and was send to stockades. Everyone was shocked and questioning anyone for anything they might know from when they had contact with Longarm. Bee's relationship was kept secret to other Elite Guard, the information about his sparkling's sire was shoved under the rug as well by Team Prime. They knew Bee was innocent and manipulated by Shockwave, so if the information he was sparked by him leaked Bee would never know peace again.

The mere shock of the discovery hit Bee like a freight train, so much to the point he went into early emergence from the stress. The newspark was weak so it had to be supported while in the protoform. The bitty was yellow and black with teal details and antlers when it onlined properly, Bee named it Radio. It turned out to be medium class grounder, while skinny and usually quite taller than Bee. It chose an old type of camaro as alt mode.

PHEW there we go, that's all of them. Hope ya like it cuz I'm all outta writing juice.

[legitalicat]

Forged From Death - Sihtric Kjartansson x Widow!Reader

An: Thank you so much @foxyanon for the request and officially turning me into a Sihtric girl. I hope this is everything you wanted. And @zaldritzosrose thank you for creating the header you are amazing!

Masterlist here!

Separate from the normal CW section for a special attention. This is going to be dark as reader thinks cruelty of her husband, Sigefrid, and her father towards those around them. No explicit examples of violence or abuse. I really was just trying to capture emotions without talking of direct acts.

CW: Language, political marriage really, Sigefrid is not a good man, neither was reader's father, warlord husband and father, scared child, character death, P IN V sex, fingering, dirty talk, gets quite dirty lots of smut, breeding kink, vague talks of pregnancy kink, she/her pronouns, use of you, reader not really described or named, FLUFFY, Stepdad!Sihtric, found family trope, soulmates trope kinda, love and lust and first sight

Pairing: Sihtric Kjartansson x reader

Word Count: 6.2k

You knew what you were. A bargaining chip, a prize. Something akin to a crown, symbolizing power. With your own father being a man who bargained in fear rather than respect, you weren’t surprised when your husband was the same.

Sigefrid Thurglison, rather quickly upon marrying you, decided his family’s wealth and power would be found in England. So, you sailed along with him and his brother to find this for yourselves. You, the dutiful wife, who knows your fate would be worse had you denied your father’s arrangement. You, who disappointed your father from birth by just being a daughter, who he could only use as a piece in his games but never actually respect. You, who married a man just like him.

You remained silent throughout. You played your part well, perhaps too well. Your name was used as a way to remind men of the force your husband could bring upon England. Even if they weren’t directly familiar with your father, they remembered the tales their fathers spoke to them, and they bowed at Sigefrid and Erik’s feet.

Until they met a man by the name of Uhtred. You couldn’t tell if he wanted to die or if he was just too stupid to realize that death was a very real possibility. But he was quick to anger your husband and his brother through way of opposition. And, apparently, Uhtred did not heed warnings well. He was unconcerned with the possibility of your father showing up.

“If he wanted England, he would be here,” said a voice from behind Uhtred upon your first meeting. You looked for the source. When you saw the man, you were certain your heart stopped for a moment.

You had seen beauty before. Land, sky, men, women, all of which held a certain captivating air about them. And yet there had been nothing as beautiful as the man who stood before you. You heard Uhtred refer to him as Sihtric, and your eyes made their way over his form. From his brown hair, to his striking yet mismatched eyes, over the angles of his face, and the swell of his muscles that already could be seen straining against the silver bands he wore, there was no part of him you felt was not hand crafted by Freyja herself to be the perfect embodiment of everything she represented.

And Sihtric noticed you. By the gods, did he notice you. You were pretty, prettier than any woman he had ever seen. He couldn’t tell what started swelling faster when he saw you looking back at him and smile: his cock or his heart.

That was the day he swore he would have you.

When he saw you again, it had been over three years. He hadn’t gone a day without thinking of you if he were honest. He was waiting so he could have his chance with you. Those few moments of seeing you was what carried him through the years. You were the face he saw with every victory and every stroke of his cock.

He only wishes it were under better circumstances.

You still resided in the fortress after Sigefrid laid dead on the ground. You knew the only way any of this would end would be if Sigefrid died. And you knew, as you listened to the herd of feet approach the room you were hidden in, that he had.

Sihtric was the first in the room. He knew that Sigefrid would never leave you far behind. It was unfortunate such a man had the honor of being your first husband. Sihtric, though, was perfectly fine being your last.

A feeling that did not waver when he saw you holding a small child close to your body. There was a fear in both of you, but you had the rage of a mother in your eyes. He could see it, and he wanted you more for it.

“He is dead?” you asked Sihtric as others, Uhtred and another you vaguely recognized, came into the room.

Despite having only seen him once, you knew Sihtric could be trusted. You couldn’t explain why. Maybe it was lust clouding your judgement. Perhaps it was a sign. Or maybe you were being stupid and crazy and you would only end up right back where you have been your whole life.

But, his eyes made you feel like that would never be the case again.

“Aye,” he said to you. “How old?” He nodded towards your child, your daughter, who looked at him in fear. He held up his arm, wordlessly keeping Uhtred and the other man from coming any closer.

“Four. She was born here, before we were sent away,” you told him truthfully.

“Her name?” he asked you. He continuously looked between your faces, barely capable of holding himself in place and not taking you in his arms.

“Astra.”

He said nothing else to you for the moment, instead crouching down to be on the same level as your daughter. She clung to you tightly.

“Hello, Astra. Are you hurt?” he said quietly to her. In silence, she shook her head. “Is your mother?”

“Mama is safe, I am safe,” she whispered.

It caused your heart to ache when you heard her repeat the words you told her when everything got quiet. Had you never left England, you would’ve been able to leave Sigefrid. You knew you would have had somewhere to take Astra to keep her safe from him. But when your husband was banished, he swore he would return with your father, and you knew better than to wait around for that. Your only saving grace now was that your father had died before you got back to Norway.

“Would you like to leave here? You and your ma can come with me, if you would like.”

Astra looked up at you, tears in her eyes as they had been all day. You knew that while Sigefrid had never touched either of you, he had given you both more than enough reason to be fearful. And you wanted so badly to make sure she never had to live with this fear again.

Your daughter looked to him and nodded silently. He extended his arms towards her slowly.

“Come then, little one. I will get you out of here,” he said softly. Astra, who had never trusted anyone but you, walked directly into his arms.

The sight of his arms wrapping themselves around her small body caused your heart to ache. It was something you had never thought to wish for, your daughter being in the arms of someone but you. Now you could only pray that this was her new normal.

“I’ve got you little one,” he whispered and stood up, holding her close. “I want you to close your eyes tight and put your forehead against my cheek until I tell you. Can you do that for me?”

She nodded. You watched as she squeezed her eyes shut, her whole face squinting up. Her forehead rested perfectly against his cheek, her brown hair matching his in a shocking way. It almost felt as she was made of him.

“You are as pretty as your ma, brave just like her too,” he told her. You were surprised when you heard her giggle. He looked to you. “Take my arm, Lady. “

You did as he said, stepping closer to him and holding tightly to his arm. He made sure you were not questioned or stopped as he led you out of the fortress. He already had stepped in as your protector and you barely knew him.

When you were outside the walls and far from the carnage, Sihtric finally stopped. You watched as he sat Astra down to stand on her own. He told her it was safe to open her eyes, and she looked relieved when she opened them and saw you.

“Lord,” Sihtric said as he saw Uhtred approach. He instinctually moved to stand between you both.

“Are more men following him?” Uhtred asked you, looking at you over Sihtric’s shoulder. His hand remained on his axe, though he did not unsheathe it.

“He was the last of them,” you told him. And that was the truth. Any men that hadn’t abandoned him before this battle laid dead.

“Do you have anywhere to go?” he asked.

You knew the truth of what he was asking. You were a widow now. Your husband’s family were meant to take care of you now, and your daughter. But Sigefrid was the last of his family, having killed his own brother during his last rampage. Their father had long since been dead and had no living brothers.

“No, Lord,” you told him. “He had no surviving family. And my own father died two winters ago. I was the only child.”

He looked past you to Astra. You could see in his eyes he did not trust you. And you did not trust him. You could not find it in you to trust anyone but Sihtric. But good men, which you ultimately believed Uhtred to be, did not harm little girls.

“You may come with me and my men, then. Until you find other…arrangements,” he said gruffly.

It was three and a half months when you began to worry about your future. You thought of Astra and worried endlessly for her. Her father’s reputation would stain her future forever, you feared. You had no way to provide for her truly. Should your fears be proven true, you wouldn’t even be able to arrange a proper marriage for her when the time would come.

But, you thought perhaps you were worrying too much for Astra. You stood in Uhtred’s hall, watching as Sihtric, Osferth, Finan, and Uhtred spoke, Astra settled peacefully on Sihtric’s lap. She was loved so deeply by Sihtric, and by extension the men he fought beside, one could be forgiven for thinking he was her father. Interestingly enough, she looked more like Sihtric than she ever did Sigefrid.

Uhtred looked to you and nodded, having noticed your presence for the first time. You two had a somewhat uneasy trust in each other now. Well, trust that if either of you betrayed Sihtric, or the others, the other would respond with a blade. And that seemed to make you friends.

Sihtric noticed you, immediately lighting up when he looked at you. He beckoned you to him, to Astra, the both of them holding your whole heart.

You were insane, you knew it. But from the moment you saw him those years ago, you loved him. He was obvious. You would burn down all of England for him if he were to ask.

He had never done anything but protected you and Astra from the very first moment. The day Sigefrid died, it could’ve been so much worse for her. But Sihtric was the one to make sure that no bad ever touched her since he met her.

It was one of many ways that everyone knew you two would find your way to each other. Sihtric would give everything for and to you. As far as he was concerned, the universe began and ended in you and at your feet he would worship. And there had never been a moment in which you doubted his devotion to you or Astra.

“Go say hello to your ma, little one,” Sihtric said softly to Astra.

“Okay, papa,” she giggled as she crawled off his lap while you knelt down.

It was not the first time she had referred to him as such, but it touched your soul every time you heard it. Sihtric looked to you immediately to make sure you did not think to correct her. He was not deluding himself into thinking his presence in Astra’s life could erase all the bad. But he knew, without a doubt, that she was his. From the moment he first held her in his arms, she was his girl and there was no argument he would listen to.

Your darling girl ran into your waiting arms. She was giggling, as she had done since your arrival in Coccham. She was happier than she had ever been. She felt more peaceful.

“Mama, mama, papa is making me an axe,” she told you excitedly.

“Oh is he?” you asked, raising an eyebrow as you looked up to Sihtric. He blushed brightly, especially when Uhtred and Finan began to tease him for being in trouble.

“M-my love, I only,” he said, beginning to attempt an explanation.

“She will need an axe if she is going to be on my shield wall one day,” Uhtred told you, grinning from ear to ear. He stood from his seat, drumming a bit on the table, before he jogged over to you and Astra. “And if there is one thing my Little Star will be it is an excellent warrior.”

You watched as Uhtred picked her up and put her on his shoulders. She squealed and giggled until she was settled on her perch.

“If you are teaching her, then I consider myself lucky to have such a warrior in my home,” you said, standing, while grinning ear to ear. “Perhaps she will be knowledgeable enough to teach our next child.” You looked directly at Sihtric as you said ‘our’.

“Our next ten,” he said back to you. He was still blushing a bit, but he enjoyed these moments.

“And you shall birth them all? If it is up to me, you get five,” you said to him.

“You would give me five more children?” he asked excitedly. You could practically see him buzzing.

“Should you decide to take me as your wife,” you said nonchalantly, shrugging to him as you walked over to the table he sat at.

Once you were in his reach, his arm wrapped around you, hand resting on your hip. There was no hesitation from either of you as Sihtric pulled you onto his lap and you wrapped your arms around him.

At first, you had withheld from such public affection. You were only a few months a widow, you felt as though there was some need to respect your loss. But, when your husband had been so cruel to everyone around him and Sihtric was such a soft presence, you lasted perhaps a week before you made your affections clear.

“You honor me, my love,” he said softly. “To think you have already blessed me with one, and are willing to bless me with more. One would be a fool to deny the chance to be your husband.”

You kissed his cheek. It was truly simple with him. There was no darkness. Only love and warmth flowed between you both.

“You will make sure she is careful?” you asked him, bringing the conversation back to the idea of Astra getting an axe.

“Of course, my love,” he confirmed to you. “You know nothing means more to me than the safety of my girls.”

It was less than a month later that you were married. Sihtric made sure it was everything you dreamt of it, everything you were not afforded the first time around. He was watching as you danced with Astra. He loved both of you more than anyone had loved two people.

“Congratulations,” Uhtred said as he sat next to Sihtric. “You will make a fine husband.”

“Thank you, Lord,” he said, smiling. His eyes went between you and Uhtred rapidly, wanting to make sure you never disappeared.

“I see our Little Star got a hold of your hair,” Uhtred smirked as he grabbed a drink. Sihtric’s hand moved to his head, where there was a tiny braid in his hair.

“There is no finer braider in all of England,” he said. “Finan has offered to keep her tonight.”

“Did he tell you Osferth and I were asked to come too?” Uhtred chuckled.

“He did, Lord,” Sihtric laughed, taking a drink of his ale. He sat the cup down, looking to his Lord, his friend. “I want her to be mine.”

“She already is,” Uhtred said. “Nobody will deny that.”

“No, I mean....I want Astra to be just as the children of my blood. I want her to inherit, I want to be responsible for her. Entirely. And should she and my wife allow, I want to give her my name,” Sihtric said.

Uhtred could see a determination on his friend’s face that he had not quite seen before. It shone through in a burning heat. He lived for the family he had with you now. No oath superseded his oath to the two of you, and none ever would.

“Should they wish it, it is done. I will make it known Astra is to be no different than any child of your blood,” he promised his friend. “Now, go dance with your wife. Take her to bed. We will keep our Little Star.”

With a clap on the shoulder, Sihtric stood from the table and began to work his way through crowd to you. You were twirling Astra around, making her laugh and laugh. He could not imagine a more perfect life for himself.

Sihtric chuckled when Astra noticed him and ran into his legs. He knew she was his. She was meant to be his daughter. He could not be bothered by something as trivial as blood. He, of all people, knew family was not limited to blood. Family was created by love, and he loved her enough to create a universe.

Then there was you, his dear wife. He thought you looked stunning in your dress, the deep red color feeling like the physical representation of his love for you. You were more than he could have ever dreamed of. All of his life, he wanted to be what his father wasn’t. A good, honorable man who stayed for his family and loved his wife. A man worthy of love and respect.

And he realized that’s exactly how you saw him.

“Hello, my love,” you said to him when you saw him.

“Are you talking to me?” he asked teasingly, picking Astra up when she stopped dancing.

“Yes, my love. Though, perhaps you would much prefer my husband,” you said, smirking.

“Aye. After all, I will never call you anything but my wife again,” he said and rubbed his nose against Astra’s cheek.

“Hehe papa,” she said as she hugged him tightly. “I love you.”

Sihtric could feel his heart skip a beat. She had called him papa for months at this point, that was no surprise. But, Astra had not told him she loved him. And there was something so precious about hearing it.

“I love you, little one,” he said softly, pressing his lips against her forehead.

You smiled at the two of them. You wanted to hold this moment in your mind for the rest of your life. Capture it, freeze it for all of eternity, something you could hold onto and remember love.

“Now little one, Uncle Finan is excited to start your time together. Your ma and I will see you in the morning,” he told her as he sat her down.

“UNCLE FINAN I AM COMING!” Astra shouted as she ran off through the crowd.

Every person parted to let her through, allowing your eyes to follow her path to Finan. She was loved by most any in town. Her personality was loud and bright enough so that everyone knew her. Of course, it helped that she was always right by your side, and you were always close to Sihtric.

And you knew, at least within the confines of the town walls, she was safe to move about. Most everyone would agree that harming a child is egregious. Everyone agreed that harming your child was the fastest way to ensure a brutal death by the hands of Sihtric, and a quick one by Uhtred and Finan. Even Osferth, sweet Osferth, would pray for his God’s forgiveness as he took the life of anyone who would lay a finger on Astra. She was loved, she was safe. For the first time in her life she did not flinch when she was more than an inch from your skirts.

“Being my wife suits you,” Sihtric told you, drawing your eyes from Finan and Astra to him.

He looked at you with pure adoration. He worshipped you. Made certain that he loved you enough to make the bad parts of your life feel like another lifetime.

“Just as being my husband suits you,” you said to him, wrapping your arms around his neck.

His arms wrapped around your middle, pulling you tightly to him. He breathed you in, feeling overwhelmed by you. Everything about you was intoxicating to him. From your beauty, the way you smelled, the way your body pressed against his own, there was nothing that could dampen his desire of you.

“Then it seems we are in agreement,” he said.

“That it does,” you said softly, leaning forward slightly. Your lips hovered next to his ear. “And I think I would like to feel my husband.”

You felt him shudder with your words, the unmistakable hardness of his erection beginning to dig into you. It had not been difficult to get him excited these last months. Even after both of you had agreed to wait until you were married, you had enjoyed riling him up before he returned to his own home.

“I have dreamt of this night for years,” he muttered to you. “From the moment I first saw you, I knew you were mine. I dreamt of my cock sinking deep into you for hours on end.”

It was your turn now for a shiver down your spine. There was no part of you that could deny dreaming of the same thing for just as long. In the years trying to exist outside of England, the nights where you went to bed amidst yells and cheers during another fight to the death for Sigefrid’s amusement, you dreamt of his mismatched eyes. Of his sharp beauty. Of a life you now got to share with him.

You weren’t sure who broke away first between the two of you, but it wasn’t long before you were walking down the streets to his, no your, home. The home you would grow old together in, gods be good. And the two of you couldn’t keep from stopping every few feet, pulling the other for a deep, passionate kiss.

When you finally arrived at the house, he picked you up and carried you over the threshold. In fact, he did not put you down until he could place you on the bed. You had barely recognized that you were laying on it before he was hovering over you, repeatedly kissing your neck.

“Such a pretty wife,” he muttered with every kiss. You put your head back to expose more of your sensitive skin. “Have been blessed, haven’t I? Blessed by the gods to be given such a pretty wife.”

You placed a hand on the bag of his head and gripped his hair firmly. Despite the pull on his hair, you only brought him closer into you. You could feel him starting to grind himself against your thigh, desperately looking for some relief.

“Fuck, Sihtric,” you moaned out. But when his name left your lips, he nipped at your neck quickly. It took you by surprise, causing a quiet squeak to escape you.

“Be a good, pretty wife and do not use my name tonight,” he whispered in your ear.

“Such a demanding husband I have,” you teased. “So desperate to fuck me he has to rut against me like an animal.”

He groaned into your neck at your words, his right hand beginning to fumble with the fastenings of your dress. You ignored the shaking of your own hands, your need of Sihtric outweighing your nerves. This was meant to be, after all. And you had faith it would be perfect.

“Use your mouth for better things and perhaps I will let you fuck a child into me tonight,” you told him. This time it was not a groan, but a quiet whimper, that left his lips. His fingers struggled with undressing you, the way it was held to your body being more complicated than he had thought.

He pulled back entirely, sitting up on his knees as he began reaching for the knife he carried. He cut the fabric of your dress away from your body. You stared at him, eyes heavy with lust.

“Nothing but a dress, you can replace it,” he told you. You could only nod at him as he helped remove the material away completely. After a moment, the tattered remains of the dress and his knife fell together to the floor, just as quickly forgotten.

He stared at your naked form. He could not help it, truly. Everything about you was perfect for him. He leaned forward and kissed you once more, before his lips started trailing down your body. Along your jawline, down your neck, over your collarbone. He only took pause when he got to your breasts. Sihtric’s left hand began pawing at one while his lips wrapped around your nipple.

You moaned quietly as he sucked while massaging your soft flesh. Your eyes fluttered shut, whimpering every time he decided to graze your nipple with his teeth. You wanted to beg him to give you more, to pleasure your aching cunt.

He groaned to himself before pulling away from your breasts entirely, muttering a promise he would play with them more. You almost started to laugh, only for it to catch in your throat when his fingers found your slick. He smirked down at you.

“You must really enjoy this, wife,” he whispered teasingly. His fingers ran up and down your folds, deliberate in their light touching of your pearl.

“Of course, I have only dreamt of you as my husband a few dozen times now,” you told him. Your thighs trembled a bit as you resisted the urge to buck your hips into his hand.

He hummed quietly as he allowed his finger to sink into you. While you became a whimpering mess, he just slowly thrust his finger in and out. Never had you known such bliss. His finger felt thicker than you had anticipated.

“What is it, pretty wife? Cannot think through your pleasure?” he asked you, looking directly into your eyes.

Your resolve finally broke. With a moan, you allowed your hips to move to meet his hand. All you could think of was chasing your pleasure with him.

“You say I am demanding, but you are so needy,” he cooed. He pushed another finger into you, curling his fingers slightly with every thrust of them. His touch was perfectly focused on the spongy spot inside you.

“Love, my love, please, fuck, please,” you moaned. You couldn’t finish a single thought as you felt a band tightening behind your navel.

You had only experienced such a feeling with yourself. Pleasure had never been at the forefront of your life. Until now, at least, since Sihtric seemed determined to make you reach that point. He increased the speed of his fingers movements.

“Cum for me,” he practically demanded of you. His voice was quiet, meant only for your ears, but forceful in nature. “And then I’ll give you my cock. Such a good girl, you deserve it. Don’t you, my love?”

“Y-yes,” you whispered. You gripped the furs under you tightly, the edges of your vision going fuzzy.

“Deserve my cock, deserve my love. You have both, entirely, you understand?” he asked you, his thumb barely ghosting against your pearl.

“Yes, fuck, my love, my husband,” you whined pathetically. It seemed to please him, at least enough.

His thumb finally rested against the bundle of nerves, rubbing circles in time with every thrust of his fingers. The band finally snapped as you cried out, back arching off the bed. A jumbled mess of his name, husband, love, and expletives left your tongue.

You were able to watch as Sihtric removed his touch from you entirely. He brought his fingers to his lips before he sucked them clean, earning another whimper from you. And then you got to watch him undress, his shirt and pants being flung away in a matter of moments.

You weren’t entirely sure which of the gods had blessed you, but you thanked everyone of them when Sihtric stood naked before you. His toned chest and stomach was near flawless, save for a few scars earned in battle. The Thor’s hammer pendant rested against his taut chest. Your gaze washed over the grooves of his form, able to count each muscle, until they finally landed on his cock.

He was blessed even then. His heavy cock bobbed with need. When his eyes caught yours, he smirked at your hungry gaze. He was long and thick enough to make you question just how exactly you were meant to take him in entirely.

Sihtric couldn’t hide his smirk when he grabbed you by the hips and pulled your body closer to his. He groaned softly as his cock now rested against you, already collecting your slick.

“I love you,” he said to you, his voice softer than the cocky look etched on his face would have you expect.

You tried to stutter out some response before he started rubbing himself against you. Anytime the head brushed against your pearl, the feeling stole your words and sent shockwaves through your body. There was a pride he felt at already having you responding like this before having even fucked you.

“I love…fuck, fuck me, fuck I love you,” you finally managed to get out.

“Good girl, using your words,” he cooed. He moved his cock to start pressing against your entrance. “Are you going to keep being a good girl, love?”

“Yes,” you said weakly and nodded

He smiled at you. He grabbed your leg gently, hooking it on his arm, as he leaned down to bring his face closer to you. Your knee pressed against your chest while he kissed you. You melted into his kiss, your hands releasing the furs you laid up on to hold his face gently.

Your kiss only ended on account of the way he couldn’t hold back his whines and whimpers when he pushed into you. He couldn’t help the way your name left him when you took half of him without issue.

He pulled himself away to look down at your face. After a moment, he looked between your bodies and groaned when he saw you impaled on his cock.

“Fuck, such a pretty wife I have,” he muttered. “You ready for more, my love?” he asked when he reconnected your gaze.

“Yes,” you told him, nodding eagerly.

He groaned as he moved his hips forward. It was pure bliss for both of you. His cock throbbed with every thrust, your walls clenching tightly around him. Every nerve ending in both of you felt like it was on fire as your connection only grew. Sihtric watched you every second, trying to make sure it was as mind blowing for you as it was for him.

His speed increased desperately. He needed more, you needed more. Your hands roamed his body, your moans filling his ears like a beautiful song. The head of his cock kept moving against the spongy spot inside, making your thighs tremble once again.

You watched him as he thrust into you. His pendant and your breasts moved in time with his thrusts, captivating him. You could see him teetering the line of control and instinct. He wanted this to be sweet for you, to be perfect, everything you deserved. He has heard enough stories of your life to know you deserved more than to once again be used for someone else’s pleasure.

“Such a good husband already,” you told him, gripping his biceps. His gaze softened when you spoke, his hips stuttering a bit. “We have all our lives for you to make me scream your name in pleasure, do we not? “

He nodded wordlessly. His cock never once stilled in you as he watched you. He kept grunting under his breath, every noise ending in what sounded like a whine.

“Then I say tonight, I want you to finish inside of me until there is no doubt that come morning I am carrying your child,” you commanded.

His mouth hung open, his hips slowing a bit as he stared down at you. You could see him searching for any uncertainty on your face. Yet, he could search for his entire life and never find in you any doubt of him.

You couldn’t help yourself. You leaned up and took his pendant of Thor’s hammer in between your teeth before looking directly into his eyes. His thrusts picked up in speed, going harder and deeper than before.

He closed the gap between you, his lips coming next to your ear as he finally released your leg. On one side all you could hear a symphony of skin slapping against skin as he fucked you at an almost bruising intensity. In the other, he began to whimper and whine for you.

“Pretty wife, amazing mother,” he whispered in your ear, punctuating each word with a thrust of his hips. He was throbbing inside you and you could feel just how close he was. The way he twitched and pushed against you, his weight pressing into your chest, the band started to tighten again.

“Already a desperate man for you,” he grunted. You were incapable of getting any sound to leave your mouth. All you could do was focus on his word, his sounds, his movements. He was all you knew to be true in this moment.

“Can’t wait to see you pregnant. Probably prettier, round with child and tits swollen with milk. Fuck,” he said to you as his hips started stuttering more frequently.

Your orgasm overcame you finally, causing you to cry out his name. You were barely aware of his whisperings still in your ear.

“That’s a good girl, fuck, yes, my pretty wife,” he practically growled in your ear. Finally, his thrusts stopped, his cock buried inside you as he released ropes of hot cum into you. Sihtric let out a sound with every throb.

You were trembling when he pulled himself from you, breathing heavily. Carefully, he maneuvered the furs out from under your body before carefully covering you both. You moved closer to him and laid your head on his chest. His arm wrapped around you, holding you as though he was terrified of you walking out the door.

You laid there in silence for several moments, basking in the way you felt. With being given from your father to Sigefrid, you had never known much of love or safety. You had never really known kindness. You had feared for so long that the violence and chaos both of them had brought into their lives and halls would haunt you forever.

Yet, laying here in Sihtric’s arms, you almost couldn’t remember how they made you feel. He made you feel so powerful, so loved, so worshipped beyond belief that you would now go days without thinking of the horrors of your past. Even Astra seemed to feel nothing but safety and love.

You turned your face to look at him. He was looking happily down at you, a cheesy, lazy little grin splashed on his face. You were certain nothing could get better than this.

“I love you,” you said softly. “Especially your eyes.”

He rolled them, yet the smile never faded. “Which is your favorite?” he asked.

“Oh no, that is like trying to choose a favorite mountain, or snowflake. Each so unique, so special, one would be an ignorant fool to pick a favorite,” you told him, smiling up at him. “Luckily, I do not have to. I get to enjoy them until I die.”

“Oh? And if I die before you?” he teased, kissing your forehead.

“You are not allowed. I cannot let you walk into Valhalla without me there to greet you, even if that means I will need to pick up an axe again,” you said simply. It was your truth. “I have spent my entire life waiting for the love you give me. You are not allowed to ever make me live without it again, husband.”

Sihtric tried to hide it, but you could see him wiggle just a bit, his smile spread further, when you addressed him as husband. In the moments past, he was too distracted by lust. But now it was sinking in, for both of you, and you felt just as joyful as him.

“Of course, wife. I would not dare leave you to raise our ten children alone,” he said, smirking as you laughed.

“I believe I said five more,” you told him, raising an eyebrow.

“I believe Freyja will bless us with a small army, as much as I plan to bury my cock in you,” he told you, kissing your forehead. “Speaking of.”

Sihtric smirked before kissing you again, pulling you on top of him. You felt your laugh rumble in your chest as you couldn’t help but kiss him back.

You were finally no longer a bargaining chip.

Taglist: @sihtricfedaraaahvicius @gemini-mama @alexagirlie

[pinkrangermemes]

EPIC: THE MUSICAL, WISDOM SAGA

feel free to change pronouns and such when needed.

"It's just me, myself, and I."

"I'm stuck with your stories, but no clue who you are."

"If I fight those monsters, is it you I'll find?"

"I know life and fate are scary, but I wanna be legendary."

"I'll fight the harpies and chimeras!"

"There are strangers in our halls."

"They keep taking space and it's not much longer we can stall."

"They're getting impatient. Dangerous, too."

"I would fight them if I was half as strong as you."

"Somebody help me, come and give me the strength."

"Can I do whatever it takes to keep ____ safe?"

"It's been twenty years and we still have no king."

"Give me a chance, a single opportunity."

"When's your tramp of a mother gonna choose a new husband?"

"Don't you dare call my mother a tramp!"

"What'cha gonna do about it, champ?"

"Fight, little wolf, fight."

"Wanna entertain me?"

"Wanna be a man then fight, little wolf, fight."

"You've made your worst mistake here."

"You'll have run out of bones to break when you and I are through."

"I'll teach you all the lessons your daddy never could."

"This cruel world doesn't give out presents just for being good."

"Need some help?"

"Is your plan to stand around?"

"'Cause I suggest you fight back."

"Uppercut him. Now."

"Alright now, let's try this again."

"I've no respect for bullies, those who impose their will."

"I've seen plenty enough to truly understand this kind of filth."

"Let's teach this dog a lesson."

"One young wolf has a larger heart than all these men combined."

"Show them that you've got some bite, ____!"

"Take advantage now and strike, ____-!"

"Don't go down without a fight, ____!"

"Oh, maybe I pushed you a bit too hard."

"I had a friend before, and he was a lot like you."

"I helped him fight through war, but he had his demons, too."

"Then we grew apart."

"Then his light went dark."

"I don't know who your friend is, I don't know what he's like, but my time with you has been splendid."

"'Cause I got in a fight, and I didn't die!"

"I've never felt strong before."

"You're my friend, I couldn't ask for more."

"Maybe to fall is to learn one way."

"Maybe it's all gonna turn out great."

"I know we'll be fine."

"I know it's light you'll find."

"You're a good kid."

"Old friend, it's been ten years since I last saw you."

"____, where did you go?"

"Morning, sleepy head, you've been resting for a while."

"I swore that you were dead when you washed up on my isle."

"Did you know you talk in your sleep?"

"Tell me, though, who's ____?"

"I'm not your man."

"I'm what you want here."

"I'm what you need here."

"From here on out, you're mine, all mine."

"Hell no!"

"I could kill you where you stand!"

"I'm not pet, I'm a married man!"

"Last I checked, goddesses can't die."

"You're adorable."

"Bow down to the might ____, here to entertain, but fear not, I bring no pain."

"Under my spell, we're stuck in paradise."

"No one can come or go."

"I don't belong here!"

"There's something wrong here!"

"I wont' be drawn to live in paradise."

"Time can take a heavy toll."

"All I hear are screams..."

"____, get away from the ledge."

"You don't know what I've gone through!"

"You don't know what I've sacrificed!"

"Every comrade I long knew, every friend, I saw them die."

"It will be fine, dear."

"Come back inside, dear."

"Let me close my eyes."

"I know your life's been hard."

"I'll stay inside your heart."

"I love you, my dear."

"I love our time here."

"Life would be so much worse if you had died."

"Just let me close my eyes."

"Please stay away from harm."

"Stay in my open arms."

"He needs my help."

"Father, ____, rarely do I ask for favors."

"You are playing with thunder for a man full of shame."

"If he's worth the risk of going under, why not make it a game?"

"You all know I'm a fan of catchy songs."

"I think ____'s in the wrong."

"They were trying to do him worse!"

"Now they'll tread with caution first."

"Trust is not given, it's forged."

"Why should I give him my support?"

"He sacrificed his own cohort."

"Did you forget they failed to listen?"

"He was betrayed and then imprisoned."

"He was busy fighting!"

"More like busy spiting."

"Let him feel the pain that his ____ felt and rot."

"Please reconsider this."

"Really, ____? These old tricks?"

"What kind of sick coward holds back his power while he friends get devoured?"

"He didn't even fight ____!"

"Pathetic and weak like his ____!"

"Hold your tongue now!"

"His ____'s my friend!"

"Tell your lover that a broken heart can mend."

"You want more bloodshed?"

"He's got the mind of a genius."

"Try harder."

"He's pretty skilled with words."

"Can do better than that."

"He's kinda funny?"

"Never once has he cheated on his wife."

"I played your game and won!"

"You dare to defy me?"

"No one beats me, no one wins my game!"

"Is she dead?"

"Let him go, please."

[mariacallous]

There is no shortage of misery in the Middle East today. As the region marked the one-year anniversary of Hamas’s Oct. 7 massacre, Israel mourned the murder of around 1,200 Israelis and worried about the fate of the remaining 100 hostages held by Hamas. Tens of thousands of Palestinians have been killed in the subsequent war, hundreds of thousands are currently homeless, and much of Gaza lies in ruins. Lebanon, too, is now devolving into a war zone.

Often overlooked amid all this misery is Iran, which is also having a terrible, horrible, very bad year. But unlike most of the other actors here, it has only itself to blame.

Consider where Iran was strategically on Oct. 6, 2023. The United States, torn between competing demands for its military forces, was looking to reduce its military presence in the Middle East. That brought Iran closer than ever to achieving one of its long-term goals: ridding the region of U.S. influence. Israel, meanwhile, was tearing itself apart at home over controversial judicial reforms. Iran had suffered a strategic blow a few years prior with the passage of the Abraham Accords, which promoted Israel-Arab ties, but Tehran had arguably countered this in part by forging closer military ties to Moscow. True, Iran remained under significant sanctions, but the Biden administration unfroze some $6 billion in Iranian funds in exchange for freeing American prisoners.

Now consider where Iran is just a year later. Hamas, an Iranian proxy, has been decimated. Israel has shown that it can reach into a VIP guest house in Tehran to kill Hamas’s leaders. Hezbollah, the crown jewel of Iran’s proxy network, has been mauled to the point where Iran needs to strike Israel on the group’s behalf, rather than vice versa. Israel’s fractured political spectrum doesn’t agree on much, but it is united when it comes to making Iran pay for its missile attacks on the country. The Abraham Accords—which normalized Israel’s relationship with the United Arab Emirates and Bahrain—are strained but remain intact, and Saudi-Israeli normalization remains possible in the longer term, even if it is not in the cards right now. In fact, despite the violence, it is easier to fly to Tel Aviv from Dubai than from many European cities. And the U.S. military is once again surging into the region. Further Western sanctions relief—in this geopolitical climate—is currently off the table.

While Israel faces strategic problems of its own, at least Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu can argue that he did not start this war. By contrast, it is an open question to what extent Iran’s leaders helped plan the Oct. 7 attack and set the region aflame in the process. Even if Iran was merely caught up in one of its proxies going rogue, it certainly did have a direct role in the missile barrages against Israel and, by extension, the retaliatory strikes that followed.

Perhaps the silver lining for Iran here is that it could have been worse. Tehran’s missile attacks—in April and again in October—failed to kill Israelis or cause significant damage. Had they done that, Israel’s retaliation would likely have been significantly more robust.

But this gets to the crux: Iran’s tolerance for risk is growing. Firing hundreds of ballistic missiles at a militarily superior adversary is a dangerous game. Firing them while repeatedly calling for the annihilation of a likely nuclear-armed, militarily superior, superpower-backed state with a right-wing government inclined to hit back hard is a potentially suicidal gamble.

That’s not the only thing Iran has done over the past year that was so risky that it could have threatened the regime’s stability itself, had it not been for Tehran’s incompetence. Iran reportedly tried to kill former U.S. President Donald Trump and other former senior Trump administration officials in retaliation for the killing of Iranian Quds Force leader Qassem Suleimani. Thankfully, those plots were foiled. But the attempt itself was a huge risk, especially given that Trump is a current candidate for the presidency and known for holding grievances. Indeed, after being briefed about the attempted assassination, Trump threatened to “blow [Iran’s] largest cities and the country itself to smithereens” if he gets back to the White House and Iran tried a similar ploy.

But whereas trying to assassinate a former—and potentially future—U.S. president on American soil is a gutsy move, imagine what would happen if such a plot actually succeeds. Republicans—many of whom are already pretty hawkish on Iran—would likely be calling for blood. Democrats would not likely let the killing of a former U.S. president go unpunished. Indeed, if one thing could upend the post-Iraq, post-Afghanistan received wisdom of eschewing regime change in the Middle East, killing a former president could be it. In short, if the Iranian regime survives this war, it will be thanks to luck and its own incompetence.

Of course, from the Iranian perspective, its actions—or at least its missile strikes—were driven by strategic necessities to reestablish deterrence after a series of Israeli and U.S. affronts to its sovereignty, such as striking Iranian diplomatic facilities in Syria and killing Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps leaders. But there is little evidence that Iranian actions are having any deterrent effect whatsoever. If anything, Israeli leaders are talking even more openly than before about regime change in Tehran and even more adamantly about destroying the Iranian nuclear program.

Strategically, the wisest option for Iran right now would be to retreat to the shadows, rebuild its proxy network, and fight another day. After all, it will take time to rebuild Hamas and Hezbollah into the formidable fighting forces they once were. At the same time, Israel’s ties to its Arab neighbors and the West are already frayed, thanks to the bloodshed of the Gaza campaign and the Netanyahu administration’s unwillingness to commit to any sort of Palestinian state—a win, if a Pyrrhic one, for Iran. Pulling back also leaves open the prospect of some sort of future deal with the West over the medium term—which Iranian President Masoud Pezeshkian says he wants and even Trump says he’s open to supporting.

That is not, however, what Iran seems intent on doing. Whether it’s because of Iranian domestic politics, concerns about losing face on the international stage, or simply a desire for revenge, the regime looks intent on doubling down. In a rare Friday prayer speech, Iranian Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei—with a rifle by his side in case anyone missed the point—praised the Oct. 7 massacre and promised that Iran “won’t back down. Israel won’t last long.”

Iran’s seeming unwillingness to reverse course has important implications for the United States and the West’s approach to Iran. It raises the question of whether threatening Iran with further costs will be sufficient to force a change in direction. The United States and its European partners can sanction Iran all they want; Israel could bomb Iranian oil fields. But it may not change Iranian behavior.

If deterrence by punishment won’t work, then the United States and the West will need to resort to deterrence by denial—destroying Iran’s ability to attack Israel and aid its proxies. That would be hard to do, since it requires destroying significant chunks of Iran’s military capabilities rather than simply threatening to inflict pain. But if the Iranian regime seems intent on escalating, then the United States and its allies may have no other choice.

And if that happens, while this year may have been a terrible one for Iran, next year might be even worse.

[the-fiction-witch]

My Dragoness

Media - Game Of Thrones Character - Viserys Targaryen Couple - Viserys X Reader Reader - Y/n Rating - 18 + fingering/ anal/ squirting/ bj/ facial/ ejaculate/ spanking/ mastubating / dom x sub/ Word Count - 2062

Part Two to My Dragon

Viserys's gaze snapped back into focus, his eyes locking onto Y/n's with a calculating intensity. “Now,” he said, “now we begin our true work.” he sighed, “The time has come,” Viserys declared, “for us to reclaim the Iron Throne. We've been waiting for too long, gathering strength and resources in secret. It's time to strike, to show the Seven Kingdoms that we will not be ignored.” He sat up keeping Y/n in his arms, his eyes burning with determination as he surveyed their surroundings. “We need a plan, a strategy to take back Westeros.”

she nodded "I am no good for war my dragon, should I summon your men to discuss? Or should I just listen while I pleasure my king?" She cooed

Viserys's gaze narrowed, his mind racing with the implications of her words. But beneath the surface, a spark of desire flared to life, fueled by the promise of pleasure “No,” he growled, “don't summon anyone yet. Not until I'm done with you. You'll listen to me, and only me, as I tell you exactly how to make me feel.” he smirked, “And as for pleasing your king…Your mouth,” Viserys commanded, “is going to be busy tonight. You'll suck me dry, take every last drop of cum. And then you'll swallow, swallowing everything I give you.” He leaned forward, his lips brushing against hers in a rough, possessive kiss. “Now get to work, my queen.”

she nodded and moved to her knees taking his cock in her mouth without hesitation licking the seed from his cock after the previous orgasms inside her as well as her own jucies,

Viserys's eyes rolled back in his head, his body arching off the bed as she sucked him with a ferocity that left him breathless. “Yes,” he hissed, “just like that. Deeper, harder, take it all. Don't stop, don't slow down.” He threaded his fingers through her hair, gripping tight as she worked him over with her tongue and lips. His hips pumped upward, fucking her mouth with abandon as he chased the next orgasm. “I can feel it building,”

Viserys whispered, “a storm is coming, and I'm not just talking about the weather. The people are restless, hungry for power and revenge. They'll follow me, blindly loyal to the Targaryen name.” He leaned forward, his eyes glinting with a fierce light. “It's time to gather our allies, to forge alliances and make deals. We'll need the support of the Great Houses, their armies and resources if we're to succeed. But there's one thing holding us back…the question of who will sit upon the Iron Throne once we've reclaimed it.” Viserys's gaze locked onto hers, piercing and intense.

she nodded as she sucked and licked

Viserys's grip on her hair tightened, his body tensing as he approached the brink of orgasm. “Don't stop,” he growled, “keep sucking, keep licking. I want to feel it build, to feel myself spill over the edge.” He thrust deeper into her mouth, his cock pulsating with tension as he teetered on the precipice. And then, in a burst of release, he came, spilling his seed down her throat as she swallowed every last drop. Viserys collapsed back onto the bed, utterly spent and exhausted.

Y/n swallowed it all but she didn't stop, moaning down his cock as she works

Viserys's eyes snapped open, his gaze locking onto hers as he felt a surge of renewed desire course through his veins “You're…you're killing me,” he gasped, “with those sounds, with that mouth. Keep going, Y/n, don't stop now. I want to feel it again, I want to come all over your face.” He reached down, his hands grasping her shoulders as he pulled her closer. “Suck harder,” he commanded, “suck it like your life depends on it.”

she sucked and licked as much as she could moaning down his cock,

It was then viserys saw why she was suddenly so vocal, as her hand was between her legs fingering herself and rubbing her clit letting her juices and his seed leak onto her hand as she pleasured herself. All while still sucking his cock.

Viserys's eyes widened in shock, his mind reeling with the sight before him. “Oh, god,” he breathed, “you're…you're touching yourself. While sucking me? That's…that's filthy.” He felt a jolt of excitement run through him, his cock twitching in her mouth, Viserys's gaze remained fixed on her hand, his eyes burning with intensity as he watched her pleasure herself. “You're…so dirty,” he whispered, “and I love it. Come closer,” he commanded, “let me see you touch yourself while sucking my cock.”

she moved onto the bed still sucking his cock as her hand moved passionately desperate for her release

Viserys's eyes rolled back in his head, his body arching off the bed as he felt himself slipping further into ecstasy. “Yes, yes, yes,” he chanted, “touch yourself like that. Show me how you get off. Make yourself come while sucking my cock.” His hips began to pump furiously, driving himself deeper into her mouth as he chased the rush of pleasure.

her sucking slowed as she moaned more and more but did her best between moans to keep her pace

Viserys's grip on the bedsheets tightened, his knuckles white as he strained towards release.

“No, no, no,” he groaned, “don't stop, Y/n. Don't stop sucking me. I'm close, I can feel it.” Suddenly, Viserys's entire body locked up, his muscles tensing as he came in a torrential flood. His seed shot down her throat, filling her mouth and making her gag. But she didn't pull away, instead continuing to suck him dry as if starving for every last drop.

Y/n moaned loudly sucking so hard he almost fainted as she hit her orgasm squirting down her hand

Viserys's vision blurred, his head spinning as he felt himself being drained of every last drop. “Y/n…oh god…” he whispered, “you're… you're killing me.”

she stopped her hand and slowly milked the last of his seed before she collapsed on the bed her pussy trembling from excitement

Viserys lay there, spent and exhausted, his chest heaving with ragged breaths as he watched Y/n collapse beside him. For a moment, they just lay there, the only sound the heavy breathing of two people who had given themselves completely to their desires. Then, Viserys reached out and gently stroked her hair, his fingers tangling in its softness as he whispered, “You…are…amazing. I've never felt anything like that before.”

"did it please you my dragon?" She gasps

“it pleased me” His voice dropped to a growl, “I want more.” Viserys's hands closed around Y/n's wrists, holding them captive as he leaned in close “You know what would make it even better?”

“What?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“If you were bound,” Viserys replied, his eyes glinting with a sinister light. He left the bed a moment to grab his belt, expertly knotting it around her wrists before pulling tight. “Now,” he said, his voice dripping with menace, “let's see how long you can hold out.” he grabbed her hair and pulled her to kneel across his lap, he spread her ass cheeks and thighs letting her drip down her legs, she let out a small squeal of excitement as he looks her pussy and ass over a few times before slapping her ass hard

"Ughh! My dragon!"

Viserys's eyes gleamed with pleasure as he spanked her again, the sound echoing through the air. “Oh, yes,” he purred, “my little dragoness likes a good spanking, don't you?” He ran his hands over her skin, tracing the curves of her body with gentle fingers.

“Yes my dragon!”

“And now,” he whispered, “it's time for something else.”

Viserys's fingers dipped between her legs, f

she moaned loudly as his fingers slipped inside her dripping pussy

Viserys's fingers moved in and out of her, pumping steadily as he leaned back on the bed, his eyes fixed intently on Y/n's face. She was so wet, so ready for him,and Viserys couldn't help but feel a surge of pride and ownership “My little dragoness is so eager for me,” he whispered, his voice husky with desire. He added another finger, stretching her wide as he pumped in and out of her. “Yes, just like that,” he encouraged, his own arousal growing with each passing moment. Viserys knew exactly what he wanted now,and nothing was going to stop him from getting it.

she moaned and screamed in pleasure as he so roughly fingered her, his fingers moving inside her pumping and stretching her making her squirt and squeal

Viserys's eyes blazed with excitement as he watched Y/n's reaction, his fingers moving faster and harder inside her “Squirt for me, my little dragoness,” he growled, his voice low and commanding. He felt a rush of power as she obeyed, her body releasing a flood of liquid as he continued to pump his fingers in and out of her. Viserys's own arousal spiked, his cock throbbing with need as he reached down and wrapped his hand around it, stroking himself slowly. “Not yet,” he whispered, his eyes locked on Y/n's face. “I'm not done with you yet.”

he slapped her ass a few times more making her red and sore before he lubbed up his hand with her squirt and used it to slip two fingers in her pussy, and two fingers in her ass

"Ahhh! Viserys!" She screamed as she immediately came squirting down his hand and screaming loudly as she clenched around his fingers and trembled desperately

Viserys's face twisted in a snarl of satisfaction as he felt her clench around his fingers, her body trembling with release. “Yes, my little dragoness,” he hissed, his voice barely above a whisper. “You're so responsive, so eager for me.” He worked his fingers deeper, feeling her muscles contract and release as she came down from her orgasm. Viserys's own arousal was almost unbearable now, his cock throbbing with need as he leaned forward, his lips brushing against Y/n's ear. “I want to see you come again,” he whispered, his breath hot against her skin.

she whined but it was too late viserys found her gspot inside her pussy and all he had to do was rub on it with his fingers and she came screaming and squirting all over him,

Viserys's fingers danced across her G-spot, sending waves of pleasure crashing through her body. He felt her muscles tense and release as she came, her screams echoing through the air as she squirted all over him. He didn't stop, couldn't stop, as he rode the wave of her orgasm with his fingers. Each time she came, he felt her body tighten around them, milking him for more. “Faster,” he growled, his own arousal spiking as he felt her climax build once more. He quickened his pace, rubbing against that sweet spot until she shattered apart again, her body convulsing in ecstasy. And still he didn't stop, driving his fingers deeper into her pussy and ass, coaxing out another scream, another torrent of liquid. Viserys's fingers were a blur as he worked her over, his movements swift and precise. He could feel her body building towards another climax, her muscles tensing in anticipation. With a sudden burst of speed, he rubbed against that magic spot once more, sending her soaring into another orgasm.

This time, however, it was different. Her body seemed to shatter apart completely, her screams echoing off the walls of the tent as she came with a ferocity that it took him over his own edge his seed spurting out across her stomach,

As she lay there, spent and helpless, Viserys withdrew his fingers from her pussy and ass, leaving her gaping and vulnerable.

Viserys's chest heaved with exertion as he stood up, his fingers still slick with Y/n's juices. He towered over her, his eyes blazing with a fierce intensity “fuck” he growled, his voice dripping with menace. “You are going to be the best queen ever.” he cooed laying down with her,

“Viserys…”

“Yes Y/n?”

“I love you, my dragon" she cooed

"I love you too my dragoness" he cooed leaning down to kiss her lips

she held his cheeks in her hands as they kissed, as sweet and tender kiss full of love until they pulled back

His eyes locked onto hers, burning with a fierce passion. He grasped her wrists, holding them captive as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against hers once more “No, don't pull away,” he whispered, his voice husky with desire. “Not yet.” His mouth crashed down on hers once more,

[alectoperdita]

Who's ready for a random and silly short featuring hacker!Seto, hitter!Jou, and that "Girl Dinner" Monster sticker design that gave me a uniquely bad case of brain rot today?

Taking a moment to explore the group dynamic a bit, so no smut this time. Just Seto and Jou being cute? And also Seto's made a friend???

Read on AO3

---

Everyone was getting awfully chummy.

Don't get him wrong, Jounouchi thought it was a rather good thing. Nothing worse than a group of criminals who couldn't even pretend to play nice with each other. He learned that from experience.

The transition happened as abruptly as everything else with their motley crew. One day they were each squared away in their individual offices, and the next they were gathered in the conference room shooting the breeze.

Or maybe, upon reflection, it wasn't so sudden.

The conference room was furnished like the real deal: plush chairs, multiple 4K screens, and a killer sound system for their teleconferencing needs. The only official meetings they had were briefings before their next job.

But the second most common use?

When Yuugi and him cracked open a few beers, kicked back, and watched the game projected across a grid of six-by-four monitors. As he and Seto became "close," the hacker drifted out of his office to sit with them when he wasn't actively working on anything.

It didn't take long before Bakura and Mai started watching movies together in the same way. Jounouchi frequently drifted in partway through, which often brought Seto to the table, too.

Comradery—Jounouchi hadn't realized how much he missed it until he had it again. As warped as it got at times, gokudo's brotherhood had been a significant factor of his adult life. The kinship with this group was tentative, newly forged as it was, but he was confident they abided by many of the same principles, even if they were crooked.

Gone were the days of smoke-filled mahjong parlors. Jounouchi had traded them for Bakura and Mai debating French surrealist films, a lukewarm beer in one hand as he and Yuugi shouted at someone striking out in the final inning, and Seto's hand gripping his thigh under the conference table.

(Oh, he and Seto still spent plenty of time behind closed office doors, hungry hands and mouths drawing muffled grunts of pleasure from one another.)

Interacting out in the open also revealed interesting dynamics between people. The criminal underworld was a tiny, insular one. If you lasted long enough, you eventually got to know everyone. A few of them knew each other from before teaming up in the present day, such as him and Mai. Yuugi and Bakura shared a History that was palpable. While Jounouchi didn't know the details, he wasn't blind to their "will they, won't they" energy.

(And he did his best not to think about what the others thought about him and Seto. Seto hadn't outwardly adjusted his attitude because he'd stood too close to Jounouchi from the very beginning. But sometimes, he caught a Look from Mai or Yuugi when he let Seto do as his wont.)

But the most baffling pair was Mai and Seto.

At first, Seto was no more cold toward her than he was to everyone else. But he became progressively more standoffish over the course of the first few jobs. Jounouchi had wondered if it was because she was the lone woman on the team. He soon discarded the theory for one where Seto took offense to her profession, which was even more silly given they were all very much criminals.

Then something shifted, he didn't know what, but the two settled into a more neutral relationship. Or more accurately, Seto appeared to be warming up to her.

(Jounouchi asked Mai once. She studied his face for a second before laughing, giving him the "you're cute when you're dumb" pat on the cheek she used to do when they were both younger, and walking away without another word. He thought it best to drop the matter afterward.)

But Jounouchi wouldn't classify them as fast friends.

"Everyone knows what they're doing?"

Yuugi's question jolted Jounouchi from his reflection. He nodded along with the various "yes" coming from around the conference table. One by one, the members rose from their seats, ready to tackle their next job. Jounouchi hung back because he wanted to ask Seto if there was extra equipment to be loaded.

Mai also stayed to speak to the hacker.

"I almost forgot. I saw these and thought of you," she said, blase. She fished something thin, paper-thick, out of her purse and slid it across the conference table to Seto.

Jounouchi leaned over to catch a glimpse around Seto's laptop. They were cut-outs of hand-drawn art depicting he was intimately familiar with: Seto's favored energy drink. Each can was rendered in its trademark black with an electric green M. The only oddity was, instead of the brand name, "Girl Dinner" was rendered in the same jagged font.

Seto glanced down at them and pulled them close. "I love it," he deadpanned.

"Anything for you, bestie," replied Mai in the same tone before she sauntered away.

Okay, that had to be a joke because she proudly proclaimed money and diamonds as her best friends.

Seto gathered the gift(?) and his laptop before making his exit. Baffled, Jounouchi remained rooted to his spot. No, now wasn't the time to question his teammates' sanity. He had to get the van out of the garage for the job.

***

After parking the van in a lot across the street from the cafe, he joined Seto in the back. Yuugi and Bakura were already in the cafe, waiting for their mark. They'd distract him while Mai did "intelligence gathering" at his home several blocks away.

Which left him and Seto as backup and surveillance from the van.

Jounouchi used to dislike being in the van. Nowadays, he didn't mind it as much. The interior was a bit stuffy, but Seto did what he could to make it comfy for himself. There was a desk in the back to hold Seto's computer and any other equipment they needed. Jounouchi unfolded a stool and settled next to the hacker, who was pulling up the CCTV cameras from inside the cafe and apartment building on the dual monitors. His laptop sat on the left side of the table, right in Jounouchi's direct line of view.

He noticed a new sticker among the collage blanketing the device's lid. Nestled between a clown and "Bad Dragon" sticker, in a tall, thin space seemingly tailor-made for it, was the black can labeled "Girl Dinner."

Air hissed as Seto grabbed an energy drink from the minifridge and cracked it open in comedic timing Jounouchi never guessed he had.

Seto's poor eating habits were hard to miss, so it was possible Mai took notice. Was that what "girl dinner" referenced? Seto's appetite resembling that of a bird or a runway model? He was rail thin enough to pull it off.

More questions plagued him, though. Had he not been sarcastic when he told Mai he "loved it?" Did he earnestly enjoy the present? Was it a barb from Mai and he called her bluff by accepting it?

Or even more unthinkable, was this an in-joke between them??? When did they have time to develop one of those?

"What?" Seto sighed, sounding exasperated.

"Huh?"

"You have that 'I'm about to BSOD thinking about this' look."

"Hey!"

Seto punched several keys. On the window showing their commlinks, his and Seto's lines were muted. They weren't deafened, though. Yuugi and Bakura's quiet chatter droned on in their ears. Next, Mai reported she was in place near the mark's home.

Jounouchi tapped a knuckle against the newest sticker. "It's nice to see you and Mai getting along."

"Of course, we do. Why wouldn't we?" Seto remarked dryly.

Jounouchi recalled the "back off" glares Seto cast at Mai months ago. Brat thought he was subtle, but he really wasn't.

Now that Jounouchi thought about it, Seto stopped around when they started fucking...

A wandering hand crept up the length of Jounouchi's thigh. He considered batting it away, but Seto would merely become more insistent. Plus, it was nice to have a pretty young thing like Seto all over him.

"You mind explaining one thing to me, though? Why 'girl dinner'?"

Seto's hand stopped in its tracks. They gazed into each other's eyes for several long beats. Jounouchi resisted the urge to bounce the leg upon which Seto's palm laid. Seto broke first, shifting from his seat to Jounouchi's lap in one graceful motion. He brought his hands up to cup Jounouchi's cheeks, one in each palm, and lifted his chin to lock eyes once more.

"You're not on social media, are you?" he asked, studying him.

Jounouchi shook his head.

Pause.

"You are adorably offline," Seto declared.

"Uh, thanks?"

"I could explain it," drawled Seto, squirming before settling more firmly atop him. "Or we can use the fifteen minutes before the mark shows up to not talk."

Without thinking, Jounouchi gripped Seto's slim hips to steady him. He really should put up more of a fight. Giving into Seto spoiled the brat. The best he could do was not let him have the last word.

He poked the side of Seto's belly. He may be belaboring the point, but he had to press every advantage he could. "Fine, but you have to promise to eat solid food for dinner tonight. Not more 'girl dinner.'"

Seto laughed and wiggled closer. "I want katsu curry, and I want you to make it."

Again, he should resist spoiling Seto. Yet he muttered "whatever you want" before sealing their lips together.

[fauxnotice]

ALIEN SKINCARE. v! blue lock/male! reader. originally posted on quotev. masterlist.

CHAPTER II. WHEN THE LOCK IS BLUE AND THE WORLD IS ENDING.

SPOILER WARNING for various characters not yet properly introduced in the anime (all of them appeared in the vs.U-20 arc), for the Hiori light novel (very vague spoilers, you'll probably only notice them if you've read the novel), and for Episode Nagi manga (extremely vague, probably won't notice them even if you've read the source material).

Since that match, you haven’t felt the “spark” again. 

And yet, you had decided to apologize to your team, making sure that they knew that your sacrilegious crime against the spirit of football and teamplay was just an one-off thing and that you weren’t going to go around stomping on your teammates again. No matter that it was you that made the loss seem not as pathetic as it would have been if you hadn’t scored at all. But in the end, the only important thing is that you could keep playing. 

In truth, you’ve never been certain in love, yet you knew that you loved football. 

You also knew that it would be for the best if you completely let go of any hopes that playing football will take you anywhere. No matter how proud the general public was of the team representing their nation, they were … rather unimpressive against other teams on the global level. 

Unlucky you, to be born here. 

The chances of making it big (by your definition) were near zero. You should make peace with that fact.

So why did a simple letter leave you in such a perturbed state?

Never mind you first thought of -who even sends letters anymore?- the crest of the JFU causes a period of wide-eyed gaping. Sayaka, who had informed you of the envelope arriving earlier, looks over your shoulder curiously, as she searches for the name of the sender. “Japan Football Union? How exciting! Come on, open it!” 

You pause. Which is incredibly dramatic, even by your standards. It’s not like whatever is in there is going to bite your fingers clean off or something. You internally roll your eyes at your own behavior, as you rip the paper.

Right when you’re done reading the contents, a cheery jingle coming from your phone interrupts you. You already know who it is -you did change the notification sound for him specifically, just so you could immediately differentiate it from messages sent by your bothersome classmates, since you usually tend to ignore those for hours before you actually reply to them. None of them care most of the time, so no big deal. 

🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝

look at what i got 🎶

Sent 1 attachment.

You look at the picture, and lo and behold, it’s the exact same envelope as the one that was addressed to you. What strikes you as more important at the moment is the fact that Bachira seemed to be back to his usual mood, which is nice, since he was rather dispirited earlier today. This tended to happen semi-regularly after matches or practice with his team, so you were left to wonder if those people were sickos or something of similar nature, for making Bachira of all people upset. The fiasco at his recent game was obviously the current cause, though you couldn’t get what the big deal was. They did lose, sure, supposedly due to Bachira’s blunder, but who cares? He was the only person worth anything on that team. If the outcome is that important to them, they should get good. Bunch of slugs, you swear.

Ah, you’re keeping Bachira waiting.

You

I got it too

It’s for some “Player improvement project”

Sent 1 attachment.

🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝 

way to ruin the surprise ú_ù

You

Lol

🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝

so we are going x33

  You

I guess

I’ll think about it

This whole thing seemed very sketchy. The notice didn’t seem to be forged or anything of the sort, but the lack of proper details about what exactly this whole project was about (or just about anything, really, since whoever sent these was very stingy with information) made you doubt the legitimacy of this entire scheme.

Maybe it was some sort of a coordinated kidnapping plan? That would be funny. Though you fail to see what exactly they’d gain from doing that to a bunch of football playing teens, assuming that was their target audience. Force you to kick the ball until you die? Do human experimentation? Lock you somewhere where not even the sun would find you? Would they demand a ransom? Sayaka didn’t have that type of money. But thinking logically, if this invitation was the best the organizers could come up with, maybe it’d be possible to outwit them? Much to think about.

You should consider this carefully.

You considered it carefully. And such careful consideration led you to taking a train from Chiba to Tokyo with Bachira on the date stated in the letter. While Bachira seemed pretty excited (as is the norm for him), you kept all of your feelings internalized. 

After wasting time (Bachira wanted to look around) and following the map given to you, you finally made it to the supposed location of the project. The JFA building stood proud in front of you two, so you decided to believe that you most likely won’t die or be seriously harmed today. That would cause a real big scandal, for sure.

“This seems to be the place.” you hum as you glance at the paper once more, slightly frowning at the lack of one crucial detail. “But it doesn’t say where exactly we’re supposed to meet.” 

“That means we should go in, right?” Bachira retorts, making it seem rather easy. It seemed like you were the only one overthinking everything. How you envied him, sometimes. Going through life with the carelessness of an amoeba seemed a lot less difficult than whatever was going on with you. Then again, minimizing your existence to the simplest cluster of cells doesn’t even seem that appealing when you think about it twice. You just can never win.

“It’s not like we can go back, now that we wasted money to get here.”

Your companion grins and slaps your back not at all lightly. “It’s always about money with you! Let'so go, let's go!”

You decide to stop the objection before you could vocalize it. Now’s not the time for bickering, even if it’s definitely not “always about money” with you, but whatever. 

When you finally open the door, a considerable number of people turn to face you, which makes you (secretly) bristle in discomfort. Sure, you were an expert at playing a social butterfly, or at least a regular friendly peer, but rooms filled with a crowd of mostly unfamiliar faces wasn’t your ideal setting. You make a quick move forward, making them lose interest and turn to look back ahead. 

As minutes rolled along, it seemed that nothing was happening other than more people coming in. In order to pass the time, you chatter with Bachira, completely discreetly (only on your part) commenting on the boys around you. Some of them looked … rather interesting , so you had to wonder how they leave the house everyday while looking like losers of the genetic lottery. Hell, some of them weren’t even ugly, yet they chose to present themselves in a way that made you wonder if they had a hole in their heads, or at least blindness in one or both eyes. You spot a guy with so much hair gel that the mere fact that he still has any hair is a miracle of global proportions (“Bwahahaha! That guy looks like a turnip!” Bachira observes, to which you laugh very unnoticeably). 

You wish it was enough to distract you from the one thing that you had expected, yet feared, once you realized the group consisted of all teenage boys -the stench. 

You don’t even want to imagine how bad it’d be once you started actually playing instead of standing around. You weren’t even that demanding; it’s not like you were asking them to bathe in holy water every three hours, but some soap would be nice?!

Unexpectedly, someone turns towards you. Before you is a bespectacled guy, with a rather handsome face and a fitting smile to boot. You guessed that there was something beneath that visage. Like an insecurity or an ugly personality facet that deserved to be wrapped in a pretty packaging, tucked away from the public eye. But you were just brainstorming. This guy could be going through the torments of a lifetime and it wouldn't be in your realm of caring. Then, he starts talking to you.

“Sorry to bother you, but do you two happen to be forwards?”

Huh. That’s one way to start a conversation. At least it gave you a small hint on whatever was going on here.

“Yeah!” Bachira replies before you can. “You’re one too?” You add.

He smiles and nods, very pretty and proper. “That’s right. My name is Yukimiya Kenyu, by the way. It’s nice to meet you.”

You easily slip into the familiar role as you smile back at him, radiating as much of your inner grace as you could while introducing yourself. “It's very nice to meet you too, Yukimiya-kun.”

The door opens once again and everyone predictably turns to look at the newcomers. You hear many whispers about the “Crown jewel of Japan”, but you have no idea who that is so you don’t even bother. You know Bachira doesn’t know either, and you don’t care enough to ask Yukimiya about it. There’s two guys at the entrance, so it’s a 50/50 chance that one’s the jewel and the other is the pebble. Whatever the truth is, you’ll find out if it ever becomes relevant to you. Which is not now.

Right then, your eyes get abruptly violated by the man that takes the centre of the podium. Not only does he wear the look of a freakish horror caricature like it’s second skin, his strange choice of a hairstyle makes him seem like a scorched thumb more than anything. You give him a point for effort, though, since his dead fish eyes and lanky limbs only add to the aesthetic.  He oppens his mouth and talks, unfortunately.

Now, here’s the thing -you would have liked it if you were able to readily disagree with whatever bullshit this guy’s saying. But it’s understandable bullshit, which is a whole nother thing, so you settle on wearing a pensive and slightly concerned expression, just so you don’t seem out of place. Unlike most of those present, leaving your team behind for this delusional charade … doesn’t seem too bad to you. Perhaps it’s the ultimate hating mindset rearing its head once it senses an opportunity to muddle your thoughts. The whole plan of making the world’s best striker sounded very nice, but you weren’t fully convinced either. Not to be judgmental and superficial (you are) but looking like that and declaring such ideas didn’t leave much space for trust. You share a sideways glance with Bachira.

Then, for some reason, Possible Jewel suspect number One starts talking too. Arguing, mostly. You think it’s a silly hill to die on, but it’s not like you can blame him for thinking the way he does. People treasure their bonds and stuff like that, or so you’ve heard. Unsurprisingly, more complaints pipe up. Most are nonsensical to you, but you do agree with whoever asked why all of you had to live together. Looking at all of them … sharing a living space seems like an idea cooked up by a sadist of the highest calibre. 

Yeah, you … don’t want that. Who knows where all these people have been. 

“Ego’s” response to this is to start this strange contortion performance? Then he talks about the Japanese team and how they’re basically shit-out-of-the-ass bad (which isn’t untrue, but he didn’t have to say it like that), and continues on to quote many world class players, finishing with the principle of “egoism”. 

This “egoism” is heretical against the primary principles of football, ingrained within every regular player who has ever had to share the field with a team.

You, an alien attempting to imitate regularity on a daily basis, find yourself at a loss of words. Transfixed, almost, enchanted even, by this man’s otherworldly philosophy. It feels like home, you realize, cold and empty, but still a memory of the years during which you had felt alive, like an actual being, like someone fitting into the mechanisms of existence. No -you want to bend these mechanisms to your liking. Someone like you is deserving of that.

What a tantalizing offer. You want to reach out and devour every fruit.

There’s a certain swirling darkness within Bachira’s eyes as he gazes at you. You don’t pay attention to it. In the end, you’re the only one that should matter. The center of all, it’s you-the lowest of all scum. 

The gate opens, and the answer is clear. 

After signing the letter of consent, for better or for worse, you find yourself amongst all 300 selected players as you’re led into different vehicles like a flock of sheep. During that time, you were forced to say goodbye to Bachira, since you were assigned different buses, but you assumed it wouldn’t be long until you saw him again. At least the seats are nice, you think as you make yourself comfortable against the window. And it has air conditioning too. Well, it seems like Ego and co. were actually serious about this, since they sunk so much money into it. 

Just as you’re about to force yourself to doze off for the sake of making the trip easier, someone interrupts you. Oh, the joy. You felt like you had enough people time today, but it seems like you were wrong in your belief.

“Excuse me, do ya mind if I sit here? Everywhere else is taken, so …”

Is that a Kansai accent?

The newcomer has a ridiculously cutesy face, complete with the bug eyes of a bizarre size, but the image of daintiness is harshly offset by the boy’s height. Not thinking much of it, you give him a close-eyed smile and a nod as you move your things to give him space to sit. 

“I don’t mind at all! Make yourself comfortable.”

The boy thanks you as he sits down. By the time he’s content with his position, the bus starts moving. For the sake of politeness, you introduce yourself to him, and he returns the gesture, letting you know that his name is Hiori Yo.

“Hiori-kun,” you say like a true conversationalist, “Are you from Kansai, by any chance?”

Hiori nods. “Yeah, I’m from Kyoto. What about you?” 

Feeling glad that you weren’t stuck with someone who made conversations awkward for you, you continue without a hitch. “I’m from Chiba, but I used to live in Kyoto for a bit before going back.”

His eyes widen a bit. “Really? What made you move back?”

“Family matters, nothing much.” As you feel the conversation derailing, you smoothly reel it back. “Say, what do you think about this whole “Blue Lock” thing? It’s all pretty weird, isn’t it?”

“Honestly … when I got the letter, I thought it was some sorta scam.” Hiori admits, smiling when you start laughing. “I dunno, it just seemed suspicious.”

“Right? My friend didn’t think twice about it, but it seemed shady to me. It doesn’t help that the guy who’s supposed to train us looks like that.” You make a few vague hand gestures, hoping to demonstrate your point better.

“Like Slender Man?” Hiori supplies rather unhelpfully, actually. Your English is good enough to understand the literal meaning of what he says, but you have a feeling that he’s referencing something, yet you had no idea what. Unfortunately, your free time was usually spent training, so your knowledge of what was outside of your general sphere of interests was … lackluster. But if you were good at one thing (other than kicking a ball), it’s faking it until you make it. Ego is definitely slender, and a man, so that’s a start.

“Yeah!” You snap your fingers with a practiced amount of enthusiasm. Before your talk could get to the point where your ignorance about this so called “Slender Man” put you in a bad spot, you hum and turn to look out of the window. “I wonder when we’re going to get there.” 

Hiori leans in to look to look outside as well. The next few minutes are spent in comfortable silence, much to the delight of you. You like people who knew how to shut up.

Eventually, silence bores you, as well. 

“Why did you decide to come to Blue Lock?”

Hiori blinks owlishly at your sudden question. “I … wanted a change of pace, I guess.” 

Hm. There was obviously something else hiding in there. Well, luckily for the guy, you weren’t interested in prodding at secrets when they held no importance to you. Whatever issues he had, he could deal with them on his own.

The look he’s giving you implies that he wants you to answer your own inquiry as well. 

“That’s nice. I just like to play football.” 

And that’s that. 

As it turns out, the Blue Lock building is in the middle of nowhere. Totally not skeevy. 

Next, you’re supposed to wait until your name is called. Luck seems to be on your side today, since your name is the first one on the list. You wave at Hiori as you move forward, deciding that he’s good company, with his overall calm demeanor and good sense of conversation-silence balance. Talking to him again wouldn’t be the worst thing.

You find out that you’re supposed to give your wallet and phone to the woman waiting in front of the door, which is … weird, but yeah, sure, might as well. It’s not even a kidnapping at this point, since you consented to being here. You just wish you knew you’d be staying somewhere else beforehand, so you could have packed more of your skincare products, and then thoroughly mentally prepared for rooming with a bunch of possible creeps amd weirdos, which would obviously turn your long established and extremely well-planned routine onto its head.

You’ll have to manage. 

You’re definitely not gritting your teeth at the thought.

Just as she hands you your uniform, you remember. “Excuse me?”

“Yes?”

“Will you inform our guardians of this? Or should we do it ourselves?”

“We will notify your parents and guardians, don’t worry.” Anri replies, and proceeds to explain that you should look for the room marked with the letter present on the fabric.

With a quick “thank you” and a smile, you move on, looking down at your assigned uniform.

241

V

Your eyebrows furrow.

When you move onward, Hiori watches you leave. 

As he waits his turn, he can’t help but think about how unusual you are. Not in the way you present yourself, no. The “perfect student” trope, he’s seen it a lot. People who are nice, outgoing, helpful, and so on; there’s a plethora of those. It’s about the intensity with which you fall into the archetype. The wording of every sentence you say, every move you make, the intonation of your voice -it all seems carefully planned out, programmed and running with no bugs or other disturbances. 

So much that it’s unsettling.

In a way, you remind him of Karasu. You’re both rather guarded, he thinks. But the difference is there; you didn’t seem to be trying to analyze him. Sure, you asked him questions, and he answered, but you had never shown interest in digging in further. Maybe you were just being considerate? It could be. The two of you just met a few hours ago, after all, so you minding your business didn’t seem all that unreasonable.

You said you liked to play football. That’s why you came to Blue Lock. That was an unoriginal, even a little airheaded answer, considering the specific situation you all were in. Even so, Hiori has to wonder …

Ah, his name is being called.

Karasu Tabito has always known that he was a rather ordinary person, but the ranking of 252 does sting a little. 

That’s probably why he’s surprised to see that you, out of all people, are carrying the highest number out of everyone in the room. 

Don’t get him wrong, you had this specific, yet common, kind of charm that probably had all the girls swooning. From the way you walked, you looked, you smiled -yep, you fill all the “pretty boy” boxes.

And yet, you don’t carry yourself like someone who’s supposedly on the top of the foodchain of this small group. Most guys like you had this strong air of confidence, regardless of their disposition, yet you lacked that entirely. Not that you were cowardly either. You just struck this peculiar kind of balance that seemed in no way natural.

And such artificalness only hid weakness.

Well, finding your weak spot is just another job for the analyst.

And he is given his first clue when a blonde guy walks up to you with stars in his eyes and asks if you were the “Slumbering Angel of Chiba”.

Karasu almost laughs. What kind of cringy title was that?

You seemed to share some of his sentiment, because you look at the other like he had grown another head or said the stupidest shit possible to your face with no remorse (which he possibly did?).

Interestingly enough, you force your expression into something softer, which makes your confusion all the more clear. “I’m not sure I follow …?”

The boy then goes on to retell the story of you scoring some crazy goal against some crazy strong school, and how you stopped some crazy guy from doing just about anything the entire game and whatnot. The more he talks, the more off-balance you seem to become. 

Then, at some point during his rambling, you raise your hands to stop him. “I don’t know where you got it, but … drop that title, alright? It’s misleading.”

Misleading in what way, he wonders. 

The large screen suddenly flickers to life, with Ego’s ugly mug on it.

After a brief explanation of the “Dormitory test”, a ball drops right in front of Karasu, and a cartoonish icon made in his image lights up the screen, along with a timer. 2:16.

 Ah, he thinks, Way to rub salt into the wound.

Of course, everyone scatters like headless flies. He has to thread this carefully. Losing his cool and randomly shooting at people with hopes of hitting someone would be as good as immediately giving up. If he wants to climb to the top, he should at least attempt to eliminate the “king of the jungle” right?

That means Mister Angel is at the top of the hitlist.

You look aware, standing in a stance which would make it easy to move around, when the time comes. There’s even a small smile pulling at your lips. And yet, you’re looking at him impassively, like he’s an actor whose performance wasn’t worth humoring.

Perhaps you weren’t as humble as you initially appeared to be?

1:47.

Shit. Karasu is wasting too much time. Still, if he tries to go after you, there’s no guarantee he’ll succeed, and that will lead to even more wasted time. You haven’t shown any of your abilities yet, so trying to go in blind is difficult. 

Guess I’ll have to pick ya apart next time. 

He kicks the ball.

It flies through the air, heading in the direction of the simple-minded creep, Otoya Eita.

Perhaps it was the very simple-mindedness that allowed Karasu to link up with him and make this play.

“Ooh, flashy.” He says, before kicking the ball back just as it touches his foot.

The slam of it against the face of an unfortunate victim cuts through the air.

Sone Yuto.

1:22.

The poor boy manages to barely scramble onto his feet, with his facial muscles creased in pain. 

Then, begins the rather lackluster period of him trying to hit someone and failing. Karasu almost feels bad.

00:36.

With a flash of movement, against all odds, you come in. 

00:29.

Karasu watches you as you watch the field. The smile nevers withers away, as you roll the leather football against the floor. 

00:21.

It’s almost as if you have everyone holding their breath. Unlike earlier, now you do seem like the strongest of twelve.

00:13.

By now, most people have relaxed, perplexed by your lack of offensive movement. Karasu doesn’t give himself the pleasure. For once in his life, he can’t find anything that would offer him a glimpse into the workings of your brain. 

00:09.

00:08.

00:07.

00:06.

Your smile drops, just for a moment.

00:05.

You move so suddenly it’s hard to detect at first. The ball slams against the wall and returns to you. You raise your dominant leg to welcome it, and while you’re keeping balance on the other, you rotate the upper part of your body as to relocate the trajectory of the ball and send it into the space behind you-

-Right into the torso of the boy who had approached you earlier, who was hiding in your blind spot. The impact is strong enough to force him onto his back.

00:04.

Higuchi Kouki.

00:03.  

Karasu sees you whisper something to the fallen blonde, but he can’t hear what. He thinks he doesn’t want to know.

00:02.

Higuchi still isn’t getting up.

00:01. 

The outcome is obvious.

00:00.

Higuchi Kouki.

LOSE.

Karasu Tabito looks at you, your trademark smile, your relaxed posture, your burning gaze, and thinks-

What a remarkable guy.

[drakeanddice]

Ahhhh! You played Laser-Ritter!? I'd love to hear how it went! Sorry, I don't often hear about folks playing my games.

We did! Short answer, it was awesome. I found Laser-Ritter following a game of Scum & Villainy with my weekly group which, while it was a fine game and was fun, had some tone/content confusion and failed to scratch the itch at the table. The game’s setting matter is largely pastiche of three to five different flavors of sci-fi and I, fool that I am didn’t drill down and sharpen the pitch…because I saw Forged in the Dark and assumed that it was shaving sharp right out of the box. Caveat lector, ersumshit.

But Laser-Ritter, damn. I cut myself thinking about how tight and focused that game is on delivering the promise on the front of the tin. You are fighting a galactic hegemony. Your life paths are all killer no filler calls to adventure from instantly iconic backgrounds. You wager your relationships and you kit and your tenuous, waning luck to do the impossible. You can deliver a snarky one liner as an active defense.

We ran a crew of loveable rogues on a tramp freighter transporting a broken auto soldier with memory banks full of Hegemony secrets related to a super weapon to wipe out the Rebellion. Their contact is cut out and they find themselves hunted at every turn by the forces of the Hegemony, first by a rogue’s gallery of bounty hunter types, and then an elite strike force led by Preceptor Ahriman Slake, the Red Right Hand of The Imperator. Diving for cover, going to ground amid the criminal underworld, and running out of options week by week, the Teknos wakes the Auto Soldier and downloads its memory banks during a climactic confrontation with Preceptor Slake and his goons. They broadcast the plans in the clear, trusting that the signal will bounce across the universe and if the right people can’t be told, then tell EVERYONE.

We called a season cliffhanger as the crew pushed the fateful button, the guns of the Hegemony leveled at them and haven’t been back to pick it up yet.

But we’re absolutely prison breaking at some point. Probably with the help of the defunct and broken Auto Soldier, Omni88, who remains at large.

It’s a damn fine game. Leverages a lot of player-facing tech and collaborative establishment of the fiction. Consensus building. Any game where I get to go, “Hell, yes. That’s cool!” is a win for me. And this one checks that box handily.

That being said, we ended up using an alternate hex flower lifepath system that was a little more targeted rather than the one out of the box, and we started with more advances that the rules according to Hoyle. We might’ve tweaked a couple of other systems to suit…I want to say combat was collapsed to Into the Odd style, except for big set pieces…this was a bit ago but I am left with pleasant memories and a mighty recommendation, which is really all I can offer a good game. It was, is, and will be again on my shortlist of “let’s do space opera” games. Notably, I will not play anything called Star Wars ever again.

[asexxxualauthor]

Monster Hunter Wilds is secretly Monster Hunter 4: Reunion, and I am so hyped!!

So, apparently, earlier today PlayStation randomly released the new teaser trailer for Monster Hunter Wilds, which looks so good, oh my god! But during the trailer, we got to see and meet some new faces—new characters we’ll be traveling with in this game…and it didn’t take long for people to pick up on the subtle details and realize what’s going on.

First, let’s meet the man that’s sending us out on this mission. Older, grizzled, wears a faded yellow ascot and an orange jacket that really accents his shoulders. Now, where have I seen someone like that before…

Oh, right! The Caravaneer, leader of the Capital C Caravan from Monster Hunter 4. Sure, it’s not a total one-to-one, but it’s also been over a decade and the graphical quality from 3DS to PS5 can allow for some redesigns.

Another point of note was the new Handler, who has a striking resemblance to the Guildmarm from MH4. Now, it’s likely not her, considering Guildmarm does have a name (Sophia) and this new Handler doesn’t share it, but she could be a relative—or, at the very least, there to conjure thoughts of the MH4 Handler.

But then we get to the new Weapon- and Armorsmith, and immediately what jumps out to me is “good lord she’s hot!!”

…but the second thing that jumps out to me is the fact that she is a blonde-haired weaponsmith wearing slightly baggy yellow pants, a midriff-baring top with a hint of orange, and a blue bandanna in her hair. Which reminds me of one very special someone from MH4…

…Little Miss Forge.

And if that’s not convincing—look at the Weaponsmith’s hip, right beside her bit belt and pack of tools!

You see that plushie? Well, we’ve seen that plushy before—

—because it was the Guildmarm’s hand-sewn plushie she had in her official concept art for her sleep time!

Monster Hunter Wilds stars the members of the Capital C Caravan, now a decade down the road, and I’m so happy to see them again!!

[tremendum]

twin suns ; the awful daring of a moment's surrender

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:

part one of the Twin Suns series ; prologue

pairing: au (canon-divergent), western-inspired Din Djarin x fem!bounty!reader (afab, w use of woman, girl, etc)

 rating: eventually explicit in future chapters. slow slow burn. (18+. mdni.)  

warnings: canon-typical violence, themes of hunting/being hunted, fear

synopsis: "you are a shadow in Mos Espa, while Din Djarin is a statue in the suns."

notes: alright heres the official first part to my new series!! written between both povs bc i wanna work on writing in din’s pov :’)still setting up characters and settings but itll definitely pick up in the next part! hope yall enjoy :) not beta'd because im sloppy

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:

every step you take, you crush worlds.

the sand that makes up the surface of the planet slides under your power, the lilt in your stride stricken with nerves carving out a pattern known only to you.

the sand is everywhere.

you slip on it as your boots move; demolishing over tiny mountains that climb up towards the sky, crushing them below your titan feet. there's sand in your tunic, sticking to your thighs. it grits between your teeth as you forge ahead.

you allow yourself a shaky, dry breath which exhales from your lungs in the same defeated way that your feet trudge along the eroded soil, scarce of vegetation but abundant enough in your own regret. 

an itch stabs the back of your head - not the normal kind, but the kind that strikes your heart in a gallop like a wild Orbak stallion - you can feel him.

a pair of unseen eyes on you, but you don't have to turn to see him: 

disrupting the continuity of the bounding wasteland sprawled out behind your frame is a small shining dot; far enough away, but you do not let the perspective of distance lower your guard.

far away, but not far enough:  the large, bulking body covered in beskar. 

he stalks after you, just like always. you've almost gotten used to this kind of game. he's always there, always following - exceptionally, on the few occasions which you were following him.

for weeks he's been slinking around the corners of your nightmares. that tattered cape curling around corners, that bulking frame of metal towering over every space he fits in, his own skill of the hunt flirting with your sheer ego; yes, you are good at hiding, at running.

but you are also too full of hubris. too good at poking the sleeping bear for your own good. and- kriffing hell, you've gone too far this time. you let yourself a small groan of nerves as you shake your head, recalling the steps that'd led you to this final leg of your journey. 

panic licks up your throat like a shot of liquor begging to resurface. The Mandalorian persistently appears larger and larger upon the horizon behind you, but he doesn't run.

he's lying in wait for his time to ensnare you. 

you know his time will come soon, and he will pounce upon you. 

your heart clutches its sodded pearls within your chest at the prospect of being captured after your short-lived taste of freedom - this newfound nomadic life as enticing as it is provisional for your escape. you don't allow yourself the luxury of pity as you will your burning thighs to push along. 

at the prospect of hiding, your legs carry you faster through the wasteland; though you can hear the clock ticking louder and louder as the hunter's feet trod after yours. he's closing in, but a light gust of warm desert air nearly stops you in your tracks: you feel a grin spread across your cracked lips at the realization: 

nightfall will come soon. 

so you forge on; one foot in front of the other, wheezing breaths, screaming lungs. the trail you leave is no problem to you as long as the twin suns start their descent into slumber soon. 

another forty five minutes until your breath is soothed. the suns have wavered over the horizon, and the dilapidated buildings have come back into view.

you smile once again, a deliriously relieved laugh echoing over the empty landscape, swallowed up by the very sand that you crush.

you're going back into town, and he will follow you. 

he does it every night. 

with a drip of sweat sliding down the expanse of your neck, you clear your aching throat, desperate for a flagon of water. the cityline swirls as the suns cast an iron orange over the sky. you start to listen to your body's quiet pleads: your bones ache. your muscles scream for rest - desperate, you realize, for sleep. 

soon, you chide in your mind. soon. 

soon, the twin suns will settle into the unseen realm of the cosmos, dipping enough below the crest of the planet to paint the sky of Mos Espa in a deep lilac and sparkling fuchsia -  and you will sink, much like those suns you so despise, into the walls of every building you pass. your blaster will stay holstered upon the meat of your thigh, a heavy burden while you blend in seamlessly to your surroundings.

a city rat, through and through.

you smirk down at the dustdevils that kick up as the evening wind carries grains to and fro near your shins. fuck you and your desert, scum. to whom you mock, you do not know. 

soon, you will find a cantina full of those who are also nobodies; most of them older than you, more experienced - more deadly. full of hate, or disdain, or exhaustion from a galaxy that put them too low on the spokes of the wheel that will turn for eternity. 

but not you; this diminutive existence doesn't bother you. outlawed in your prime, you've been forced to jump head-first off the lowest end of the spoke, down towards the unknown abyss below.

you're nobody, now. on the run - no exhaustion, just anticipation; the peak of the mountain, the wind that zips underneath the wings of an unknown bird. 

desperate for an escape from the one who haunts you day and night, lucid and dreaming. 

the Mandalorian arrives like clockwork. 

it's been the same routine for- what, almost three standard weeks? you're unsure why he hasn't yet taken you to his ship and sent you off to your debts with a heavy sack in his hand, gleaming with the promise of a few more rations or maybe a refuel for his metal steed.

with no intended disrespect to yourself, you truly don't understand why. depending on the information he has on you, surely he just sees you as an outlaw; a little skittering bug which has plagued his routes to more lucrative jobs by evading his crushing boot in the several instances your planets have collided. 

and it's not as if he isn't capable.

you are smart, that much you will give yourself credit for. smart, conniving, you know how to get what you need - that's what got you into this mess in the first place. but he's... different. a damn machine.

you can tell from the way he slings his blaster, the sheer force of his body. his imposing presence. the legacy of his people, the best warriors in the galaxy: it was true, at least from what you've seen.

you may be handy with a knife and a blaster, but you know you're nothing compared to the Mandalorian bounty hunter who will soon find you. 

normally, you aren't really one to spook easily. years of shady business in the grimiest corners of the galaxy have hardened you into a cocky motherfucker - but you have the decency to admit that the low, modulated baritone that rumbles through the Mandalorian's helmet sends spears of fear down your spine. only a handful of times you've been in close enough range to hear him, but once is more than enough in your book. 

there's something about that calm posterior and the smooth voice that settles fear deep, deep into your being. 

there's been three times you've heard his voice. each one its own close-call, in which you'd nearly surrendered yourself to him like a child caught swiping ration packets in front of the Marshal.

the first time was a true lothcat-and-rat chase through the back alleys. it'd only subsided once you'd maneuvered your way into the ducts of a backside apartment building - the Mandalorian is a tall man, anchored to the ground beneath him under the weight of the beskar armor. he's imposing, a large force that you shouldn't be any match to - but what he isn't, is agile enough to fit through the ducts. not with all of his sacred armor draped upon him.

but that first time, the chase was over before it really began. you were shocked to discover, once tucked away in your hidey-hole, that the chase left you with a heated core but also the sinking warning that not all attention is good attention, after all.

he didn't pursue you hard enough. that's how you knew he was a professional. that's how you knew he'd just lie in wait, holding with baited breath in the shadows for you to let barely a centimeter of your guard down before he swiped you up like a hawk and kept you clutched in his metal talons. 

so the first time, his voice only came from curses and grunts of anger or exertion that you'd heard as he'd leapt over discarded alleyways. though your heart slammed into your chest each time he tore through buildings or kicked down doors to follow you, there was no denying the tickle your chest that yearned to hear his voice again.

because you needed to win. to survive.

the second time was a flick of your middle finger in his direction.

he'd been tailing you for two days relentlessly; you'd spend most of your days on the outskirts, scrapping in the junkyards and selling it for rations to get by. he was always there - every few hours or so, a glint in the corner of your vision. watching patiently.

the patience this man showed had driven you over the edge.

so the second time, when you'd allowed yourself into the same cantina that he'd slinked into with a pouch on his side that seemed to move inexplicably, your curiosity got the best of you - as did your pride.

you'd seen him slip through the doors after an hour of crawling several hundred feet behind and above him on rooftops; your body shrinking in to conceal yourself under your hood as you slid into a booth in the cantina just out of his sight. 

you knew he was a good hunter, not just by his preceding reputation, but because there had been others before him.

many of them, in the last few weeks since you've been gone - maybe seven, or eight. but you'd bested them all within days if not hours; escaping planet or jumping ship. anything to avoid the weight of the chains which, just as quickly as you'd splintered them from your wrists, were surely to clasp right back on. 

and then, the other thing. something about him intrigues you: he's still here, following you patiently, even after all of the bullshit you've pulled.

in your youth, the woman who lived across the hallway from your family had run a makeshift daycare for the children of your quadrant. in a fit of frustration, she'd mentioned once that the best way to deal with a child that throws a tantrum is to just wait them out until they get tired. 

something about that memory heated your cheeks as you'd glared at the helmet across the cantina; his head tilted down coyly as he seemingly spoke to the young woman working bar. 

perhaps he just likes the thrill of the hunt and the reward of his bounty's fear. he didn't have to try hard to get it, after all: jealousy stung strong in your stomach when the crowd cowered back at his presence; alarmed, maybe. in awe, perhaps. but certainly, definitely in fear. 

something about how cocky he was when he carried himself, how blatantly he'd taken to trailing you in your daily processes on-the-run in the dismal city of Mos Espa. how he'd even tilted his head at you in some sort of twisted greeting at the market days ago when your eyes met his helmet just above the line of the crowd; just before giving to the chase that led to you learning the location of his contact, and the old Hunter's Guild of Nevarro. 

you resented the Mandalorian.

you're still not fully clear on who set the bounty on you - your old business partner, likely. it boils your blood to imagine. the New Republic may be dismal, but Maker knows everyone has to do something to survive. you just couldn't keep doing what you were doing anymore, and the only ways out were... well, either running away or falling victim through galactic court. 

no, thanks. 

you don't like the Mandalorian because you can bet everything on your back that he's willing to hand over anything to anyone as long as it gets more of that silver beskar on his chest. 

so it was the second time you heard his voice, your own ears straining hard as the server in the cantina came round to the Mandalorian's booth twenty minutes later. you'd watched with a satisfied smirk as the waiter had presented him with a nice, hearty jug of Desert Chase - a cocktail from the menu that you'd personally hoped would offend the Mandalorian the most.

it was ironic in a way that made your stomach giddy and your grin split in two under your mask. it was a cheeky name, at the very least, and you figured he wasn't dense enough for the irony to pass over his helmet completely.  

your grin was untamable as you watched; the server, pushing the drink his way and passing on the message you'd slipped him five credits to tell the Mandalorian: happy hunting, Mando - followed by your first name.

oh, it was a delight and a half to watch that shiny, stupid helmet whip up towards the crowd near the bar in shock.

and then his deep, rolling, excuse me? that thundered through the walls in his untamable frustration. the coiling warmth in your stomach after he pushed up from the booth with his head on a swivel. 

because you figured if you were going to be caught, at least you were going to have some fun beforehand.

you can pretend not to love the hammering in your chest all the same. 

the third time, though - it was a momentary weakness. a genuine accident. a sign of humanity lost within the planets and systems of bad and good, of black and white.

and it'd actually sent just as much panic into him as it did to you. 

you saw him before he saw you. his back was turned, fiddling with the sack strapped to his speeder. like a prey, rigid, you'd slid from your post and snuck towards his speeder, the one that'd been discarded in favor of heavy, projectile-strapped boots upon eroded dirt only several hundred feet away, to a merchant stand which sold some kind of cloth to protect from the suns' rays.

you had barely thirty seconds to get it before he returned to the bike, you estimated. 

you'd moved much too fast in your self-preserving mindset; sped off on the rusted thing without realizing there was a small bundle within the supply basket on the back.

a moving bundle. 

and, to your horror: inside, a curious little green creature which stared up at you with confusion as you'd gasped in shock. 

it happened in stages: first, you'd considered throwing it off; tossing it to the wind to be swallowed up by some sandworm or scorched to a crisp in the unforgiving, sweltering air.

you thankfully didn't do that because shortly after the thought crossed through your mind: dank farrik, this thing was- it was some kind of...baby. it was tiny, its screams of confusion barely clipping through the hot rush of air blowing your head covering back in your speed. what in the name of Maker's Ghost was the Mandalorian doing with a baby? 

then, the following stage, with a thudding halt to your heartbeat, you'd wondered if it was like you. hunted, about to be sent to a place of no return just for a lousy sack of credits. would the Mandalorian stoop so low as to kidnap a mere child for a bounty? 

but then a glint on the thing’s chest pummeled you into the third mental process: a cold sheer panic.

 there was some sort of armor on its tiny, heaving chest. you knew, somehow, that this was a claim. he was with the Mandalorian, either in protection or by blood.

the speeder skidded to a stop as you allowed yourself to wonder if it was some sort of ploy; was he ensnaring you in a trap, coaxing you into his iron maw with a small child? 

(he wasn’t, as you’d later learned.)

you’re not sure why you went back. even with a clear target on the back of your head, you’d treaded on-foot back with the little baby cradled in a makeshift sling tight to your chest. the trek back into the city was blistering without your head covering, but the child’s wailing had ceased along with your racing fears. you hadn't wanted him to become scalded by the twins that beat down upon you from the sky. 

you'd grunted and growled to yourself: no matter who the Mandalorian assumed you were, you weren’t the kind to kidnap. never. 

maybe that's what caused you to track him back to his ship, wait for him to storm back out in his flurry, surely panicked by the loss of his transport and his small little companion.

he'd flown on a jetpack straight towards town. you left the child under the shade of the ship once you saw the Mandalorian's figure appear on the horizon; you couldn't have spent more than thirty minutes with the green creature, but it cried nonetheless when you set it gently in the sand and tried to let it go.

reluctantly, the only way it stopped crying was when you left it tucked snug with your headscarf pulled tight around its body. 

and then you snuck away in the last moments, evading the Mandalorian's sights, but watching behind a rock to make sure he returned to the child eventually, before it was dark.

and he did return; as he picked up the child and let out a groan of relief, tucking the child tight into his chest the way your father did you when you were in your youth, something too warm kindled in your chest. 

was it humanity, that you'd found?

the thing that was all too lost in your endeavors running away from the bounty which loomed above your head? 

maybe he, too, could play by the rules, even in this hunt. 

Din isn't quite sure what he expected from you. 

when he first took your puck, it seemed easy: a smuggler. young, naive, too cocky to be cautious. bought out by a man who said you'd robbed him of half his business then disappeared just before defending him in front of a galactic court.

Din had imagined you'd cower in his shadow, submit to his cuffs the minute he found you. 

but you were not naive - this he learned all too soon. you were unbending, cunning. slippery.

you were- you were a tease. there's no other way to put it: you were a kriffing tease, and it was killing him. you were like the foil to this job; everything but ease. 

you are a shadow in Mos Espa, while Din is a statue in the suns.

you knew he was trailing you all this time, it was obvious. Din didn't necessarily try to hide it at all. this job has never been anything but serious for him - no playing around, no jokes, just business. it was survival, especially now with Grogu; but this delicious game you'd started with him... he hated to admit, it was addictive.

was it when you laid that chase for him through the alleys? or when he'd first caught your wandering eye through the crowd at the market in town?

but then - you'd taken his child away and fear had struck him just as deep as the anger did.

he was a second away from tearing the entire planet apart for his Child when he returned to the Crest, intending on using his navs to source for Grogu-shaped infants nearby to find his son lying in the shade of the underbelly. he'd been concealed from the harsh sun by that very same cloth that'd concealed your head from Din for days. 

it made no sense. 

maybe that's why he liked this chase. it was easier for him to just get a job done and leave, usually - but you were an enigma, a fascination akin to a forbidden fruit lying just out of reach in the middle of a grove.

squeezing from his grasp every time he reached out - until he finally got you. 

"happy hunting?"

and now, this fourth time, the Mandalorian sends you tumbling to the sand had before aiming a blaster straight at your skull.

his voice is deep, seeded with disbelief and irritation; his timbre is finally in a direct address to you, and it's harrowing. his helmet is angled down towards you, one hand stern on his narrow hip as you dare to look around. 

nothing but dirt, sand, heat. a mirage of floating trees in the distance, but no other living being capable of freeing you from your predator.

turning back up to face his looming, commanding figure, you finally, with a groan, accept it. you're all alone here. no friends on this planet besides the tumbleweeds, it seems. 

no matter; here you are - the fourth cataclysm of universes for the two of you, and likely the final. 

and now you lie on your elbows, ass sore from your fall, rug pulled out from under you as sand grits into your arms. 

you squint up against the unforgiving glint that cuts into your retinas, sharp enough to slice you. the sight of the hot suns on the metal is unbearable as it is; imagining the suffering heat beneath the layers on his person is too much to consider.

those suns and his beskar must never have gotten along, you're sure.

he stares down at you in a sear that slices you in two, exposing your heartbeat immediately. he's expectant - happy huntings, he said - he's awaiting your response with a tersely angry stance.

with a blaster down the bridge of your nose.

you - you can't speak. fear drips like a saline bacta-bag through your veins.  

you don't have enough air in your lungs, that much you're sure of - the blaster pointed directly at your heaving chest: your hands shake as you raise them, resigned to your fate as the Mandalorian's broad chest heaves with nearly as much exertion as your own. he takes it as a sign to speak again.

"I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in cold." 

his words rumble into your chest, writing themselves at the top of your life's story; a new chapter. or an epilogue.

your head falls back in defeat, the suns' rays blistering new blemishes onto the bridge of your nose and your forehead, exposed above the mask.

your groan is of resignation. acceptance. 

that deep voice of his rumbles somewhere deep in your gut, nesting with the fear and the desire to run. run, run, run. 

you don't this time. 

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*: next part

taglist. @silkiers @leithatnight @totallynotastanacc @afandomidiot @bbyanarchist @clear-your-mind-and-dream @notsosecretspy

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:

[headachecat]

The Hours Found – Chapter VI

———

An anthology of hours in Lucanis and Rook’s relationship unseen in the game, but very much needed.

—

Timing: Just before 'When Plans Align' quest.

———

The setting sun on the horizon casted golden light onto the rooftops of Treviso, as if it tried to cling onto the buildings in a battle against the cool embrace of the night. The clouds started to gather in the corner of Lucanis’ eye, when he took in the view. They crept across the fading blue like whispers, dimming the warmth of the last rays of sunshine, which warmed his skin, as he made his way up the winding staircase of the Cantori Diamond. Below, the city came alive with the warm glow of lanterns strung between the narrow streets and hung from iron hooks along the canals. Their reflections danced on the water, mingling with the slow, graceful passage of gondolas gliding through. The footsteps echoed in a quiet, steady rhythm against the stone steps. The journey to the top seemed endless, and although he walked this path many times before, this time felt special. His heart trembled, each beat increasing the anticipation tightening his breath. It has now been almost a day since they found Rook. So much has happened in such a short time, that the exhaustion of the recent seemingly never-ending weeks disappeared, replaced by the sudden rush of adrenaline. Neve and Harding took charge, filling Rook in on Elgar’nan’s movements, Solas’ plans, and their countless failed attempts at creating another lyrium dagger. Taash kept busy in the kitchen, crafting one of the many rich Rivaini recipes to satisfy their hunger and offer comfort through food. Emmrich hovered over Rook, ever vigilant, ensuring she stayed hydrated and adjusted well to the real world once again. And then, there was Lucanis.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the moment they found her – the way he held her tightly in the Crossroads, his arms wrapped around her as if she might slip away again. The sensation of her presence, solid and real. He couldn’t believe she was back, the unexpected relief of it nearly bringing him to his knees. He replayed the memory endlessly: her warm yet tired smile, the soft exhale of his name, the way her hands clutched at him in return, as if anchoring herself. She came back to him. This memory etched itself into his mind like a strike of light after so much darkness. He wished he could have stayed like that forever, holding her, shielding her from whatever she went through and whatever might come next. He wished to never let go, yet he had to. And they haven’t touched since.

Lucanis lingered in the shadows, his arms crossed loosely over his chest, his eyes following her every movement with a silent worry lodged deep in his chest. What if his presence would only tire her more? He didn’t want to add to the weight she was already carrying, a burden he could see in the tension of her shoulders, the way her hands trembled ever so slightly when she thought no one was watching.

What if something had changed between them? He couldn’t stop the thought, couldn’t shake the fear that the Fade prison might have stolen something fragile from them. Something that could have been. He had no right to demand anything of her, no claim beyond the moments they had shared before everything had gone so terribly wrong. What if she no longer cared for him the way she once had? What if the bond they had forged, the trust that had grown between them, had withered in the cold and empty Void? What if it turned into a haunting regret she was forced to defeat?

The questions clawed at him, relentless. She had so much to take in now – so much to learn and adjust to after what she had endured. The sheer gravity of it all seemed enough to crush anyone. But not Rook. He could see determination in the way she spoke with the others, her eyes sharp even when her body betrayed her. She was fighting to stay present, as the world pulled her in a thousand different directions. All he could do was wait until the right moment presented itself. And so, it did. The day’s final meeting came to a close, their companions dispersing one by one from the library. Rook lingered behind, seated on the couch, her fingers wrapped tightly around an empty cup. Her grip was tense, almost too firm. Lucanis noticed how the faintest tremor ran through her hands when she exhaled. He could tell that if she let go, her hands might start to shake.

He stepped closer, careful to make no noise as he moved into the soft light cast by the Fade crystal overhead. His boots barely made a sound against the stone floor, but as he neared, her shoulders stiffened.

‘Rook,’ he whispered gently, his voice cautious. She flinched ever so slightly, her head turning to him as though coming back from some deep thought. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Lucanis,’ she breathed out, standing up. She turned to face him fully, her eyes glassy, but her smile unwavering. ‘We’ve still got work to do. I can collapse when this is all over.’

‘You should rest,’ he said, taking another step closer, the concern he had been carrying bleeding into his voice. ‘After all you’ve been through…’ the words trailed off, as he observed her letting go of the cup and reaching for his hand. Her eyes searched his, her expression softening as she seemed to take him, examine every little change that happened since she’s been gone. He smiled gently, offering her what little reassurance he could, though he could feel the nervous flutter in his chest. He nodded slightly, as though convincing himself as much as her that it was right to invite her into his company. ‘I’ll come by your room soon. To see how you’re doing.’

‘I’d rather not stay there,’ Rook said quickly, her words coming out faster than she intended. She cleared her throat and looked away briefly, as if trying to steady herself. Lucanis raised his eyebrows slightly, surprised by the suddenness of her reply. And then, before he could say anything, her fingers grazed his palm, cool but steady, and he froze, caught  in the tenderness of her touch. Her hand squeezed his gently, a shiver running through him. ‘It’s so cold and empty,’ she murmured, almost ashamed. Her gaze lifted to meet his again. ‘It’s like being back in the Void. Alone.’

She paused, her head dropping for a moment as if searching for the right words – or the courage to say them. Her hand remained in his, urging him to caress her knuckles calmingly. Then, she looked up at him again. ‘Meet me in Treviso?’ she said. ‘I just... I just need a moment.’

Lucanis blinked, momentarily caught off guard, but the certainty in her gaze left no room for doubt. He nodded almost instinctively, his grip tightening around her hand for the briefest second before he let go, careful not to cross any boundaries.

‘Of course,’ he replied, ‘I know just the place.’

Lucanis reached the final step, the evening breeze wrapping around him as he stepped into the rooftop garden. The air here was fragrant, alive with the mixing scents of soil, lavender, and elfroot. He scanned the garden. Oil lamps hung on trellises wrapped in ivy, their light casting a soft glow over the greenery. The world seemed to pause for a moment. Below, the city hummed with life, but here, high above the streets, it felt so peaceful and private. Then, he saw her.

Rook knelt by the edge of the garden’s central planter, her fingers brushing against the fronds of delicate ferns growing in the shadow of a fountain. She seemed absorbed in the moment, her movements certain and unhurried. Lucanis stopped just short of the area, unwilling to disturb her. In the soft glow of the lamps, she looked almost serene, but he knew better. He could see the tension in the line of her shoulders. He could see the way her hand rested against the soil, fingers half-clenched as though grasping for something solid to hold onto. As she moved, the faint, greenish glow of a tiny, levitating candle illuminated her hands. It floated just in front of her, casting emerald hues on her fingers as they grazed the plants and the soil. The candlelight flickered and danced, a soft companion to the murmured words escaping her lips.

Lucanis stepped closer, straining to hear her. The whispers were rhythmic, deliberate. Every so often, a high, soothing ring of a bell chimed softly in her hand, punctuating the tender spell. It took him a second, before he realised he’s seen her do it before. 

‘Let me know when you’re ready to leave. Preferably before this thing collapses on our heads,’ Lucanis grunted toward his new companions, his voice cutting through the stale, suffocating air of the Ossuary. He knelt beside Calivan’s lifeless body, rifling through the folds of his robes with practiced efficiency. Correspondence, notes, valuables – anything would do. The walls around them seemed to groan under the pressure of the water above, faint streaks of water seeping through and collecting in shallow pools on the ground. The elf, gave him a brief nod of acknowledgment before darting off down the corridor toward the prison cells they had passed earlier. Lucanis straightened, slipping a dagger onto his belt as his gaze shifted to the Dwarven Scout at his side. He raised eyebrow. Harding, as he had come to know her, shrugged lightly, a hint of compassion softening her expression. 

‘It’s a Mortalitasi thing,’ she explained simply. ‘She won’t be long.’ Intrigued, Lucanis followed down the path the elf had taken, his boots splashing through the wet soil. The faint gleam of bone sticking out from one of the cells caught his eye, a horrific reminder of the lives claimed within. 

It took him a minute to find her. She knelt inside one of the larger cells, her feet buried in the sand. Her hands brushed delicately against the bloodied walls. A faint, rhythmic chime reached his ears – the sound of the small bell she rang with a delicate movement. She whispered softly, her voice steady. Lucanis hesitated in the doorway, keeping his gaze fixed on her as he forced himself to ignore the decomposed bodies slumped against the walls around her. The skeletal remains seemed almost part of the cell, their forms half-consumed by the creeping mold and algae.

‘May your souls find their way undisturbed by the earthly passing,’ she murmured. ‘May the Fade claim your spirits and forgive the mortal taint. May you dream in peace.’

The realisation struck him – she was performing a memorial ritual. A rite, meant to guide the dead to their final rest. He stood silently for a moment longer, before slowly stepping inside and kneeling behind her, his movements careful not to disturb the sanctity of the moment.

Closing his eyes, he listened to the peacefulness of her words, letting them sink into him. The presence of Spite emerged beside him like a faint ripple in the air. Even before the demon spoke, Lucanis felt his gaze studying the Watcher in front of them.

‘She honours,’ Spite said, his voice lilting with intrigue. ‘The mortals. And the spirits.’

‘She didn’t even know them,’ Lucanis thought, though the words held no judgment. His eyes flickered toward Spite, as the demon moved in-between him and the elf. Spite nodded with subtle appreciation. 'Oh. I like her,’ Spite said, his form beginning to fade, yet his voice lingering in the space between Lucanis’ thoughts. ‘Rook.’ The name echoed within his mind, like he was tasting it. Simple. Strong. Inviting.

‘Lucanis,’ a voice got through to him. He blinked, realising he had been staring at her for longer than he’d intended. She had turned to face him, her expression tender and filled with compassion, although he noticed a glimmer of drying tears lingering in her glassy eyes.

‘I apologise,’ he said, clearing his throat as he scrambled for his usual composure. ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt.’

Rook smiled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. ‘That’s quite all right,” she said, her voice warm. She stood up, extending her hand toward him. Lucanis took it with a brief nod of gratitude, but as he moved to let go, he noticed that her grip lingered – subtle but deliberate. Her fingers wrapped around his, her gaze holding his with a knowing look.

‘What happened here is terrible,’ she said with earnest compassion. ’But you shouldn’t carry your grief alone. Don’t let it drown you in this prison.’

Lucanis exhaled sharply, her words cutting through him in a way he hadn’t expected. He let go of her hand, almost reflexively, and rubbed his palm as if it burned.

‘I suppose I will owe you more than I thought,’ he said. Rook’s smile only deepened, illuminating her face. ‘Like I said,’ she replied with a jest, ‘I’m sure we’ll owe each other before this is all over.’

Lucanis recalled the memory, and warmth spread through his chest like a crawling flame. It was the first time he had seen her raw compassion, the weight of her empathy easing the heaviness of dread around her. Now, here she was, surrounded by the chaotic life of Treviso, carrying that same gentleness into the night. 

He stepped closer, his boots brushing against gravel, making his presence known. Rook glanced up at him, as if she had been expecting him. She slid the small bell she had been ringing into her pocket, her movements measured, and stood up. The candle, which had floated gracefully between her fingers moments before, now settled gently on the stone edge of the fountain. Lucanis recognised it instantly from Necropolis. A Nevarran memorial candle, an eternal reminder of the ones lost.

‘It’s just a little something,' Rook’s gaze flicked to the candle briefly ‘For Varric.’

Lucanis tilted his head slightly, as he followed her line of sight, which kept escaping him. She was looking out over the city, where Treviso’s lights burned brightly against the creeping dark of the horizon. ‘He would have loved the view,’ Rook added. 

Her eyes remained on the skyline, as if she could see him there. She made her way down the path, heading toward the stone railing at the edge of the rooftop. Her gaze fixated on the glittering city below, avoiding Lucanis’ eyes. It was only now, that he had noticed the rather large coat she was wearing, one he hadn’t seen before. It draped over her frame like an old relic, its leather scratched and worn, the marks of time and hardship etched into every seam – the black, patchy fur trimming the neckline singed with a memory of the fire that burned it. She wrapped it tighter around herself with every step she took. 

Lucanis followed, meeting her by the edge of the roof. ‘Is that his coat?’ he asked gently. Rook’s grip on the leather loosened slightly, as she nodded. Lucanis smiled faintly, studying her. 'It suits you.’

Rook let out a short, breathy laugh, her lips curling in a fleeting smile. ‘There were just a few things he left,’ she murmured. ‘The Inquisitor suggested sending his notes to a friend of his – Seeker Pentaghast, I think she said. Apparently, a fan of his writing.’ She shook her head slightly, a wry humour creeping into her tone. ‘And Bianca – well, Harding offered to find the Champion of Kirkwall and deliver it to him personally. She figured he might not take it well otherwise.’

Her hand slid across the edge of the coat, fingers brushing over the worn fabric as she pulled it tighter around herself once more. She exhaled slowly, her voice softening. ‘But this…' she paused for a second. ‘This I’ll keep for myself. He always knew I was jealous of his fashion sense.’ Lucanis took a small step closer. ‘He would have been glad you kept it. A piece of him survives, because you saved it.’ 

With a quiet sigh of disagreement, she raised her hand, pointing toward the breathtaking panorama of Treviso spread out beneath them. ‘This is the only thing I managed to save,’ she whispered, her voice quiet and distant, fading as if her thoughts were slipping somewhere far away from the moment. ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’

Lucanis watched her closely, his focus drawn to the sadness gleaming in her eyes. She seemed to fade away, disappearing into a memory he could not touch. His heart sank, a weight pulling deep within him. He couldn’t bear to lose her. Not ever again. He stepped closer, his hesitation melting away as he reached out to touch her hand. To bring her back to him. ‘You shouldn’t carry your grief alone,’ he recalled her words, her voice like an anchor in the storm of his memories. Only then did Rook meet his gaze, her expression softening as recognition dawned in her eyes. Lucanis didn’t hesitate this time. He lifted her hand, his grip firm but not forceful, drawing her closer with a resolution that surprised them both. The steady thrum of his heartbeat echoed in his ears. He felt the familiar stir of energy at his back, the telltale rush of magic coursing through him as the wings began to unfurl. Spite’s murmur crept into his mind, a mix of curiosity and approval. 

‘Bold,’ the demon purred, his presence a steady undercurrent in his thoughts.

The sensation of the wings was no longer foreign to him. They moved with him, becoming a real extension of his will. He steadied his arms with determination, as he let them trace lightly over the curve of Rook’s arms, then her shoulders, and finally the dip of her back. He paused, tilting his head slightly, awaiting her approval. ‘Would you like to see it better?’

Rook’s lips parted slightly as she nodded. Lucanis moved with certainty, his arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her close enough that he could feel the steady rise and fall of her breath. Without another word, he shifted his weight and leapt, the powerful beat of his wings propelling them into the sky. The rush of air whistled past them, crisp and cold against his face. Rook’s grip tightened around him instinctively. Spite carried them higher, moving the wings with practiced precision. Lucanis adjusted their position, letting the magic guide him until they floated in a comfortable hover, just above the casino’s highest spire. From here, Treviso stretched endlessly. 

Streets wound like veins through the body of the city. Shadows danced between alleys and plazas, echoes of the citizens’ lives playing out below – distant voices mingling with the faint notes of a tune carried by a busker. Laughter bubbled up from a corner where children chased one another in the dim light, while a gondola slid silently through a canal, its passengers leaning close in conversation. Rook’s eyes wandered over the scene in wonderment.

‘This is all thanks to you. Every single life down there. And maybe…’ Lucanis’ voice softened, his next words trembling on his tongue, ‘…maybe even mine.’

His gaze lingered on her face, searching for her reaction. The heat rising to his cheeks was impossible to ignore. He shifted slightly in their weightless float, the wings beating slower now, almost cautious. The city breathed steady below, oblivious his confession. Above, the clouds thickened, smothering the stars and wrapping the sky in a grey blanket. The last ray of sunlight vanished, the air turned brisk, carrying with it a scent both familiar and yet elusive. Rook turned her face to him fully, her eyes meeting his with an intensity that made his breath stop. He could see tears glistening in her eyes, but what struck him wasn’t the sadness—it was something he’s been searching for. The spark of happiness. Gratitude. Joy. All the raw, unfiltered emotion she always shared with him just like this, without any words.

Maker, how he had missed it.

Suddenly, the first droplets of rain fell, sharp like tiny needles against Lucanis’ skin. He blinked as the water traced his face, just now realising tears have formed in his eyes. The weight of it all pressed down on him – the grief, the pain, the endless nights he actually prayed for sleep to come, just so he could see her in his dreams again. His grip on her tightened ever so slightly as if to reassure himself she was truly here. He couldn’t lose her again. He wouldn’t lose her again. 

Lucanis allowed the wings to slow their rhythm further, lowering them gently back onto the rooftop. His boots thumped faintly as they touched the ground, the rain soaking into his hair and coat. He didn’t care. He placed Rook gently in front of him, keeping her close. Just to feel her presence. 

‘I cannot believe we found you,’ he whispered, his voice breaking as he looked at her through the curtain of rain. 'I thought I’d never see you again.’ His words hung in the air between them, his pain and relief pouring out like the rain around them. He could feel his throat tighten, but refused to look away. Rook chuckled slightly, her wet hair sticking to her face, as she shook her head. 

‘Oh, come on, we both know you couldn’t get rid of me that easily.’ The brief moment of hesitation in her jest didn’t go unnoticed. Lucanis caught it in her eyes. He reached out, instinctively, his hand lifting to touch her cheek. His fingers brushed against her wet skin, pushing a strand of hair aside, and for a moment, he simply lingered there, feeling the heat of her skin among the cool rain.

‘Rook,’ he murmured in a low tone, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw as he moved closer. His touch found the delicate curve of her neck, pulling her gently, irresistibly, closer to him. ‘You’re impossible,’ he whispered, a hint of admiration peaking through. Her eyes flickered up to meet his, studying him with a softness that caught him off guard. She tilted her head, her lips curving into her usual, playful smile.

'But in a good way?’ Her voice was breathy, teasing, yet there was a certain vulnerability in the way she spoke, as if she wasn’t entirely sure. Lucanis’ heart thudded in his chest.

‘That’s what I love about you,’ he said, his voice barely a whisper, before he closed the distance between them, pressing his lips to hers.

The kiss was sweet, almost gentle at first, as if they were both savouring the moment they’d been waiting for. His hands cradled her face, fingers running over the soft curves of her jaw as he deepened the kiss, pulling her closer. The hunger that had been simmering inside him for so long finally blew up, fierce and unrestrained. Her hands slid to his neck, her touch driving him wild with every subtle movement. It was all too much – too long, too intense – and yet it was everything he had hoped for. The rain continued to fall, a constant, soothing rhythm against the world around them, but in that moment, the only thing that mattered was the heat of her lips against his, the steady pressure of her body pressed close to his own, and the knowledge that they had found their way back to each other.

His fingers slid into her wet hair, tangling in the damp strands as he coaxed her closer, his mouth urging hers to respond with equal intensity. His wings, as if sensing the need to protect her, unfurled instinctively once more. They fluttered around, enclosing them both in a tight, protective embrace, the feathers brushing against Rook’s back and shoulders. A soft, yet strong barrier from the world outside, a way to keep her safe in this fleeting moment.

The kiss deepened, as Lucanis could feel her fingers wrapping around his shirt, pulling him closer onto her. It was the release of every bit of tension they held, the way they both needed to anchor themselves in a world that had ripped them apart. Their breaths mingled in the space between kisses, their hearts syncing in a rhythm of their own. ‘Vhenan’ Rook pulled back, breathing heavily. Lucanis opened his eyes slowly, the heat of her breath still lingering on his skin. He couldn’t resist, brushing his lips against hers once more, a gentle touch, as if to reassure himself that this moment was real. She pressed their foreheads together, guiding his hand to her heart. ‘Mi Amor’ he replied tenderly, the meaning of the elven word coming to him without thought, as natural as his next breath. He leaned in slowly, letting her close the space between them this time. 

It was no longer just a kiss. It had become something far more than that, a seal on everything they had gone through together. A silent acknowledgment of all the debts they had owed each other, debts now paid in full.And more than that, it was a promise – a vow of what was to come. Together, they would face whatever the future held. A contract, if you will.

And Maker knows, a Crow never abandons a contract.