#in terms of how long he lived until the Cataclysm

[reginrokkr]

𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐕𝐈𝐈. Birth of a thought made manifest in human flesh —Dáinsleif's origins—.

◜The Winged One's regret or remorse gave birth to a thought, and as he imagined the path that could have been taken, a new soul was born.◞

As a result of the war waged against the Second Who Came, Nibelung and the ensuing chaos with the leaking Forbidden Knowledge that had to be subdued lest the world was plunged into darkness, thus left with no chances for survival, Phanes' functions were ruined and could no longer use their absolute authority to suppress the original order of this world. In combination with his severely wounded state, the Usurper glimpsed into the wrongs of his deeds and the ones bound to come after if he were to be deteriorated further due to the influence of the Forbidden Knowledge, the loathing and resentments of the world or other forces that could take advantage of his weakened state.

He who loved his human creations more than anyone, and He who cursed the gods to come after to love humans saw himself mired in hypocrisy the moment his creations were at disadvantage the most and were kept in the highest regard no longer due to his own decisions' and that of his closest circle, who should follow his will. Thus in a moment of weakness and lucidity, his regret gave birth to a thought— to a what if. What if things were different, what if his initial desire continued without struggling against the vicissitudes and personal agendas, what if he was stronger to not let himself be corrupted to this point of apparent no return.

What if he could undo everything that made his sacred plans evil.

From these last thoughts was Dáinsleif born as a soul, nurtured in a seed in Irminsul's benevolent aura out of its kindness and will for the world to cease fighting against its own natural orders and to diminish the loathing and resentments of the world that the Primordial One has caused. One day of the countless moons this seed basked under the moonlight and Irminsul's might, he was born in the material world in Celestia as a human, a manifestation of the origins never known by others of Phanes' closest circle until divine's eyes fell upon him. Unrest was among them, yet only muted at the knowledge that they could do with him as they pleased. So repeating the cycle of a once heiress of Celestia that failed in her task to retrieve the Pearl of Genesis and believed herself to be the queen of the kingdom of darkness, Dáinsleif was sent there with the intent to erase his memories of any ties he could have to Celestia.

Thus he would have no connection with the divine, nor his actions would suppose betrayal to any— for it is them who betrayed them first, abandoned him to his fortune. Unbeknownst to them, he who they abandoned would be the one to silence the source of all sins in the deepest abyss and undo the wrongs that began with the greatest Usurper, as well as reweaving all threads of fate.

It would all begin in Khaenri'ah, where Dáinsleif has drifted with a mission he recalls no more, and where he would mature his views of the world, limited at the time as they may be. His love for humanity and pursuit to defend them limitless as the Primordial Sea from where all life is born, even if his personal beliefs about the laws set in the kingdom and its deeds may differ drastically from what it would be expected of anyone who arrives to the kingdom established along the roots of Irminsul.

[mxlfoydraco]

Hello! I'm getting back into fandom after many years and was hoping you could recommend the best (or most popular) drarry fics to come out in the last 5 years?? The longer the better! I'm having such a blast re-reading old favs and would love more to read! Thank you so much!

I was also away from the fandom the past three years, we share the feeling! I'll go for +100k and skip super well known examples (e.g., Grounds for Divorce)

Alucinatio by alexmeg (127k)

"It's... it's not good," Harry tells them lowly. "They've given him a month's time, only." There is so much he needs to explain, but his head is foggy and exhausted and he can't think properly, can't think of how to relay all that he's learned. "Have you heard of Alucinatio?" is what he starts with. "The Daydream potion," Hermione says. "The person who intakes it experiences very vivid and realistic daydreams of all they could ever want, but is essentially in a severely catatonic state out in the external world, incapable of any basic functions." Harry nods. "Somebody's given it to Malfoy." He remembers the tattered remains of a black coak wrapped around Malfoy. "I think it might have been Professor Snape." They take a minute to process that. "And... the cure?" Ron asks. "Tears of anyone the experiencer craves love of," Hermione answers.

I Do Not Love You by Writ_and_romance (228k)

In 2013, a carefully-designed Obliviation leaves Harry reconfiguring his life and identity without any memories of true love; an act that’s essentially erased Draco Malfoy from his mind despite a wedding band and shared home. In 2000, Draco had expected Pansy’s relationship with Luna to bring the Gryffindors a bit closer to his orbit of quiet, carefully pacifistic existence, but he never expected to navigate such a transparent embrace into a unit of family, friendship, and love. A mystery, two love stories, and a reminder that learning to love never has an end date.

Nor All That Glisters by @sweet-s0rr0w (110k)

Lonely and frustrated on house arrest, with no prospects for the future, Draco begins brewing Felix Felicis in an attempt to improve his lot. Just in the short term, of course. He isn’t a total idiot.

But before long he finds himself with a thriving business, a nice flat, some actual (albeit irritatingly Gryffindor) friends, and a very satisfying sex life. What’s more, no-one is hexing him in the street. And Harry Potter is single, and gorgeous, and giving Draco decidedly interested looks.

Stop taking the Felix? You must be joking…

Soup-pocalypse and The Great Curry Cataclysm by @norelationtoatticus (104k)

Eleven years after the war, Draco Malfoy leads a quiet, boring, and perfectly respectable life, thanks very much. Or, at least he does, until a sudden and very unexpected veela awakening causes him to throw soup all over Harry Potter in the middle of the Ministry cafeteria.

Every Hour Has Led to This by @sassy-cissa​ (105k)

Banned from the wizarding world and sentenced to live as a Muggle for ten years, Draco Malfoy finds his world turned upside down. Navigating the Muggle world becomes easier thanks to help from some unexpected strangers who become family. But when his mother insists Draco fulfil an agreement set when he was a child, he finds himself married and a father. Then a divorced single father. After the war Harry Potter found himself without purpose, until an unexpected offer changed his life. Playboy, Quidditch star, war hero – Harry seems to have it all, until a Quidditch accident ends his career. Lost and without purpose, Harry’s life is lonely until a surprising event brings him to Draco’s door…literally. Running parallel lives for nearly 10 years, when they reconnect both Draco and Harry find the passion for life that had been missing. A story of love and loss and how the best things in life happen in their own time

Pages of You by @wolfpants (101k)

Summer, 1980. Harry is floating between university and becoming a Real Certified Adult. He's not ready. He really isn't.

In a desperate attempt to have the Best Last Summer ever, he takes a casual job at his godfather's bookshop in London, starts an illicit pen pal affair with a wordy posh boy that he's catching feelings for, all while dealing with the son of Sirius's business rival, one Draco Malfoy, insufferable know-it-all extraordinaire.

A story about trying to figure out who you are, where you're going in life, and who you want to take along with you.

Notes on a resurrection by newleaves (126k)

It was never Draco’s intention to raise Sirius Black from the dead.

The Liars Department by @dorthyanndrarry (103k)

This is a story about Harry meeting up with Draco Malfoy four years after the war. And a story about Harry, well, not hating his job per say, but it's not like he has much to compare it to and it seemed fine. His whole life seemed fine. Then Malfoy came along with and his flashy suits and fast car making everything seem dull in comparison, and Harry... Harry couldn't just leave well enough alone.

Turning Leaves by @kbrick (112k)

Draco and Harry have a one-night stand that ends in disaster after Harry tells Draco he's unable to move beyond their poisonous past. So when Draco finds an unusual Time-Turner in the Department of Mysteries, he seizes the opportunity to start fresh with Harry. Only instead of fixing things, he keeps making them worse.

Bolts by @lqtraintracks (114k)

Harry joins the Hogwarts staff as the new History of Magic Professor, while Draco has already been teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts for the past year. When Samantha, a first year, is being bullied one day and throws a made-up Truth curse at her harasser, only to accidentally hit Harry instead, Harry becomes cursed to tell the truth, and not only that, he has to regularly tell it to Draco Malfoy. Samantha is clearly gifted, maybe the most powerful witch or wizard to ever come through Hogwarts, and yet she has no idea how to take the curse off. As they work to remove it—and also teach Samantha how to control a power that's becoming more dangerous by the day—will Harry's truths become too much to handle? And will whatever’s going on with Draco just make everything exponentially worse?

Freedom to be by @quicksilvermaid (169k)

Harry Potter is the Boy Who Lived. 12 years after the war, he's become the Boy Who Lived For Everyone Else. He has the perfect wife. The perfect house. The perfect job. The perfect friends. Only nothing feels perfect. Until one day he stumbles across a club called Release and begins a journey of self-discovery that takes him to a very different place.

By the Grace by @letteredlettered (139k)

Harry is an Auror instructor. Malfoy wants to be an Auror.

Two to Shore by Lamplighter (204k)

Harry and Draco meet in Madam Malkin’s and instantly take a liking to each other. Just kidding. They don’t, but Harry does get sorted into Slytherin, and they do become extremely good friends.

Way Down We Go by @xiaq (109k)

The war was over. Or at least that’s what the papers said. They’d been saying it, for months, as if people needed reminding. Maybe they did.

In which Harry and Draco both run away from their pasts and conveniently choose to hide in the same tiny American town. It's super.

Nyctophilia by prolonged_autumn (107k)

Everyone's back for 8th year, and Harry and his friends seem determined to spend their last year in school running around at night, hyped up on coffee and alcohol and Honeydukes candy, doing all the childish things they didn't have the chance to do before. Draco watches as he's always watched: from afar, quiet and bitter and hopelessly in love. That is, until Pansy decides she's had quite enough of it.

Make Yourself by @anyaelizabethfic (103k)

Harry just wants to be safe within the freshly painted walls of Grimmauld Place, with his friends around him. But when he hears Draco Malfoy has been spotted at the local soup kitchen, he can’t help but encourage a different type of stray to come under his roof.

Kept Man by @drarry (147k)

A downtrodden Harry Potter in a serious dry spell is looking to be a kept man, and a lonely Draco Malfoy responds to his anonymous ad. A perfect storm of lust, scandal, and maybe even love. A Daddy Kink Magnum Opus.

The Ordeal of Being Known by @lou-isfake (146k)

When Auror Potter is anonymously cursed with silence by being forced to hide his own voice inside his mind, there’s unfortunately only one person in the country with the qualifications to fix it: Certified and Licensed Healer Legilimens, Draco Malfoy, specialist in Mind Curses and Afflictions. It’s obviously a terrible idea, a disaster waiting to happen, but Draco’s never been able to back down from a challenge… especially from Potter.

Harry Potter and the Welcome to the World of Grey by @sobsicles (456k)

When Harry fails to keep his anger at bay and Voldemort possesses his mind, the events that follow lead him down a long road to realizing the world isn’t as black and white as it seems. Chaos, hilarity, and tragedy ensue with a Dark Lord being honest all the time, a rival becoming something else, and a world demanding to be saved. Featuring frightened Death Eaters, deep conversations with a monster, Pureblood traditions being ridiculous, and the fight to do the right thing with no true options. Harry’s life just gets more and more bizarre with each passing moment. ~~~ Or, the one where Harry’s life gets split in half, and he has to figure out how to bring it back together.

The Secret Keeper by @the-fools-errand (225k)

On Halloween 1981, Albus Dumbledore made a decision that would change the course of history, concealing Harry Potter’s survival at the hands of Lord Voldemort underneath a Fidelius Charm. But when Harry comes of age in the Muggle world, Dumbledore realises too late that the fate of the world may depend on a boy who has never held a wand. An unlikely team assembles to teach him everything he needs to know before the charm runs out, but only one of them knows the truth behind the Dark Lord’s return to power. If it were anyone else, Draco would have no problem turning them over to the Death Eaters, but there’s something about this certain bespectacled idiot that has him questioning everything he’s ever known. Will Draco seal the fate of the wizarding world by uncovering the Chosen One or will Harry save Draco from a fate of his own?

Dwelling on Dreams by @the-sinking-ship (135k)

Draco thought he could avoid Potter for the duration of his brief return to England. He’d stick to his schedule and be back home in Paris, where he belonged, in a few short months. No trouble at all. He had plenty to occupy him, what with the opening of the London branch of his successful apothecary, his innovative research, drinks with Pansy, a backlog of unread potions periodicals. Except Head Auror Potter is everywhere — in Draco's chair, at his door, in his dreams. All six feet of motorbike-riding, combat-boot-wearing, sex-hair-sporting Saviour of the World packed into one unfairly fetching uniform. Potter won’t leave Draco the bloody hell alone, won’t let him breathe, let him forget, let him sleep. Because no matter how fast Draco Malfoy runs, Harry Potter is always hot on his heels.

A Sword Laid Aside by @korlaena (128k)

When Draco’s cover is blown during a deep undercover operation and the Ministry is compromised, Ron takes Draco to the only safe place he can think of—Potter. Hiding out with a taciturn Harry Potter, who has been missing from the Wizarding World for almost two decades after a shocking fall from grace, is nothing like Draco thought it would be. Draco has to navigate dealing with this Potter while being hunted by Dark wizards and wanted by extremists in the Ministry. When things take a turn for the worse, Draco has to decide whether he's going to keep running or find a way to protect the world and the people he cares about most.

Changing Tides by @carpemermaidtales (109k)

Draco has spent half of his life spouting the things his father has taught him without much thought about how he feels about what he says. When he unexpectedly comes face to face with the Dark Lord, he grapples with the harsh realities of the world and struggles with his changing views on life. Instead of doing what’s expected of him fifth year, he joins Dumbledore’s Army and learns how to defend himself, how to make his own choices, and how he can be something greater than his father’s example as he grows into his own man rather than his father’s shadow. The choices he makes change both his and Harry’s fates, intertwining their paths until they converge.

Taking Chances by @gracerene (135k)

After the war, Draco disappeared and started over in America, vowing never to return to Great Britain and the fraught past he left behind. Unfortunately, when his mates convince him to sign up for an exchange programme for the last year of their Auror Training, Draco learns that he doesn’t have much of a choice in the matter.

Graceless Heart by @orange-peony​ (132k)

Harry is lost and broken after the war. He has gone to countless funerals, broken up with Ginny, moved back into Grimmauld Place—which feels darker and dirtier than ever before despite how much he tries to fix it. He feels lonely and desperate, but he won’t ask for help, and he still can’t cry.

When he agreed to help the Aurors at Malfoy Manor over the summer, he thought that he would be breaking dark curses. Harry never thought that he would actually spend his days sorting out dusty books with Draco Malfoy, or teaching him how to cook.

Little by little, as they begin to navigate their life post-war, Harry and Draco become intimate…in more ways than Harry could have ever expected.

Brave Though The Stars They Make Me by @dwell-the-brave (108k)

After the events at the end of his Sixth Year, Draco Malfoy has been kept all but prisoner in his childhood home, Malfoy Manor. Alone, terrified, and desperate for some way out, he begins to have strange dreams - dreams of Harry Potter. Are they a trick of his mind? Or are they a way to change his fate, and a chance at redemption?

Always Already by @aibidil (170k)

Harry and Draco are perfectly fine, separately minding their business in 2004, when the Unspeakables conscript them into service... in the First War against Voldemort.

Come for mutual pining and forced proximity in a 1980 hotel room, stay for young Sirius and philosophising about immortality and wormholes. And an eighties cowboy soap opera.

He Comes Like a Thunderstorm by @korlaena (140k)

Draco is doing his best to balance the life he wants to live and the life he’s forced to live. He’s nearing the tail-end of a long, post-war probation when Harry Potter crashes back into his life with all the grace of a charging Erumpent, breaking through his carefully constructed rules and routine. Caught up in a whirlwind of sex and lust, Potter unwittingly shows Draco that his life as an Incubus doesn’t have to be as lonely and unfulfilling as he thought, but how long can it last?

Close Behind by @oflights (134k)

To rescue Draco from the Underworld, Harry has to look forward. Unfortunately, Draco has to look back

where all the veins meet by @saxamophone (146k)

It's the summer of 1998. The battle is over, and Voldemort is dead, but Harry still has more questions than answers. Who is he without a piece of Voldemort's soul in his head? What is he supposed to do now? His friends try to help, but the only thing that can hold his attention—one of the only things that ever has—is Draco Malfoy, out on parole and weirdly hanging around the British Museum. As they keep running into each other, Harry sees that Malfoy is different, and he wonders if he can be someone else, too. Featuring rumpled band shirts, poker games everyone hates, fumbling sex, and a Harry going a little mental over how wands even work.

[amaltheas-garden]

What if Jon's sweetness in the bittersweet ending is his short lived love with Daenerys?

While I do think the show is probably accurate to what we'll get in the books in the broadest of strokes, there are still a lot of other plotlines to get through before Jon and Dany can even meet. For how long his books are, grrm really doesn't cover all that much time, meaning in just two books, Jon has to be resurrected (which I suspect won't happen until around the halfway point in Winds, since there's no point in Jon dying and coming back just a few chapters later), Sansa has to make it to the Wall, Arya has to return from Braavos and confront Lady Stoneheart, Littlefinger has to be taken care of, Jon and Sansa have to retake Winterfell, and the Starks have to reunite all amidst the growing threat of the whitewalkers. On Dany's side, Aegon has to get to King's Landing, Dany has to become leader of the Dothraki, fulfill all the bits of her prophecy (the 'to go West you must go East' one), and rally her armies to cross the narrow sea, and resolve ALL the loose ends in Essos since whence Dany leaves, that will be the last time we see it. And that's not including all the other stories, like the Dorne plot, Cersei/Jaime/Brienne, and Stannis/Davos/Melisandre, or accounting for the characters still very separate from everything (Sam off in Oldtown and Bran doing three eyed raven stuff). And all this is build up for the final cataclysmic conflict, the song of ice and fire. Now, that is a lot of content to get through, and when you start laying out every single thing that needs to be resolved, it becomes rather apparent why WoW is taking so long. The point is, Jon and Dany are not meeting in Winds, and it would be a miracle for them to meet even in the first half of Dream of Spring. That's why I highly doubt the relationship between Jon and Dany will be a genuine romantic one. Grrm is not the type to do a quick, star-crossed lovers plotline that ends tragically all within the span of a few hundred pages. A Jon x Sansa romance makes more sense, seeing as, if we accept Sansa as the girl in grey, she and Jon will spend the majority of two books with each other.

As for the show, there was nothing bittersweet in Jon having to kill his lover after she becomes a tyrant and threatens to murder his sisters, and for him to end the series by leaving his family for a lifetime of solitude. If book!Jon is destined to go beyond the wall after DoS, the 'sweetness' will be in knowing he did everything in his power to protect his family. No short-term love affair with Dany could ever replace the love Jon holds for the Starks.

Book wise, I doubt the Jon x Dany relationship will be one of genuine romantic love on Jon's part (see pol!Jon theory), and while Jon could end his story alone, I don't think a relationship with Dany is enough to fulfill a 'bittersweet' ending. I also recommend this incredible meta on Jon's ending (it does skew heavily Jonsa-centric) FedonCiadale — Sometimes scrolling through the Jonsa tag, I find... (tumblr.com) and they also have some other amazing answers on the bittersweet ending.

[qqueenofhades]

Do you think Barack Obama was a good president?

For the most part, yes. The fact that he got elected in the first place (and in a landslide) was nothing short of miraculous, but those of you on the younger side don't remember just how FUCKING FED UP the entire country was with Dubya and his bullshit. It didn't really matter if you were Democrat or Republican. Everyone hated him, especially when he went out in 2008 by causing a generational economy-crashing cataclysm. For him to go from a 91%+ approval rating just after 9/11, to the low 20s by the time he left office, shows just how sick and tired everyone was with him, and how we fondly (ha) imagined that he would be the worst American president in our lifetime. How very innocent we were.

The fact that Obama, a black guy with the middle name Hussein, who had not even a full term as a US senator as his only real meaningful political experience, could come in there and win is a feeling that honestly is nothing like anything anyone had experienced in politics before. I remember staying up with my family (I was studying abroad in the UK) over phone/Skype until the race was called for Obama around 3am, and one of my classmates ran outside the flat in delirium yelling "OBAMA WON!!!" The pictures of elderly African-Americans just crying their eyes out on that night, and the way they still look at Barack and Michelle now, is special. Yes, of course the reality didn't totally live up to the promise of that moment, but man, for a little while there, it really felt like we had changed the entire paradigms on which this stupid flawed country had been built from the beginning. I can't imagine we'll feel like that again for a long, long time.

Obama managing to save the economy (as noted before, it's a theme that Democratic presidents have to come in and clean up the ungodly mess left by Republicans) and pass the Affordable Care Act, even as watered-down as it was from what he wanted, were two very significant accomplishments. Where he fell short, however, was in his dealings with said Republicans, and obviously not all of this was his fault. Obama was intensely conscious of his position as a political newcomer AND that he was a black guy. The level of racism, vitriol, and sheer ugliness that he (and his family) faced from all quarters was (and is) yeah. We got the Tea Party, the "birthers," and the rest of the radical-right lunatics out in full force, and Obama was aware that he was going to get blamed for everything and then some. He also wanted to think that the Republicans would throw a hissy fit and then get over it and work with him. They didn't. Not for one single day. Not on anything. Just because he was a Democratic black guy. That was all it took, and they stuck to it even as Obama kept reaching for the football and thinking that THIS time, surely they would be reasonable. They weren't. On anything. Ever.

Likewise, the Democrats were caught unprepared by the special election for Ted Kennedy's Massachusetts senate seat, which they lost (taking them from a filibuster-proof 60-seat majority to 59, after which the Republicans accordingly filibustered everything and the Democrats didn't push hard enough to stop them/change the rules). They also seemed to just assume that hey, the country voted for Obama in 2008, they'd clearly do it again in 2010, and they didn't really hype up the ACA or campaign for it or anything like that. So they got shellacked to the tune of 60+ House seats lost in 2010, and then lost the Senate in 2014, allowing Mitch McConnell to flat-out blockade Merrick Garland's SCOTUS nomination (who Obama picked to fill Antonin Scalia's seat) and get away with it. Obama was also not nearly as assertive about nominating judges as Biden has been, though it's also the case that Trump hadn't yet packed the benches with an endless conveyor belt of unqualified uber-conservative hacks. Once again, I think this is a reflection of Obama's overall political inexperience and the fact that he felt he had to "play nice" or get pigeonholed as the "angry black guy," which he then did anyway. So it really was a catch-22.

Online Leftists always like to yelp about "Obama ordering a lot of drone strikes!!!", as if they a) know anything else about American foreign policy, b) are at all interested in criticizing Trump for using EVEN MORE (by like... a lot, and nearly starting WWIII when he killed the Iranian general with one), or c) ever consider the overall ungodly fucking mess that Obama was ALSO left with in Iraq and Afghanistan. I'm not about to defend or agree with that either, but it's disingenuous (as per usual with them) to suggest that that was the only thing Obama did during his presidency and/or that he should be judged on that alone. They also like to pretend that he faced no racism at all, that he could have just "codified Roe vs. Wade and didn't!", that there were no double standards in how he was treated by the press, the political establishment, and the American people, and so on.

So: overall, yes, I think Obama had good intentions and tried to do the right thing. He failed at certain major parts of that, both because of the Republicans and because he didn't have the experience to challenge them or know how to work around them, and because he was in an utterly impossible position. The intense white backlash that gave rise to Trump showed that contrary to what anyone liked to think about Obama's election heralding a "post-racial" era, it was back and more ugly and public than it had been in a long time. It was also surprising that our first black president was a Democrat, and not a Republican shill like Tim Scott and/or Clarence Thomas, who has been allowed to rise in the party only because he faithfully repeats all the maxims of the (white) GOP ruling class. So the sheer strength of Obama Derangement Syndrome, which persists today, has to figure into any appraisals of either what he did or what he could have reasonably been expected to accomplish, and I don't think people get that.

[existentialcrisis-24-7]

Trix on your rewrite?

Thank you so much for this ask! I'm actually so sorry it has taken me this long to answer, but I am my own worst critic and couldn't come up with an answer until now that I was satisfied with. I'm still not totally satisfied with this, but I'd rather just rip off the bandaid with this at this point so it's not proofread or anything. Enjoy!

(cut bc it got long)

Icy was once the second princess of Dyamond. Her childhood was pretty normal by princess standards until she was 7, when a cataclysmic magical storm swept through the world and destroyed everything and everyone in its path, leaving only her. 

While stumbling around the ruins of her castle, she came across Mandragora. Icy panicked and shot a magic blast at Mandragora which she very easily deflected. There was a silent stand-off for a while between the two while the Ancestral Witches debated on what to do about the situation, shocked that anyone had been able to survive their storm, much less a child. Tharma thought they should just kill Icy, tying up their loose end, and be done with it. Belladonna believed they could use Icy to get what they needed and then they could leave her to die. Liliss pointed out that the only pawn they had was Mandragora who was in fact a known war criminal and that having a pawn so young, impressionable and unrelated to them could prove to be useful. Tharma got outvoted and it was decided that Icy could live. 

It was explained to Icy (in child terms) that Mandragora was trying to find the person who caused the storm and that if Icy came with them and followed the Witches’ orders they would help her get revenge. They generally exploited the fact that Icy was a child in an extremely vulnerable emotional state. Icy agreed and picked up witchcraft without too much trouble, meeting Darcy and Stormy years down the line when she was 13 and 14 respectively. 

Icy’s magic is incredibly strong, with her having the most experience and the one with the strongest negative feelings backing it as well as a lot of one on one training from the Ancestral Witches.

In terms of her role in the group, she’s the leader. She always has a plan and can keep her cool in nearly any situation in spite of her temper. While she wasn’t much like this as a child, Icy has grown to be incredibly cold and ruthless. She genuinely cares about her sisters, but if she needed to sacrifice them to achieve her goals and couldn’t find another way, she would do it. Beyond her sisters, she doesn’t really care for anyone and usually only keeps them around for as useful as they can be to her. Between her and her only, she’s got really bad attachment issues and kinda clings to people like life rafts. 

Icy is the only one of the Trix that knew anything about Darkar before he gets his big reveal, though she only really knew that he was more powerful than the Ancestral Witches.

I'm also debating as of right now whether I should make Icy have albinism.

Darcy was the middle child of the wealthy D’Arcy family on Fallot. She spent most of her childhood being routinely ignored and disregarded and learned to use this to her advantage. She taught herself how subtly manipulate people and blend into the background even more allowing her to get away with a lot of questionable things. Eventually she picked up witchcraft and found she had quite the affinity for it (repressed feelings of loneliness and anger helped immensely with that), and spent a lot more of her time practising it growing to be quite proficient for someone her age. Her family found out and, with witch discrimination running rampant across the Magic Dimension (in spite of Griffin’s best efforts), her family forced her to give it up. Darcy naturally didn’t take too kindly to this and made the choice to leave at the age of 12. Her family didn’t notice for nearly 2 days. 

Darcy went around a month before she met Icy and very quickly convinced her that she should be allowed to join. Mandragora was not happy to have to keep an eye on another child but relented after Liliss claimed that Darcy could prove to be a powerful witch if given the right push.

In terms of her relationship with the rest of the group, Darcy is the one with the spellbook. She is incredibly people-smart and intuitive. She has trained herself to be able to sense others’ magic in both strength and type allowing her to pick up large advantages in battles when it comes to bluffing, though she has never been one to like actual combat. Darcy prefers manipulating her target or distracting them with her illusions and isn’t that good at taking a direct hit. She also tends to panic in high-stress situations or when things don’t go immediately right resulting in her overthinking. Darcy is also a horrible actor in spite of her incredible manipulation and lying skills thanks to her tendency to panic. 

Darcy genuinely looks up to both Icy and Stormy. On bad days she’s convinced that they could do everything without her and if she didn’t push herself constantly to keep up they would drop her. The rational side of her knows this simply isn’t true, they’re sisters and all bring something special and important to the coven, but the lingering thought eats at her. She’s terrified of being alone, unseen and unheard again.

Stormy was kind of a fucked up kid. She wasn’t evil ya know but it was that whole situation of looking after a “problem child” and just giving up on them because they’re struggling in a way adults don’t understand and lashing out. Eventually, after years of this treatment, Stormy had given up on the adults in her life and decided to strike out on her own at the ripe old age of 10. She was on her own for 3 years, travelling across the magic dimension, when, at 13, she encountered Darcy and Icy. She demanded to join their duo and the two were immediately against it, thinking she would only be a detriment to them and that they were far better off as two. Stormy started following them around in spite of their refusal and after they got into a bit of a pickle, she saved their lives. Icy and Darcy persuaded Mandragora to let Stormy stick with them, believing that Mandragora relented because of their expert convincing skills, though in all actuality it was due to Tharma taking an immediate liking to Stormy’s chaotic attitude.

Stormy, when Icy and Darcy first met her, gave off the impression of the character who’s the comedy relief with a dark secret, except she doesn’t really keep the dark parts a secret. Stormy was the first of the group to kill someone and she did it before she even joined them. She made money mostly by beating people up and stealing it, though when she wasn’t in the mood for a fight she would instead dance and entertain along busy streets. She ended up being quite the dancer, even making money off challenging professionals.

Stormy is the most adaptable of the group and tends to be able to go with the flow incredibly well thanks to how quickly she had to adapt and learn as a child. She’s the tank of the group, coming in with maybe not the most precise attacks but definitely the most deadly and destructive, and definitely doesn’t mind getting her hands dirty and fighting without magic. Out of all 3 of the girls, Stormy has the most magical stamina from all the intense dancing workouts she does nearly daily. This workout can get on the other girls’ nerves since she does it at all hours, but since it makes Stormy happy and ensures their heavy-hitter can continue beating the shit out of people they don’t bother her about it.

Stormy is incredibly confident in herself and words rarely ever hurt. She has no problem hurting others if she thinks it’ll be fun, though she struggles to find that point in which things have gone too far which can often lead to things blowing up in her face. This can happen with the Trix too, Stormy pulling a prank that she takes too far and She doesn’t have a lot of clear memories left from her childhood before being on the road and joining the Trix, however she can still remember how it felt before she ran. Over the years Stormy has grown very apathetic towards things, only really caring if she can cause chaos in some way, though her temper has not improved since she was young and continues to be very short. While a short temper isn't usually great, Stormy actually couldn't perform any strong magic without it since witchcraft relies so heavily on negative feelings.

Also, their names weren't originally Icy, Darcy and Stormy but their old names aren't really of relevance so I'm not including them. Just figured that was worth clarifying.

[fireangelsstuff]

Additional thoughts on this ancient astronaut stuff:

(and after finishing typing out this stream of thought post a few other things apparently 😂)

I firmly don't believe in Aliens, not the little green men kind anyway 👽

I could buy that the human civilization prior to the cataclysmic flood was more advanced before we were nearly wiped out and a more advanced surviving group went around looking for other surviving settlements and taught them how to rebuild society, but you won't catch me actually giving credence to the idea of extra terrestrials having intervened

The way that technology is suppressed via patent lawsuits etc like the 3D printer originally being invented in the 1970's - not released to the general public until someone figured out how to make a decent profit because other things became more "affordable" - makes me wonder if other types of technology that has been heavily funded via military funding and research has simply appropriated myths and legends as well as popular culture as a cover in order to hide it development

Say the military had some type of test aircraft crash during a period of secrecy due to an ongoing war, they wouldn't exactly want word of it getting out so to have a ridiculous story get out about it that they can also discredit is useful 🛸

To be clear, I believe it's still being used as a PR cover, but then the colonial appropriation of other cultures beliefs used in warfare against them isn't exactly a new tactic either

Which brings me to my actual point:

I was having a discussion with my brother today where I told him I firmly don't believe in aliens, he on the other hand does due to the genetic changes in the Hominid species 🐒

Unfortunately while he has a curious mind he does not possess any concept of how genetics work in terms of evolution

A friend of mine (PhD in Biology) 👨🏻‍🔬 explained this to me in the best simple terms he could manage

You see it a lot in smaller species with shorter lifespans 🐌🐁🐇- genetic mutations are more frequent - if the mutation is favourable to a species survival or it gives them an advantage then it's more likely to spread among the population and continues on

Way back in earlier human development 🧬 our life spans were much shorter and due to being gatherers instead of organisers - and having to potentially risk our own survival while hunting - the changes likely occurred more quickly due to both our longevity and frequency of the generations being produced

Back then, age 30 would be our version of our current age 80 👴🏻 When people think of lifespans in general when it comes to our ancestors I think some forget that they did not live as long as we do now that we have an ample supply of food

If anything the average human is only becoming more intelligent because it lives longer than it used to and the general population is finally able to live long enough to both see the average societal patterns repeat more frequently because of the system we live in and watch it happen faster due to access to information and the ability to record it 🎥

Additional thoughts:

It also explains the number of revolutions occurring among the middle and working class ⚔️

The ruling class's intention to have us live longer so they can squeeze more working hours out of us and essentially hand us personalised tracking devices to keep an eye on us has backfired, which is kind of a hilarious version of Pandora's box......🧰

In order to make us better workers they educated us; in order to keep us occupied and distracted from what they were doing when we couldn't watch what they were doing on our phones they provided entertainment and charged us admission; then they used the stories we wrote to try and trick us into believing it was all a Covfefe fable

The average person is much smarter than the ruling class give them credit for, and they have themselves and their own greed to thank for it 👏

[hematomes]

the creation of khaenri'ah (theory)

hi :) did you miss my weird ass theories? i have an even crazier one today: the abyss twin created khaenri’ah while the traveler was asleep.

to make it easier to follow, i’ll go with lumine as the abyss twin and aether as the traveler. the base for this theory isn’t mine, but i will add my own arguments to it!

what we know:

lumine woke up before aether, we don't know how long ago, and seems to understand this world better

we will be reunited quest

aether's first memory is of him waking up in the midst of khaenri'ah's destruction, lumine mentioning the nation's name and urging him to leave because of the gods' wrath.

we will be reunited quest

khaenri'ah was a godless nation, ruled by men and thriving via technology. its main source of power was alchemy (see gold/rhinedottir and consequently albedo, durin and the impostor). forgot to take a screenshot here but it's in albedo's character story 5

the art of khemia, aka alchemy, led to the kingdom's ruin (source: collected miscellany albedo: kreideprinz). gold sent her monsters into teyvat, and they wrecked havoc

aether and lumine knew of alchemy, although he said it was a "secretive art"

traveler voice-over: about alchemy

now. we don't know how long ago the twins fell in teyvat, we only know that during that entire time aether was asleep, and lumine woke up before.

we also know that lumine is the abyss princess, aka the highest-ranking person in khaenri'ah's current hierarchy, but we have no idea how she got up to this place. so here's the theory:

lumine woke up 2,600 years ago and founded khaenri'ah with dainsleif. let me explain

we've learnt that aether woke up during the cataclysm , and he tried to flee with lumine but was stopped by an unknown god.

said god, upon being attacked by the twins, casted aether away to lock lumine up in a cube. she also locked aether's powers and sent him to teyvat, where he stayed for an unknown period of time before saving paimon. HOWEVER, we don't see the god letting lumine go, likely because she had other plans for lumine.

in the "we will be reunited" quest, lumine explains how dainsleif was one of the royal guards of the final dynasty of khaenri'ah, the eclipse dynasty, which means she already had inside knowledge of khaenri'ah and its hierarchy.

the idea is that when they fell into teyvat, long ago, she woke up and decided to create a home, in which she could live with aether. she introduced the people to alchemy, the art of khemia, as she learnt about it in former worlds she visited with aether; that way, the nation could thrive without involving gods.

i believe she first traveled through teyvat with dainsleif, as he seems to remember events that happened several thousands of years ago (stories involving andrius and dvalin in the "we will be reunited" quest). lumine said to aether that he'll see the true nature of this world; this could mean that she witnessed several catastrophes like the archon war, the fall of decarabian, and decided that the gods were not worthy of her trust, therefore creating her own nation, along with dainsleif.

it thrived for a very long time. being underground, it could've been a safe place for humans like byakuyakoku used to be, until orobashi came around. after all, dainsleif described it as one of "the hidden corners where the gods' gaze does not fall" - i believe the main reason it was finally attacked and destroyed by gods was because gold, in her desire to create more and more life (aka monsters, actually), let her creations swarm the surface and the gods' nations.

now as a final point, what links lumine to khaenri'ah's birth is a parallel between the intro cutscene and one of dainsleif's line:

in case it's hard to read, she says "the arrogation of mankind ends now". in the cn version, it's translated as "the overstepping by the child[ren] of human[s] ends here". the terms on their own don't specify whether it's in plural or in singular.

it's interesting to note that she says that as a direct answer to lumine's question (aka "who are you?"), after introducing herself as the sustainer of heavenly principles

also, arrogation apparently means "unjust assumption of privileges", so it's a derogatory term that could be compared to pride, which is what dainsleif uses when he talks about khaenri'ah: the "pride of humankind".

kind of the same meaning, but from two different perspectives.

this could be a coincidence, but right before that dain said this:

so, you know.... food for thought! there is probably evidence that disproves this theory as im clumsily walking through lore etc, but i thought id share this. <3

[muzaktomyears]

oh my god please post the chapter of the girl who imagined john and paul were her parents

here you go, anon!

Cressida Connolly's Tale

I was born in 1960 and the Beatles were an integral part of my childhood. They were never not on the turntable of my older half-siblings' record players, so that their songs really did seem to be the soundtrack to life itself. The gaps between the release of their records - in some cases as little as only months apart - seemed interminable, as distant and as longed-for as the beginning of the school holidays appeared to be, on the first day of a new term.

I was the sort of child who had an imaginary friend. This perhaps explains why I thought of Paul and John as essentially a second mum and dad. Or it could be a case of extreme narcissism. In any case, my real-life father was a bespectacled writer and could be difficult, preoccupied and a bit grumpy: John shared these characteristics. Paul, though, was cosy and round-faced and chipper; all qualities you'd want in a mother. I felt that, if Paul was my mum, all the children in my class would want to come back to mine for tea. He'd whistle along with the kettle and flash his cheeky grin and everyone would think my family were the nicest, happiest family.

All children long for their parents to love each other, and so it was with me and Paul and John. When they came on the telly, I was hungry for evidence of their mutual affection - and there it was: the complicit smirking, the suppressed giggles; like Dud and Pete with guitars. Dad/John was cleverer than Mum/Paul, and even a bit sarky sometimes; but Mum/Paul could handle him, coax him towards good humour.

I didn't really know that they wrote songs separately until The White Album came out and my half-brother told me that John had written Julia about his own, dead mother. This brought up feelings too complicated to be easily managed. How was it possible that there were things about John/Dad I didn't know? In real life, too, there was a paternal grandmother I had never known, so this was at least feasible. But why had I never seen a photograph of John's mother, when she was, in a sense, my own grandmother?

My main concern was how it could be possible that Paul and John wrote songs apart when they were indivisible. Lennon/McCartney: one entity. On the other hand, this revelation did make sense of quite a lot of their output. Clearly, Paul/Mum was thinking of the family when composing such child-friendly tunes as 'The Fool on the Hill', 'I Will', 'Martha, My Dear' and - of course - 'Your Mother Should Know'. Whereas John/Dad had obviously gone off to sulk in his writing room and compose peculiar stuff like 'I Am the Walrus'. This had its equivalent in real life, where my actual father would be in the library thinking about the Cantos of Ezra Pound while my mother was in the kitchen tapping her foot to Fred Astaire singing Cole Porter.

The news of their split, which came in April 1970, was cataclysmic. (Decades later, my own daughters would take the news of Geri's departure from the Spice Girls with the same horror and disbelief.) A divorce! Breaking up the family! It wasn't possible, surely? Could it be legal, even? Someone would stop them and bang their heads together and tell them to think of the kids - wouldn't they?

And then, with a sickening inevitability, came the step-families. At least Linda had a kind face and obviously made Paul/Mum happy. But she did bring her daughter, Heather, into the new family; which meant that Paul/Mum now lived with an actual little girl of his own. Competition, a usurper. Whereas Yoko... well, John/Dad didn't look at all OK. He was pale and unshaven and remote. (The fact that Yoko had a daughter too didn't register until I was a grown-up.) Also, why did she have to be around, ALL THE TIME? How would I ever get a minute alone with him, now? These puzzles and resentments and sorrows went on for a least two years, possibly three. Then in time I became a teenager and forgot all about my parents and only thought about the Jackson Five and the Bay City Rollers and how to style my hair like Suzi Quatro.

One Two Three Four: The Beatles in Time, Craig Brown (2020)

[gentlemancrow]

idk if you’re still taking requests so no pressure but maybe jmart 18 about jon’s scars? or,,, honestly however you wanna interpret that lol

Hehe bet you thought you weren't getting one. But of COURSE you're getting one! <3 HERE YOU GO!! Sorry it is late I am not a fast writer haha! This was a VERY interesting one to interpret and I got a little wonky and metaphysical there for a bit WHICH I LOVE and THE IDEA MIGHT HAVE BEEN A BIT LONG FOR A DRABBLE BUT! It's soft and I'm soft and I enjoyed this one SO SO MUCH ; w ; I hope you do too!!

Jon had Seen enough. Martin had decided that long ago. He had witnessed enough, been forced to witness enough, been the vessel into which literally everything had funneled into in an unrelenting typhoon of unspeakable, unfathomable horrific knowledge comprehensible only to him long enough that he damn well deserved the luxury of imperception. He had earned the right to not notice when Martin accidentally bought the wrong brand of chai, the one he insisted tasted like someone rubbed a stick of cinnamon on plasterboard and jammed it in a cardamom pod, but honestly tasted just like the one he preferred. The universe, whichever one they happened to be in now, owed him not realizing the buttons on his cardigan were one off until they were about to head out and Martin had to fix them, fingers humming with the warmth of him lingering in the cashmere every time. He deserved to forget his keys and then also have to go back to check that their flat door was locked twice, just to be sure. He deserved tossing cabbage in the trolley at the market, only to get home and realize it was a head of iceberg lettuce instead, and also he had completely forgotten the onion anyway so back he would have to go. Tiny and insignificant, patently human foibles that any normal person might tally up to a really rotten day overall and gripe about over a glass of Châteauneuf-du-Pape he had won as gleaming, pyrrhic badges on the ruins of his humanity yanked back from the claws of the yawning, devouring dark matter of the cosmos and stitched painstakingly back together with love.

But mostly Jon deserved to not notice the way people looked at him.

He need not see the painted-on expressions of strangers that ran the gamut from quiet pity, to voyeuristic curiosity, to outright revulsion that Martin could not help but see everywhere they went. They had no idea. Not even the slightest inkling of what, exactly, had composed that magnum opus of horror and pain scarred resplendently on his flesh, his bones, his sinews and synapses. To even try know was to go mad, the mind looping through and around and between consciousness and logic and love and fear and philosophy and metacognition until it squeezed into an ouroboros black hole singularity of dense unknowing that collapsed in on itself and perished in cataclysm. They had merely gotten lucky that being extruded through the plumbings of creation seemed to straighten out their fibers enough to be woven back into the fabric of reality, but they were too kinked and snagged and gnarled to ever lay fully flat again. And that was why they stared.

The invasive beings of Jon and Martin had come to mutual terms with it long ago, but they also knew they would be forever incongruous with an innocent world, with a world where they did not belong and that collectively looked at them both like an ontological cancer, benign but festering and ugly. They would never know the thing that crouched behind the stars with pointed knees and elbows that even then, groped to find their new world in the lightless vast, and Jon deserved to not perceive any hints of that either. He deserved their quiet, their peace, their wordless human acceptance.

Jon deserved to be innocently chewing a periwinkle-painted thumbnail in front of the ice cream counter, just as he was that gossamer spring afternoon, turning woeful and forever mismatched brown and green eyes at his husband and asking if he should get mint chip or rum raisin before deciding, actually, could he have a sample of the salted caramel ribbon first? He pointed eagerly at the various frozen tubs behind the glass with his gnarled right hand, where the fingers never did quite open or close properly again, and missed in his wonderment at the veritable cornucopia of sweet delights available to him the mingled look of pity and horror on the cashier’s face as she doled out samples at his request. Martin lurked protectively behind, silent, sentinel, seeing it all, a hot brand of fury boring its way through his chest as he glared icy blue daggers at the clueless young woman, who only compounded her crimes by complimenting the permanent white forelock in his ginger curls as she took his order.

Martin snatched his double scoop of rocky road and pralines and cream out of her hand with a withering scowl and said nothing. Jon, frowning in the dread shadow of Martin’s hushed wrath and finally deciding on just the mint chip, took it upon himself to pay while the poor young woman skirted around both their gazes. They took their ice cream to enjoy in the balmy sun on the metal patio tables outside the shop under a cloud of unspoken insults and slander which Jon was more than happy to pop open the conversational umbrella beneath before the downpour.

“Something wrong?” he asked solicitously.

“Nope. I’m fine,” came the curt answer, suspiciously also lacking in eye contact as Martin stabbed his pink spoon into the rocky road.

Jon’s mismatched eyes narrowed shrewdly. There was one thing that never escaped his notice, even now, and that was the painfully obvious way Martin always broadcast his inner hurts and the physical language of his turmoil he had become fluent in over the years.

“Okay, yes you are probably fine. And I’m guessing it has nothing to do with you actually, because you’re angry and you rarely get angry on your own behalf, which means it’s probably something to do with me or some perceived slight. What happened in there? Did someone make a snide remark about my eccentric ice cream selection? The long skirt on a warm spring day? Oh, no, I’ve got it. It was probably the earrings, yes? I knew I should have gone with the feathers instead of hoops, matches the outfit much better.”

The corner of Martin’s mouth quirked up in a hapless, crooked smile as Jon coaxed a laugh out of him, and he looked up into his gaze adoringly to grant him unspoken conciliation.

“No, no not at all. Nothing like that. It’s nothing, love. It’s not a big deal. Just low blood sugar or something. Just eat your nasty mint chip or rum raisin or whatever that unholy concoction is,” Martin snorted, gesturing at his cup.

“Liar,” Jon crooned with loving reproachment, reaching out to thumb a little bit of rum raisin on the tip of Martin’s nose as punishment.

Even breathed with such unfettered, undying affection, Martin hated that word. He hated how transparent he still was to the man he loved, how much he still truly saw him, saw through him. At least all it took to compel him now was a little melted ice cream rubbed clean off his nose and a winsome smile with love-puddled green and brown eyes.

“Okay, okay… fine,” he admitted with a resigned smirk and a sigh, “I don’t like the way they look at you. Okay? That’s all.”

Jon’s brow knitted together curiously.

“Hmm? Who? What do you mean?” he asked.

“Everyone!” Martin finally effused in frustration, “Everywhere! They look at you like you’re… like you’re damaged goods! Like you’re some pitiful beaten animal on the street, or worse, like you’re some sort of- some sort of um…”

“…Monster?” supplied Jon, lips pursed and lids drooping.

“…I wasn’t going to say that,” Martin stammered.

“What other word is there?”

“Fine, they look at you like you’re a monster. They take one look at your face or your throat or your… your hand. And I can just see it on their faces. They look at you like you’re a monster, and I hate it. You don’t deserve that. You never did! They don’t even know you! They don’t know what happened to you…! And sorry, Jon, but I get angry about it because it’s not fair, and I can’t exactly go about lobbing right hooks into the faces of everyone who even looks at you cross-eyed, now can I? Much as I’d like to…"

Jon went quiet as he listened, dabbling first in the rum raisin, then indulging in a little mint chip chaser, cocking his head to the side thoughtfully as he nibbled on the plastic spoon.

“Is that what you see?”

The color rolled out from Martin’s freckled cheeks along with the very spirit from his eyes in a fog, his entire mien awash in pallor.

“What? How could you say that to me? I would NEVER think that about you, Jon! How could you ever think I would think that? I-I know I said some awful things in the past about your scars, but I-“

“No no! Martin, no! Of course not! I know you would never!” Jon cut in, reaching across the table to snatch his hand and squeeze it reassuringly, rubbing his knuckles and over his wedding ring, “You misunderstand! I was asking if that’s what you see in their eyes?”

Martin clung to Jon’s hand, heart palpitating and breath easing.

“Oh…” he blurted dumbly, flushing with lively hues of reds and golds once more, “I-? Of course I do, what else could it be?”

“I don’t see that. I don’t see that at all,” Jon answered simply, “It’s… hard to describe but, damaged goods, disgust, morbid curiosity, those are all… Hard things. They have sharp edges. And when people here look at me, I don’t feel anything hard or sharp, it feels… soft? It feels gentle.”

Shaking his head, Martin frowned.

“Gentle? How is openly gawking at someone’s scars in any way gentle?”

“It’s just a feeling I have. I suppose,” Jon mused, thumbing at his beard with his free hand as he constructed an analogy that would make sense in his mind, “Mmm… Think of it like this. Humans, life, we’re all very visually oriented creatures, right? We respond to visual cues in our environments that are universally understood. We wear these rings so that everyone knows we belong together, just the same as bright colors usually mean poison, or how specialized feathers, or horns, or dewlaps and the like let others know they’d be a good mate, or how some things look like eyes or like entirely different creatures to scare off predators, and so on.”

The creases in Martin’s forehead only deepened in confusion.

“Okay sure, but scars aren’t a natural adaptation? We don’t look at scars the same way we look at pretty eyes on a moth wing or something.”

“I know that, that’s not what I’m saying,” Jon reiterated tenderly, “What I’m saying is I’ve always felt like my scars are a visual cue, but one that says to others ‘treat me gently’, because clearly I haven’t been. And it’s… well it’s been quite nice. You were about to tear that poor girl’s head off, but didn’t you see how she not only gave me about six samples when the sign clearly said two per customer, but then she also gave me the rum raisin ‘by mistake’ and then conveniently forgot to charge for it?”

“Wh-did she?” Martin gasped in shock, rewinding the transaction to remember that indeed, Jon had only asked for mint chip, but there was clearly also a generous scoop of rum raisin in his cup, ”She did… No I… I guess I didn’t notice…”

Jon let Martin’s hand go to cup his cheek pointedly in his scarred palm, running his thumb over the soft curve of his cheek and the spray of his ruddy freckles comfortingly.

“You want to know what I think? I think what you perceive as disgust or aversion or even pity is just fear, like you had. Fear of pain, fear of disfigurement, of fallibility. People are always afraid of seeing what can become of their mortal bodies, but that has nothing to do with me, or being disgusted by me. People are, at their cores, good and gentle, Martin. I know they are, we both do. They see me, my cane, my limp, my hand, my gray hair, my face, and they don’t even ask, they just know, on some primal level, that life was not kind to me. And so in some tiny way, like free rum raisin, they almost always try to give something back to me.”

Jon had known. He had noticed. It had never escaped his perception as Martin had assumed. Jon had known all along, but it was only Martin who still saw daggers in the smiles of strangers while he had taken the last vestiges of his powers irrevocably branded on his body and soul and sowed something delicate and beautiful and blossoming in his new earth. Martin had made a weapon. Perhaps no less delicate and beautiful, but still cold and sharp and deadly. The razor white edge of the sun through frigid fog.

“I’m so sorry, Jon,” Martin choked, his throat pinching shut with the threat of tears, “I-I had no idea…. I-I only thought…”

“It’s alright, please don’t cry, darling, you have nothing to be sorry for. I understand. You only thought you were protecting me. I protected you for so long, when you were desperate to do the same for me, to save me, but had no power to do either. Now you’ve got your turn to do the protecting in earnest, and honestly, it’s a… can I- can I say hot? Can I say it’s a hot look on you? Or is that weird?” Jon asked, tips of his ears blushing coyly.

Martin managed a laugh as he sniffed back the tears and thumbed both sets of lashes dry under his spectacles.

“It’s a little weird for you, in particular, to say it, just because it’s you. But I’ll take it.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Perhaps then, Martin thought as Jon leaned over their whimsical little metal table outside an ice cream parlor by a park with a striped canopy above them and birds singing and kissed his tears away and then kissed his lips into a smile, that sharp things needn’t always be weapons. Perhaps his sword was, in reality, a spade, or a hoe, something to tend and nurture the new and fragile happiness Jon had tilled. Gentle things deserved gentle protection, and he was still going to devote every iota of his being to protecting Jon until the end of their days. After all, as they finally got to enjoy their slightly melted ice cream, Jon still dribbled a bit of rum raisin down his beard and carried on none the wiser. Martin let him go on like that, blissfully unaware, talking about Polyphemus moths and the myth of the cyclops and something about someone going about as Nobody, until he finally reached out with a napkin to attentively wipe it away.

Other than a gracefully paced ‘oh, thank you dear,’ Jon never missed a beat.

[novelconcepts]

The night Dani sees Peter Quint, a blackout happens during the storm. The officers say that it's not safe to stay there in the middle of a storm and without a way to talk to the police if necessary. Hannah and the kids go to Owen's house. Jamie offers a ride, her little flat, clothes and a bath (since crazy Dani decided to run after Peter during the storm).

There's just one bed prompt. Maybe a small couch or chair.

They listen, which is frankly more than Dani expected when Hannah insisted on calling the police. She suspects it has less to do with the Peter Quint of it all, and more to do with the lightning strike, the cataclysm of rain, an old house plunged into deep black. No phone lines, the officers point out with weary expressions that say they are not certain Peter Quint is truly a danger--but Lord Wingrave is not without a certain amount of authority around these parts, and if any further tragedy should befall his niece and nephew, these men would find themselves overloaded on unpleasant paperwork and worse press. 

Bad reasons, Dani thinks with a scowl. They ought to have gone into this field to help people, not scoff at Hannah’s fear and Dani’s unease. They ought to be doing something, not simply waving them off the property for the night. It’s listening, sort of, but it isn’t hearing. 

She glances at Jamie as the officers speak--directly, she notes, to Owen, as though as the only man among them, he has defaulted to de facto lord of the manor. He looks uncomfortable, rubbing a hand through wet hair; Dani remembers him saying, I was born in Bly, wonders if he went to school with either of the men in slick uniform. 

Jamie doesn’t look uncomfortable. Jamie looks angry. There’s a fire burning in her Dani suspects never entirely went out after this afternoon’s rose debacle, one that might have been tempered if they’d been able to track Quint down outside. But he’s in the wind, the product of long legs and a better awareness of the terrain. Dani, giving chase into a fresh downpour before she could think better of her choices, is still itching at the memory of his long coat vanishing into the dark. 

She’d run into Jamie, instead--full-force, a bone-rattling collision that had sent them both tumbling into the sopping grass. It might have been funny, if not for the echo of Quint’s footfalls dying away.

“If he’s here?” Jamie asks now. “Quint. If he’s still here? What then?”

The officer in charge gives her a brief look, barely long enough to register detail. “If he’s here,” he says boredly, “all the better that you aren’t.”

Jamie grinds her jaw. She seems barely to be containing herself, resisting the impulse to explain in no uncertain terms that this is their home, this place Quint is intruding upon. Their home--Hannah and the kids and Dani, at least--where Quint would be trailing slimy fingers. The idea of that smirking face going through the bedrooms makes Dani shudder. It seems to press Jamie toward an unwise argument. 

Without thinking, Dani reaches out, lays a hand on her shoulder. Jamie’s hair is still dripping, her jacket sodden. Her eyes, catching on Dani’s face, widen a little, her teeth unclenching. 

“You have somewhere to go?” the head officer reiterates, glancing back toward the door as though dreaming of a warm car, a comfortable house far from the manor. Owen nods in Hannah’s direction. 

“Mum won’t mind. Can have a little sleepover.”

“Yes!” Flora perks up. She’s been uncharacteristically quiet, leaning against Miles’ side, but her whole face switches on like a lantern now. “A sleepover!”

“How’s about it, Miles?” Hannah taps him lightly on the head. “A little evening adventure.”

He looks uncertain, but when she ruffles his hair, a slow smile creeps across his face. Dani’s relieved to see it--she’s started to believe Miles is thirty-five in a ten-year-old frame, the weight of so much loss bearing him down like an anchor. He deserves a little fun. 

“And you,” Hannah adds, looking to Dani as if reading her mind. “What do you say to a night off?”

Dani blinks. “Oh, I don’t think that’s necess--”

“Chased a man into the storm,” Hannah interrupts. “Not a decision I’d approve of twice, but it was quite brave. And, forgive me dear, but you look like you could use a proper rest in the aftermath.”

That might be, Dani thinks absently, the nicest way of saying you look like shit I’ve ever heard. 

“I’ll just get cleaned up real quick,” she says, “and then I’ll be perfectly fine to--”

Hannah raises a hand. “I insist. Let Owen and I handle them for the evening.”

Dani opens and closes her mouth several times. What’s the alternative? Is Hannah expecting her to stay here? Here, in a house they’re all carefully not admitting feels much bigger in the dark, huddled around the glow of policeman flashlights? 

“Can crash at my place,” Jamie says, almost gruffly. “If you don't mind the company.”

Hannah looks unsurprised by this offer. Dani feels a little light-headed at the idea. 

“I--I’m all muddy.”

Jamie makes a show of looking down at her own clothes, caked in wet clods of grass, soaked nearly to the skin. She raises her eyebrows in Dani’s direction as if to say, Any more sterling arguments?

Dani has none.

Jamie doesn’t say a word as they load into her truck, Dani trying her best to shrink down to inhabit as limited a space as possible. Her legs ache with the effort of holding her feet aloft, her thighs pressed together to prevent staining the whole seat with grime. Jamie glances in her direction, pulling carefully out onto the road, and Dani could swear she’s trying not to smile.

“Know what I do for a living, don’t you?”

Dani nods. Jamie clears her throat.

“Then should go without saying you’re not the first to track mud into the truck. Relax.”

Embarrassed, Dani does as she’s bid. From the corner of her eye, she sees Jamie’s mouth twitch again--sees Jamie’s hands resting comfortably at ten and two, Jamie’s shoulders slightly rounded as though by holding her posture firm, she can punch a hole through the sheeting rain. She doesn’t seem nervous in the least to be driving through this mess with Dani huddled beside her. 

Jamie, Dani is starting to think, doesn’t get nervous.

Well, that makes one of us. 

She has nothing to be nervous about, is the thing. Chasing a strange man into a storm, racing after him with nothing but a fire poker and a hot protective impulse--that should have made her nervous. Should have scared the shit out of her. And it hadn’t. She’d felt bizarrely well-equipped for the decisions she was making, at the time. Peter Quint, she’d been certain, should have been the nervous one.

But now, sitting with wet hair and mussed clothes beside a woman she’s held barely three conversations with, Dani feels distinctly out of her element. No kids. No easy warmth of a carefully-sewn-together family opening its arms to let her in. Just a truck, rattling along a slick road on its way to a tiny town she’s never set foot in before.

And a woman with wet curls plastered to her forehead, stealing tiny glances at Dani like she’s not quite sure what to do with her.

“Flat’s small,” Jamie says, as if apologizing, as she parks outside a pub that looks older than any establishment in Dani’s hometown. “Don’t need much. But there are no screamin’ kids.”

Flora and Miles aren’t much for screaming without reason, but Dani thinks she takes Jamie’s point all the same. Quiet, Jamie is trying to say. Dani can properly rest here, Jamie is trying to say. Jamie doesn’t mind offering up her space.

“Ready?” The rain is still coming down in a torrent. Jamie’s hand is positioned at the doorhandle, Jamie’s posture strung tight. “Make a break for it on three. One--two--”

They run, damp clothes made soggy all over again, and Dani is surprised to hear herself make a whooping sound of joy as she splashes through puddles. Jamie, she thinks, could move faster--Jamie’s got a runner’s stamina when she puts her mind to it--but she’s jogging along at an easy pace, refusing to leave Dani behind. Her hand catches once on Dani’s sleeve, pulling her to the stairs behind the pub, guiding her up to a door at the top.

“Storms like these,” Jamie says when they’ve tumbled breathlessly into her home, “remind me of bein’ a kid. Sitting in school, hoping the power’d go so they’d send us home early.”

“Did it ever happen?” Dani wraps her arms around herself, trying not to shiver, trying not to drip too expansively across the scored floorboards. Jamie grins.

“Once. I was seven. Spent the whole day out in it anyway, caught the worst cold of my life. Best goddamn day a kid could want.” 

She looks so at home here, as Dani watches her pull off her boots, drape her jacket lazily over a chair, stride around turning on lights. At the manor, Jamie is casual enough, rarely inclined to rush or worry, but here, it’s instantly clear she knows every creak in the floor, every stubborn lightswitch, every inch of a domain that is entirely Jamie. 

A domain she has, for no reason at all, opened up to Dani tonight. The reality of it crashes home all at once, landing hard. Jamie barely knows her, and still is willing to give Dani a place to stay. Jamie barely knows her, and still is holding out a gray towel and a bundle of clothes, her smile crooked.

“Thought you might like to get out of those.”

A spike of warmth makes its way up Dani’s spine, settling somewhere around her ears. She crushes it down, forcing herself to accept the sweats and t-shirt with a grateful smile of her own.

“Thank you. Honestly, you didn’t have to do any of this--”

“The rain,” Jamie says easily, “is the fun part. The cold, not so much. Bath’s this way.”

Bathroom, Dani assumes she means--until Jamie gestures at the little tub, barely big enough for a woman her size. She looks marginally embarrassed for the first time, but it’s a resolute sort of embarrassment, as though Jamie has little patience for it. 

“Not much,” she says. “But still better than catching ill. Take however long you like.”

Dani watches her back out of the room, a tumble of unfamiliar emotions in her chest. Someone offering up everything--home, clothes, bathtub--without asking for something in return is strange. Someone doing that much and then leaving, peaceable as the turn of a new day, is unheard of. She hesitates, waiting at the closed door for signs that Jamie will change her mind--or knock, having thought of something else Dani might need--and nothing comes. This room has become, so long as Dani wants it, her space. Jamie will take it back only when Dani’s finished. 

Unwelcomely, she tries to imagine Eddie doing this very thing. Eddie, who only refrains from haunting her European adventures with postcard and phone call because he has no idea how to find her. Eddie, who would think the offer of clothes and a hot bath automatically come with other perks, and who would smile as he stepped in to collect like he couldn’t imagine her wanting to be left alone. 

She shakes her head. Eddie is gone, and she is here, and Jamie isn’t him. Is so unlike him, in fact, it’s hard to imagine them standing in the same room.

And why, some little part of her pipes slyly up, are you comparing them in the first place? 

She shivers, turning on the water, letting it run as hot as possible before sinking in. She leans her head back against a wadded-up washcloth, surveying the simplicity of the bathroom--single toothbrush, single cup for water, a minute assortment of hairbrush, hair ties, sunscreen. There is a dried rose framed beside the door, a small bunch of purple-and-white flowers she can’t name in a tiny windowsill vase. 

It’s all very discreet, all very Jamie. To look at it with this much freedom, to be trusted alone in a space that has belonged to no one else, makes her heart pound.

She’s only being nice. And so what? What does it matter? 

It matters. Even if she never says so, even if she never lets it out of her heart, Dani can’t deny that it matters. Like it mattered watching Jamie walk into the kitchen earlier this week, glancing at her with an easy raise of brows like she was thinking, Sure. You can stay. You’re one of us. 

Jamie, calling her Poppins, telling her she’s doing great, offering her flat without a second’s pause. None of it warranted. None of it asked for. All of it so incredibly welcome.

She stays in the bath until the shivers ease out, carefully soaping her hair with the little bottle of shampoo on the windowsill. A different scent and brand than her own, and as she’s rinsing clean, she realizes she will smell like Jamie now. If for only a night, her hair--and the clothes Jamie gently pressed into her hands--will hold just a little bit of the gardener’s influence. 

The warmth she’s beginning to attribute to Jamie sweeps through her again at the idea. That, and the awareness that these are Jamie’s things hugging her body. Jamie’s belongings, offered up like she feels not the least bit possessive about her living space. Sure. You can stay. You’re one of us. 

“Warm?” Jamie asks when she finally steps back out of the bathroom. Her hair is still wet, though she’s changed into a clean white shirt and sweatpants of her own. Dani nods, confused when Jamie grins. 

“What?”

“I think,” Jamie says placidly, “this is the first time I’ve seen you out of pastels. Suits you.”

Dani glances down. The threadbare black t-shirt bears a jagged white London Calling in peeling letters. She can’t help smiling.

“Maybe I’m a secret punk fan.”

“Are you?” Jamie sounds interested. Dani shakes her head.

“Sorry, no. Always open to learning, though.”

Here it is again: that funny, twisting feeling in her stomach that says she is at home with Jamie. That Jamie is easy and warm, despite the anger simmering somewhere deep down and a tendency toward cropping her sentences with swear words. That Jamie has opened her home to Dani only because Jamie has opened to her, on some level neither of them is entirely sure how to approach. 

“Thank you,” she says, because it’s easier than putting this feeling into words. “For all of this. You didn’t have to.”

Jamie shrugs. “Wanted to. You haven’t had an easy couple of days. Sometimes, a little quiet goes a long way.”

She’s seated on the arm of the couch, bare feet dangling an inch off the floor. Looking at her, Dani can’t entirely wrap her mind around the idea that she’s only known this woman for a couple of days. That she doesn’t, in fact, know much of anything about her at all. 

And still, when Jamie rises and begins arranging pillow and blanket on the couch, Dani’s stomach performs a backflip she’d never come close to feeling with Eddie.

“That’s really kind of you,” she says, the words a blind effort to distract from her trembling hands. “I really don’t need much, you don’t have to go to any trouble--”

Jamie glances over her shoulder. “No trouble. Bed’s just that way.”

Dani turns to look. Sure enough, behind a pulled-back curtain, she can just make out Jamie’s mattress and frame. “I--I mean, I won’t be bothering you, if that’s what you--”

“What?” Straightening, Jamie frowns. “No, I mean, it’s yours. Take it. I sleep on the couch half the goddamn time anyway, it’s no--”

“I am not,” Dani interrupts, “taking your bed, Jamie.”

Not since her last argument with Miles has she been engaged in such a standoff. Jamie, still holding a pillow, looks ready to chain herself to the couch. Dani, heady with the inescapable awareness of Jamie’s shampoo rinsed out of her own hair, can’t have that. It’s too much. Clothes and space and ride--all of that, she can accept. But foisting Jamie from her own bed?

“I’m not doing it,” she says. Her arms are folded, her mouth pulling into a smile she can’t for her life shake. “I’m told I'm very stubborn, so you might as well just let me have that couch now.”

“I--” For the first time all night, Jamie seems to be at a loss. “I’m--aiming for chivalry, here, Poppins.”

“You’ve been nothing less,” Dani assures her. “A white knight, really. But I’m afraid this is where I have to draw the line.”

“I sleep on it all the time.”

“So, it’s my turn.”

Jamie’s whole face seems on edge of some kind of collapse--though into laughter or upset, Dani can’t begin to guess. She has a brief flash of possibility, the two of them standing on either side of the couch all night, arguing well into daylight over who ought to take the proper night’s sleep.

“You’ve got kids to handle in the morning,” Jamie says reasonably, proving her point.

“You spent all day working in the sun,” Dani volleys in return. She thinks for a moment, then adds, “Also, I knocked you into a puddle earlier, and you didn’t get a nice warm bath.”

“Didn’t need one.” Jamie looks exasperated. “Poppins, come on. This doesn’t have to be a big bloody deal.”

It doesn’t, Dani agrees. It really doesn’t. All Jamie has to do is step out of the way, step behind that curtain, put herself to bed where she belongs.

Or, alternatively--

It’s coming out of her mouth before she can stop it. Before she can run through all the reasons not to suggest this very thing. Before she can pin down the butterflies having a dogfight in her stomach and make a decision based in good judgment. 

“Look, if you’re that committed to making me sleep in the bed, come join me.”

Jamie nearly drops the pillow. Her calm has utterly vacated the flat, leaving behind a woman who looks--if Dani isn’t much mistaken--much nearer to frantic than she’s ever seen Jamie before. Much nearer to the kind of nervous Dani had been on the ride over. 

“I,” she says. “That--I shouldn’t--”

“It’s the best compromise,” Dani says, trying to sound reasonable. Trying to sound as though the invitation to share Jamie’s bed isn’t making her entire body run with sudden electricity. “Neither of us is very big, I’m sure we can fit.”

“I’m--sure we can.” Jamie is grimacing. Jamie looks pained. If she had an elegant way out, Dani would take it back simply to erase that look from Jamie’s face, a look that says Jamie would rather sleep in her tiny bathtub than wherever Dani is. 

Elegant way out, she can’t find, and she’s tired. Tired, and buzzing with nerves, and somehow, the au pair wins out over all possible variants of Dani Clayton. “It isn’t that bad an idea,” she says, her voice steady. “I don’t even snore.”

This breaks something open between them. She can’t put her finger on just what it is, or why, but suddenly Jamie is laughing, and Dani is grinning, and she knows the stalemate is at its end. It’s been too long a night. There’s just no point.

“Here,” she adds, settling at the edge of the bed, watching Jamie switch off the lights and creep closer as though trying not to startle a skittish animal. “I’ll lay right on the edge, you won’t even have to know I’m here--”

“Don’t be silly,” Jamie says. She hesitates; Dani wonders if she’s giving a final chance for Dani to shoo her away, to choose a night spent alone after all. She thumps the bedspread with a flat palm, staring meaningfully at Jamie until the mattress sinks beneath the weight of au pair and gardener alike. 

“See?” she can’t stop herself saying. “We fit.”

Jamie stares at her, a lingering gaze Dani couldn’t decipher on her best day. She opts to ignore it, stretching out under the rumpled covers. Beside her, Jamie slides a hand beneath her head, staring up at the ceiling. 

“Not so bad,” Dani says, wishing she could shut up, wishing she could stop thinking--about Jamie’s head on the pillow beside her, about Jamie’s scent sunk into this pillow, about the indent of Jamie’s body in this old mattress where maybe no one else has ever lain. Jamie makes a low sound in her chest. 

“Long day.”

“So long.” Was it only this morning Dani was having a small panic attack, the strain of a new job on top of familiar guilt too heavy to bear? Was it only this afternoon she’d grabbed Jamie’s shoulder, pulled her back from storming off to skin Miles alive?

Was it really only this evening she’d stalked out after Peter Quint, crashed headlong into Jamie, listened to police officers warn them all away from the manor in a blackout?

Jamie clears her throat. Dani’s starting to think it’s a nervous habit--Jamie seems to do it only around her. Why on earth would I make her nervous? “Comfortable?” she asks the ceiling. Dani nods. 

In the dark, the bed seems smaller. The pillows are touching, the blankets bridging the brief gap between Jamie’s right leg and Dani’s left. In the dark, Jamie’s breath is audible, the smell of rain and shampoo and clean clothes twisting together into a single knot. 

In the dark, Dani thinks, they could be anyone. Not gardener and au pair, but anyone, bound by a single unpredictable night. 

She wonders if they should talk--about Peter Quint, about the tension of the evening, about the kids, or the roses, or any number of little odd moments around the manor. She wonders if Jamie expects her to ask questions--who Quint is, what he was to Rebecca Jessel, what he might be doing skulking around the house. 

She can’t quite find it in her. It’s too warm, too soft, the silence as inviting as the rustle of Jamie’s borrowed clothes against her skin. Laying in the dark, Jamie’s foot nearly touching her own, listening to the storm pound the windowpanes, Dani is breathing easier than she has in months. 

“I’m glad,” she says quietly, “you’re here.”

Jamie’s head rustles the pillowcase, turning to look at her. “Yeah?”

Dani smiles. “Yeah. I can’t explain it, but I feel...safer.” Something sharpens behind her ribcage, something that begs her to add, With Hannah, with Owen, with the kids, too. She doesn’t. It’s true, but it’s also not really what she means. 

“He doesn’t know where to find you,” Jamie says, and for a moment, Dani wonders how she could possibly be talking about Eddie. Then Jamie adds, “I hate that fucker. So does Owen. Everyone is safe tonight.”

Right. Peter Quint. Of course. “I’m glad,” Dani repeats. She feels the mattress shift as Jamie carefully settles in. “Jamie?”

“Mm?”

Too many things to say. Too many questions to ask. Too many of those butterflies winging around as Jamie’s elbow bumps her, as Jamie’s breath brushes her cheek. She shuts her eyes, the simple image of Jamie’s gaze inches away too much to handle. 

“Thank you.”

“Anytime, Poppins,” Jamie murmurs. And though Dani’s heart is racing, though her skin is hot, though the storm outside is brutal and Jamie’s bed is much smaller than she’d thought--she finds herself relaxing. Finds herself thoughtlessly shifting to a more comfortable position on her side. Finds herself, even, leaning in toward Jamie’s warmth as the sound of her breathing shallows. 

For the first time in what feels like years, Dani Clayton sleeps.

[completeoveranalysis]

[1]

So IMMEDIATELY Fog gives us a moment that we haven’t seen elsewhere in the storyline so far; Sakura is starting to show signs of her old drive, personality, and eagerness. It’s fantastic, and this arc isn’t long, so I’m going to set up camp and live here for a moment. 

Each arc so far has kind of “stealth” introduced concepts that will be key in the story later down the line - and while I don’t expect this shorter arc to have the same narrative impact, what I DO appreciate is that this storyline gives us some extremely rare breathing room to explore the different internal conflicts of the main cast. Obviously it’s a bit early to explore Fai or Kurogane (because they’re the juicy spoiler dessert we don’t get until after dinner) but we do get to see behind the curtain of Syaoran and Sakura’s driving motivations. And we ALSO get to see how those motivations conflict with the reality they’re in, how they struggle with it, and how they deal with the contradictions. Or at least try to! 

Sakura, for instance, has enough of her independence back that she feels responsible for this scenario. For her this is a group of strangers putting themselves in danger for her sake and no other reason and she feels STRONGLY that she should be the one doing it instead - and she immediately comes hard up against the wall that is “not being physically able to do so just yet”. She ends up being forced to rely on others in a way she is not initially comfortable with and tries to come to peace with the idea of helping where she can, rather than doing everything herself. It’s a nice growing moment - and importantly her FIRST growing moment so far. This is the first time she’s had enough soul to actually experience personal growth and we love to see it!

And for Syaoran? We already know its complicated. He wants to help Sakura, but doing so will be emotionally torturing himself with the fact that he’s talking directly to the person he loves more than anything else, who doesn’t remember him and never will. And he chooses to deal with this by THROWING HIMSELF IN LAKES. 

(Aha! I DO remember something that happens here!)

Similar to Sakura, Syaoran reacts to his desperate need to fix the situation by throwing himself into direct danger and taking unnecessary risks to make sure this goal is done. Unlike Sakura its not done out of a sense of responsibility, but as an act of devotion - he sees obtaining each feather as more important than himself, and this highlights the character conflict at the core of his own arc. 

And none of this is NEW information for us at this point, by far, at all. But it’s always nice to see how solidly CLAMP builds this up, even so close to the beginning of the story, so it’s clear for all readers exactly why the characters feel this way and how it will probably affect them in the future. 

If anything I wish we had more short arcs like this. There are a lot of important storybeats that are almost cataclysmic, if not completely soul destroying, yet sometimes as soon as they’re over we’re already neck deep in the next storyline. It’d be neat if there were a few more breathing opportunities like this for the characters to come to terms with what is happening to them and how to deal with it. 

Though at other times it’s extremely good that we DON’T get that because at that point the characters are essentially held together by toothpicks and good will, but all the same!

[penfullofwordsaheadfullofstories]

No Matter How Many Skies Have Fallen

A/N: I really have nothing to say for myself at this point. 

Sequel chapter to this fic here, if you’d like to catch up. 

Thank you to @caffeine-in-an-iv​ for being my incredible beta and to @maybege​ for letting me rant to you and giving me so many wonderful ideas when I hit my walls. Also to the Obi-Wan fandom in general: Y’all are some of the kindest, most supportive people I’ve ever encountered on this hell site. Thank you for your support and your content! 

Pairing: Obi-Wan Kenobi x Force Sensitive! Fem! Reader (no Y/N)

Word Count: 11.9K (I lost all control) 

Warnings: SMUT!!! Soft Dom! Obi rights, Also, Sub! Obi vibes, Foodplay (but not how you’d think), Inappropriate use of the Force, Voice Kink, Obi-Wan Kenobi’s Hands Appreciation Society, As Usual: Too Many Feelings For Porn, Emotional Competence Kink, Trust Kink, TW: Pregnancy, TW: A character draws blood on themself unknowingly

Title from one of my favorite quotes:

“Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically. The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes. It is rather hard work: there is now no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles. We’ve got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.”

-D.H. Lawrence

What infinite irreverence the galaxy has for Obi-Wan Kenobi. 

As if his master and only semblance of a parent wasn’t taken from him when he needed him most.

As if a boy who needed a father wasn’t entrusted to Obi-Wan quickly following, far too young and full of his own loss. 

As if he wasn’t thrust onto the pedestal of parenthood when he really only wanted to be a brother. 

As if that isn’t what they became anyway, and as if that wasn’t the exact cloud that hung over the atmosphere of your lives ever since you’d arrived on Tatooine. 

As if the being whose life signature resided in your abdomen didn’t throw a punch into each of those blooming bruises by its very existence.

Which is why, you knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that you couldn’t tell him yet. 

Normally, it’d be no small feat to keep something of this scale from him. But these days, he’s so focused on having his shields up around you, keeping you from both being hurt by or helping with his torments. 

You have to take great care to control your body language, because even when he’s shut off from you in the Force, his keen perceptiveness will pick up on something being off anyway.

The art of a convincing lie is having layers. If he senses your feelings and decides to dig, then only give up one layer, and he’ll stop looking.

 In this case, it’s your worry over him. It is true you’re trying to shield him from feeling that, not wanting him to carry the burden of it on top of having to work through his own pain.

  But it’s not everything you’re trying to hide from him. So you let a small projection of your fear over his well-being escape, like you’re losing control of your feelings. It’s enough to convince him, and something critical inside you dies at the victory every time.

 He deserves your honesty, and you’ve never given him anything less until now.

 You hate how well your strategic deceit takes root. Because only part is due to your talent as a liar. The rest comes from how much he trusts you.

  You’re not stupid, though. You know it’s only a matter of time before the biological changes in your body betray you. 

Obi-Wan said he needed time, and you’re going to give him as long as you possibly can before dropping this anvil on him, hoping the further he gets from it all, the better off he’ll be. 

You could kick yourself for not being more careful. You hadn’t missed any dose of your herbal Ho’Din contraceptive. It was one of the few things you shoved in your bag with the mere minutes you had to leave Coruscant for good. It was from a reliable medicinal shop, and there’s no good reason it should have failed in any way.

But here you were anyway. 

Of course, there are options that free you from the obligation of carrying the child to term. All are expensive, and Tatooine is sorely lacking in any trustworthy medical facilities. The alternative methods could put your own life in danger as well. 

Even if it wasn’t, you’d feel so strange making that kind of decision without Obi-Wan. Not that he wouldn’t support whatever decision you needed to make for yourself if you did, but going behind his back is something you’re not sure his trust could recover from. 

And really, far too much has been decided for him in his life. 

The worst reason why you can’t bring yourself to move towards any solution that ends the pregnancy now, the reason you abhor, is because somewhere within you, despite the awfulness of the time and place, you want this baby. 

You couldn’t give a definitive explanation for yourself, but you did. Undoubtedly

Obi-Wan doesn’t press when you ask to cease your combat training for a time, asking to start learning the new offerings of the Jedi texts instead. 

He’s concerned when you tell him, but if he’s suspicious as for your reasoning, he doesn’t show it outwardly, at least. 

The way he doesn’t even ask about why, though: It makes you wonder if he had a reason all of his own why he’d rather not fight, even in imitation.

The Jedi writings given to Obi-Wan by Master Yoda are often more cryptic and mystifying than logically applicable without deciphering, which you are at first annoyed by, but then strangely thankful for, as Obi-Wan verbally processes his understandings of it, knowing what he does of the Jedi way, and you adding your thoughts from the stance of fresh eyes. 

The conversations distract wonderfully, and you savor any way you still get to connect with him.

You don’t push for the ways he doesn’t allow you to connect with him anymore. The way he won’t let you in his mind. Because now, you too have a reason to not let him in yours. 

*******

When it’s time to go into town for supplies again, you make up some feeble excuse which you know Obi-Wan sees through as a lie, and this time, he does pry, eyes soft and concerned. He knows you love going to the markets. You simply explain that you’re tired, which is true enough to satisfy him, leaving you behind with a kiss on your forehead before you watch him saddle up your eopie and ride off.

You sigh, sagging against the closed door once he’s disappeared into the horizon. You do love the markets. They’re the most colorful thing the planet has to offer, textiles and rugs and shiny, hanging things. 

But the spices. Fragrant and potent, usually so appetizing and intoxicating, you know would turn your stomach alone. And that doesn’t even account for the strange meats being cooked at different vendors, and Maker help you if anyone was selling raw meat of any sort today. You’ve done your best to keep your nausea at bay, at times even tapping into the Force for centering when the world felt like it was rocking. But you know the market would be too much, too many variables.

It’s not a fast journey, even on the eopie, and you don’t expect Obi-Wan to be back for hours. Which is why when you hear a knock on your door, the tool in your hand clatters to the floor, as does the remnants of your project. 

You quickly grab one of the long staffs you and Obi-Wan had only begun to use in your defense training, trying to recall the lessons as adrenaline begins to rush through your veins. Tatooine isn’t known for its pleasant company, and if anyone was going to try to rob your home, now would be as good a time as any. 

The knock sounds again, and you shout from the inside, “What do you want?!” 

“A peace treaty in the form of baked goods,” comes the feminine voice, one you recognize. 

Opening the door, you lower the weapon in your hand as Beru Lars blinks at you.

“I’m sorry, I thought you were…” You step aside, gesturing for her to come in.

She waves a hand, dismissive. “I understand.”

You lead her over to the small living area as you fix two glasses of water from the kitchen. 

When you set them down on the table, Beru speaks. “I apologize for the intrusion, if there was another way of contacting you before coming here…”

“It’s absolutely fine, I’m glad to have you.” You smile in what you hope is an assuring way.  “Although, I’m surprised at it just being you. Where’s Owen?”

Her eyes flick to the stone floor. “He um… doesn’t exactly know I’m here. He’s out on a business deal today.” 

You feel your eyebrows go up at that, waiting for her to continue. But instead, she changes the subject. “Where’s Ben?” 

“In town. We needed some things from the market.”

Awkwardness settles in as a conversation topic evades you. 

She breaks the beat of quiet. “Here, I brought these for you.”

You take the basket in her hands from her, peeling back the thick woven cloth to reveal a simple form of bread. It looks so appetizing your stomach clenches, and you instantly realize you haven’t had anything since breakfast. 

But then the smell hits you, hard and powerful, and stars, it’s just bread, there’s nothing that should do that about bread, but you’re on your feet in a minute, forsaking the basket on the ground as you bolt to the fresher, barely making it in time to the sonic sink before you start heaving. 

In a moment, you feel soft hands at the nape of your neck, gently holding back the fabric of your shirt and blowing cool air as you continue to wretch. 

By the time everything has settled again, you’ve dealt with the aftertaste in your mouth, and splashed on your face with a precious cup of cool water, hot shame rises in your cheeks at how this must seem to Beru. 

You wipe at your face with a rag, half muffling your words when you address her. “I’m so sorry, I’m sure they’re absolutely delicious, It really has nothing to do…” 

“How far along are you?”

Your spine straightens instantly, and you let the cloth drop to the floor.

“I… what?”

Now she’s the one to flush. “My apologies, it’s just that it’s known for being a very gentle bread, it’s one my mother used to feed me when my stomach ached. If that smell turned you... I just assumed, and I shouldn’t have.” 

Your lips purse as you consider your options. It’d be easy to say nothing, or just to nod. 

“Two months,” you hear your own voice answer despite yourself. You’ve never been one for easy anyway.

A surge of emotion wells up in you at even being able to speak it aloud, aloud to another human, and next thing you know, to your absolute horror, you’re crying into your hands as your shoulders crumple in on themselves. 

Why now, of all times? In front of Beru Lars? Whom you know accepted Luke with her husband without question because they couldn’t biologically have any children of their own? 

“I’m… so… sorry,” You manage to choke out through the sobs, disgusted at your own lack of control.

At some point Beru must join you on the floor, patting her hand soothingly on your back. “Shhh, it’ll be alright. You’ll see. It’s not so bad having a young one around, you and Ben have so much to look forw…”

“He doesn’t know.” 

Her hand pausing briefly on your back is the only indication she gives of shock.

“Would he not be happy?”

You take a steadying breath in, trying to calm yourself. “I don’t know,” you whisper, small and almost frightened to let the room hear you say it.

It falls silent again, but it echoes around in your brain, bouncing against your thoughts until you feel the onset of a headache.

After you’re to a numb enough state to enjoy yourself, you and Beru make tea and bring it back to the living area. 

She lifts her glass to yours, clinking them. “To secrets kept from men and the mischievous company they bring.”

Your head now throbs with pain, but you smile anyway. “Thank you,” you say to her, and you mean it so very much.

********

The next time Obi-Wan goes into town, you’re feeling well enough to go with him. 

You’re not visiting the food portion of the market, after all, so you’re not as much of a risk to set your stomach off. He’s taken to fixing small machinery for trading with the Jawas recently, the extra income helping with the projects around the house. 

There’s a trap door that you found within the first day of being there. The staircase carved out of the bedrock beneath the hut leads to a small room that has now served as additional storage and a place for Obi-Wan to work. It’s also quite cool during the day, so if you can stand the smell of the various meats hung to dry, you’ll sit down there with some sort of project, or even reading material if you come upon it.

So today, he’s looking for a few specific tools that will streamline his working. 

It doesn’t take long to find a promising stall among the maze of shopkeepers, selling everything from trinkets to weaponry of questionable legality. Obi-Wan finds what he needs easily enough, and it looks like the trip is going to be as efficient as it is successful as you walk through alleyways with him. 

At some point, he takes your hand in his, squeezing it gently, projecting an assuring strand of affection toward you. It’s such a small gesture, but you’ll never tire of the feeling of his hand clasped in yours. 

You���re almost back to where the eopie, Rooh, as he named her, is stabled when Obi-Wan abruptly slows his pace, dropping into a stall. An alarm goes off in your head when you watch him pick up a frivolous trinket on a table that you know he has no interest in. 

You open your mouth to inquire at his actions, but it answers itself once you see him glance out of his peripheral vision to where the holonews plays in the stall adjacent. 

Battle footage on what you recognized to be Kashyyk at the presence of the many Wookies plays with the Emperor addressing the viewers in a very two-dimensional, sugar-coated, thinly-concealed threat to any other world that would try to resist occupation.

There’s wreckage and uncensored violence, and you turn your head away. 

“May it be known that Lord Vader is quite capable and willing to help those into compliance that require assistance... “

The item in his hands crushes, ceramic tile cracking into his hands, breaking the skin and drawing out drips of red.

But he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even seem to register the glass he’s pushing into his own hand. His eyes are wide and he makes a wounded noise from the back of his throat, eyes peeled to the holonews now, not even trying to feign disinterest.

His signature sparks, giving a flash and then a severe cry of anguish, and it hits you then. Pieces of information coming together as you feel Obi-Wan tear apart at seams. 

Anakin Skywalker turned to the Dark Side, and Obi-Wan thought him dead. There’s a new Sith Lord now; the correlation and timing can’t be coincidence. 

The Toydarian male behind the stall shouts something about paying for it in full, and you quickly hand over the credits with a glare.

You start to pull Obi-Wan’s other hand off the table, but you quickly realize your mistake in that.

The moment it isn’t holding his weight anymore, his knees start to give, and you’ve only a second to react, jamming your body under his arm to keep him upright. His momentum nearly pulls you forward, but you plant your feet and remember at the last second to call on the Force to assist you.

He seems to come to himself enough to walk somewhat as you steer him to the nearest alley away from the vendors.

He braces a hand on the stone wall, but even it isn’t enough as he drops to his knees. He doesn’t even seem to have the will to stand.

Crouching beside him, you place one of your hands on his chest. 

“I…. I…” The tremor in his usually so crisp wording and steady voice crushes your chest, making it hard to breathe. “I failed him. I failed him.” 

“Obi-Wan,” you start, trying to grasp at anything, everything to comfort him, not even thinking of how you can’t call him that here, even if there’s no one in sight.

If he registers your call, he doesn’t let on, continuing in his whispers to the wall.  “He was burning. Burning, but I couldn’t do it. It would have been mercy to kill him, it was my mandate to do it, but I could not...” his voice gives out on the last word, and his shoulders fall forward in a shuddering inhale that transforms into a cut-short sob on its exhale.

“And now…” as the words pour from him, his shields fall, and so do the floodgates on his emotions, and it takes all the training you know to not be washed away in the torrential current of his grief. Does he even know he’s doing it, or has the insurmountable weight of his burden finally overridden his innate control over them?

“I’ve sentenced him to a fate worse than death.” He’s only barely choked out the end of his thought before his shoulders start to shake in earnest and he crumples in on himself as he begins to weep for his brother.

Giving no heed to the odd angle, you throw your arms around him. Trying to get your arms around his body is exactly the embodiment of the feeling of the moment, this anguish you don’t even begin to be enough to cover. 

What could you say? What could you do? What would even begin to… 

When you press your fingers to his temple, it’s light, a show of how unforced this is, how much he can say no if he needs.  Because this isn’t for you. No, it’d be so much easier to not know the exact depth of his pain and rip your chest open with that knowledge. But you’re offering it,  meaning it absolutely, desperate for him to take the hand offered to him. “Please let me in. Don’t do this alone. Let me…”

Then he’s pulling you in, not just letting you come in yourself, clinging to you like a person drowning. You remember to steady, to try to keep your own head above the water as wave after surging, overpowering wave of soul-crippling agony like you’ve never felt it engulf you in their surge.

You can’t hold out against it no matter how hard you try, so you refocus from centering yourself to pulling his signature into yours as you wrap your arms tighter around his torso. 

 And you begin to weep with him.

 *********

 The suns are drifting low by the time both of you have any intelligible thought, far too late to start the journey back to the hut. 

At the inn, as Obi-Wan falls into the beginnings of a restless sleep, a thought emerges, clear and crisp in its awful truth. 

 You cannot tell him for a long while still. 

 *******

 It’s different now. Because when he wakes in the night, he doesn’t give you falsehoods you see right through. He lets you into the terror and distortional dreams that all reside over one theme.  

There’s silence in the first days after. Just silent tears and still embraces and the way time seems to freeze when grief is at its worst.

But then he starts talking. It comes in little pieces, then in larger ones.  

The loudest thing his signature screams is guilt.

You tell him how it isn’t his fault, how Anakin is responsible for his own choices, but he just gives you a new reason every time as to why it is his fault, how he could have stopped it. 

Because even in what he considers his worst failure, his verbiage is indicative of how it’s not his own image and pride hurting that he’s even considered. All of his thoughts, all of them, are on what Anakin needed that he didn’t give.

 At first, it’s just impressions from his mind, unsorted, blurry thoughts and feelings, but it eventually begins to become words. 

“After his mother died… I know that he blamed me. How couldn’t he? He told me of his dreams, dreams he knew were foresights, but I dismissed them, multiple times, at that. And the council… advised me against comforting him, but he… I… I did anyway.” His shoulders are forward, body sagging with unsureness that doesn’t fit him right in the slightest. “But it was far too late. I know there was something pivotal about the death of his mother, and I am...” he hesitates, seemingly not because he doesn’t know what to speak, but because he does. “Terrified. Terrified it’s all because I didn’t validate him sooner. If I had not...” His voice breaks off, as he shuts his eyes.

Fear is not something admired by the Jedi, you know. When he speaks of his own emotions, he speaks them like he’s confessing them.

 And as he confesses and confesses, you comfort where you can, cry with him when you cannot.

 *****

 The swells of sorrow ebb and flow in their intense bursts and receding stillness, and despite the moments of not being able to breathe under the weight of it, there are miniscule, almost violating, hysterical intervals where smiles and life spring to the surface, gasping for air. 

Or in this case, the inexplicable desire to dance. 

You don’t even really know when you start, simply going about cleaning clothing in the sonic washer, and the next, some ridiculous, repetitive tune sweeps you to move your hips and feet, uncoordinated and graceless. The tune itself played from a datachip, scrapped with some pieces Obi-Wan was repurposing to make repairs. You’re not even familiar with the type of music, and it’s hardly the type of music you’d normally choose, but you find that today, it’s an improvement on the quiet that falls upon the house as Obi-Wan works outdoors. 

The song swings into a bridge, and you slide across the stone floor, imitating something you saw in a music holo years ago, as you do, your foot catches on the rug you recently added, sending you fumbling for your footing. You eventually catch it before you fall, but as you look up, you decide to lower yourself to the ground anyway at the sight of Obi-Wan, leaning up against the door frame, watching you with an amused expression, the fingers of one hand tracing between his lips and chin.  

You sit splayed as tactless and gangly as you danced and let out a short, startled laugh. 

“Please, don’t stop on my account. I was quite enjoying myself.”  

Maker, could you just hide under the rug you tripped over? “Please tell me you haven’t been standing there long.”

He pushes off his lean on the wall, crossing the room to you. “I won’t tell you lies, my love.” 

Shame twists in your gut at his words, chasing the laughter in your throat away. But Obi-Wan extends a hand down, and you take it, letting him draw you to your feet. 

He kisses the back of your hand before taking it in his, extending the clasp out to the side of your bodies as his other hand rests hot on the small of your waist. 

“But I will join you, if you don’t mind a style change.” 

“I don’t know how to dance like this,” you say, factually.  

“Then allow me to teach you.” When you look in his eyes, they’re lined with the etches of heartache still, but there’s something else too, brimming to the surface. 

“What, to this music?” You give your last, unconvincing protest.  

He simply drops his forehead to yours, and the small sounds of the room fade to white as a sweet, moving melody replaces it. It’s not perfectly clear, and it takes a moment to realize that it’s because it’s coming from Obi-Wan’s memory.  

The music has a distant, foggy quality, and it has potential to be eerie, but instead, it just lifts you into an ethereal feeling.

He steps, and your feet follow, not as graceful, but he makes it easy for you, the steps hinted out in his thoughts before taking them in actuality. 

When you start to feel confident enough in the movements, you look up at him. “Does this mean I can teach you my dances next?”

He laughs, laughs, unabashed and with no emotion harbored under it, and some torn piece of your heart mends at the sound.

“Certainly not.” 

You laugh too, even at the thought of him trying. The laugher rolls into a smooth quiet, and you let yourself bask in the feel of his body against yours, the press of his hand on your back as you rest your cheek against him. 

Obi-Wan cradles you to him, forsaking the pattern of the dance as he encompasses you in his arms, lowering his lips to your cheek, then your mouth in a blazing kiss. 

He takes your hand in his, lifting it above your head. Then you’re guided into a spin, and the room spins double with it as you abandon all endeavors of trying to get the dance correct. Your hand drops protectively to your belly before you can even think better of it, and by the time you know you’re not going to throw up, it’s too late. You already feel Obi-Wan’s unmistakable concern right before he asks, “What’s wrong?” extending an arm out toward you. 

His complexion is ashen with worry, and when you don’t respond, you feel him start to reach out to your mind; a spike of panic zaps down your spine, and you’re suddenly not sure you’re not going to throw up after all. 

Your shields crash down, not enough time for subtlety, and he retracts both his hand and inquiring tendril of energy as hurt and confusion shape his features. 

You can’t do this. You can’t keep up this facade or cover this moment with a lie you know he’ll see through. But you can’t tell him either. After all the weight he’s carrying, the weight of the being that grows in you should be yours alone. You can’t thrust that upon him. 

But it’s a delusion that you can keep this from him forever. You’re going to hurt him one way or another, and the weight of your silence and lies multiply every day you insulate him from the truth. 

You take in a shuddering breath as dread settles into your bones. You know what you have to do.

Even as you slowly lower your shields, opening your signature, your mind screams at you in opposite directions, ripping you in half, and your hand shoots out to the nearest wall to stabilize yourself. How could you be so sadistic to tell him this? How could you not tell him? After all the trust you have in each other?

But he doesn’t take the invitation. “I will not touch your mind if you are still unsure you want me to,” he says softly but resolutely as he approaches you, but stays an unthreatening distance away, as if approaching a frightened animal. 

No, no, no. You won’t have him being the one to sturdy you through this. You need to be strong, be ready, don’t force him to coddle you through the blast to his own chest. 

So you dial down your own emotions and switch your absorption to amplifying the still tiny, barely recognizable life you’ve been carefully censoring ever since you heard it yourself.

You want to close your eyes, blockade the pain of both how it impacts him and how it will impact you, but that’s not how you two do things.

Summoning every iota of bravery and resolve running in your veins, you force yourself to look up at him as you watch understanding coat him. 

His eyes go wide, and his hands clench and flex at his sides in an erratic, nervous pattern. 

You can’t keep your signature open to his mind’s reaction, you just can’t. He’s seen enough, and you can put your shields up again. His face is enough to confront all on its own.

Obi-Wan steps toward you, slowly, dazed in a completely uncharacteristic way. With the way he seems to ever be prepared for the blows life throws at him, you hate how you have to be the harbinger for the second one that’s knocked him off his feet.

When he stops in front of you, he places his hands on either of your shoulders and looks into your eyes, searching for confirmation, and you nod, trying to not let fear seep into your expression.

One of his hands covers his mouth as he takes it in. 

And then he’s sinking in front of you, off of his feet indeed, and onto his knees. You want to follow, ready to hold him through the heartache sure to follow, at the second child he didn’t ask for while he still grieves the loss of the first. 

But his hands instead take purchase on your stomach, tightening the fabric of your tunic around the barely-visible bump before bunching it up and lifting, just enough so he can tilt his forehead against the skin there. 

You can feel him reaching out, not taking him long at all to find what he’s searching for, and curiosity beats self-preservation at the last moment, prompting you to open your mind again, just for you to be able to catch elation coursing through Obi-Wan.

You don’t even bother trying to stifle your confusion as he looks up at you with glassy eyes.

Sinking to your knees to meet him, you take his face in your hands, trying to make sense of it all as he takes your hand in his. “I never... “ when his voice comes out unsteady, he clears his throat and tries again. “I never thought I’d have... That we could… didn’t occur to me that now...stars above, how long have you known?”

You don’t recall when you start crying, but tears are falling freely down your cheeks as you shake your head. “I’m so sorry. I… I would never want to keep something like this from you, Obi-Wan, but I couldn’t tell you, not with everything, not with all you already have…and i’m so sorry.”

“Oh, heavens, no. You should not have to do this alone. Please don’t keep things from me, even if you think it to be for my sake. We can…”

You fix him with a pointed, unamused stare. He exhales as he must notice his hypocrisy. 

“Your point is well-put and taken, but the sentiment still stands. We’ll not keep secrets from each other anymore. Do we have an accord?”

Despite it all, you smile at his overly-formal phrasing, something you’d normally have a quip about if it weren’t for the concern still nagging at you.

“Are you not angry then? Or disappointed?” you watch him carefully, praying to any deity listening that he doesn’t concoct some half truth to placate you. His first instinct is always to protect, but you’d never want it at expense of his authenticity. 

Bafflement marks his brow at first, then he takes your face in his hands. “Darling, no.” He says your name, gathering every bit of your attention. “I dreamt of you. During the war, when I was away. I did not sleep well, even then, but when I did, I’d sometimes dream of you, holding a child that I knew to be ours. When I woke, I would remember it so vividly, so painfully, because I never thought that was an attainable future for us.”

But that doesn’t need to matter if you… do you want this child?” His eyes are so full of hope, and it was the last thing you expected, but here he is laying it down on the altar of your preference, and maker, are you glad those two things aren’t opposing each other. 

Because his hope and yours are one in the same, and once he knows it too, at your whispering, choked, “yes,” he’s clutching you in his arms.

And for the second time in a month, you’re both huddled on the ground in tears. The first, bowing under the mass of catastrophe. Now, at the glowing relief of the sprouting of a dream sown in tears, too tender before to even say aloud.

But now? You’re saying it, back and forth, from him to you as your walls fall, permitting him into your mind as he welcomes you into his, and finally you take true comfort once again in the home you’ve built in each other. 

*******

The night after, you lie side by side, hand in hand, on a blanket splayed not far from the hut. The suns have sunken, but the pinks and oranges of their palette still paint the sky where it hasn’t yet turned to midnight cobalt. The light of the lantern gives off a similar hue, dousing everything in your reach in soft, warm hues.

It has taken Obi-Wan some convincing, being so out in the open with everything he had to worry about wasn’t his first choice, but you compromised for a small alcove in the rock formations which surrounded you on two sides. More easily defensible. Not that he needed it, but if he was cautious before, it was borderline unbearable now. With the added danger of the Empire knowing without doubt that he lived.  With more than ever to lose. 

So, he was in charge of safety, you were in charge of snacks. And if they so happened to be almost entirely comprised of those melons you couldn’t quite get enough of lately? That was no one’s business except yours. You brought a few things you knew Obi-Wan liked too, of course. 

What little remains of the miscellaneous spread you push to the edge of the blanket so you can both lie down. 

“I dare say it’s almost pleasant out tonight.”

You turn your head to him, a snort ready at him discussing the weather of all things, but it instead forms a cloud in your throat at the sight of him. 

His eyes are closed, hair rustling in the slight evening breeze, a tranquil ease over his profile. 

The small patches of grey in the part of his beard next to his ears catch the first glints of moonlight in a way the rest of his hair doesn’t, giving them away. 

The mellisonant lowness of his voice brings you back to yourself, cheeks heating. 

“I can feel you staring, little one.”  He opens his eyes, leisurely rolling to his side. “Some say it’s quite impolite.” Slanting over you, he lifts a brow, daring your response.

“And is that a problem?” You look up at him through your eyelashes, feigning innocence. 

Obi-Wan’s gaze follows back up to the stars, as he plays right along, pretending to have to think on it. “I suppose it depends.” 

“On?”

“On whether or not you allow me to return the impropriety,” he responds with a coy smile, moving back to you, so close now you can feel his exhales on your cheek. 

Warmth blooms through you as you answer back, “You can always look, Obi-Wan.” You lift yourself to close the short distance between your face and his, pressing your lips together, which he deepens right away. Using the hand not supporting half his body off of you still, he fans out his fingers across your belly, towing the line between caressing gently and clutching protectively. 

You pull your lips back from his as an uninvited slither of insecurity slips into your chest. 

He senses it, of course, so you speak before he even needs to ask. “Are you really, truly, certain this is what you want? Now? I don’t want you to just say so because…and we could wait, we have...”

“I am,” he says, adamantly, before you even have a chance to finish. His eyes flash to the side. “I…” He rolls back onto his back, looking straight up as he talks seemingly half to you, half to himself. “There is not much I know for certain these days. Some days… I scarcely can remember who I am anymore.” 

He turns his eyes back to you, unwavering. “There are seldom few things I haven’t questioned of late, and my love for you isn’t one of them. And from the moment I’ve known, from the very first instant you let me feel the life within you, my love for them hasn’t been one either.” 

Your thoughts split into two, one wanting to lean into it, to take him for his word that’s always true, and the other cautioning you, telling you to keep distant and watch for the surface level honesty he gives that hides the brutal one he safeguards you from. 

But you’re not hiding anymore, feelings unconcealed in your energy and on your face, so he leans back into you, grasping your arm in his hand, squaring your shoulders to him. You cringe at yourself when you know he’s heard the impression of you questioning. It’s redundant, but self-doubt always is. “Know, please know, my darling.” Taking your hand in his, he brings it up to his temple with an insistence that you have no desire to counter. 

And it’s there. Right there and sparking in its clarity, right at the threshold of his mind as you enter it. How much he means his words, no holds barred, no cleverly crafted glazes to an unly underbelly of reality. His reality was this, how severely he craves starting a family with you. How much he already loves the being within you, how he looks forward to the day he gets to hold them in his arms. 

The fear is there too, quiet, but not kept from you. The fear of failing as a father, unsure of assuming any role that resembled a mentor again, all-too-familiar with the ghost that will float over him in every lesson he teaches. 

What shocks you there is his faith in you. In how much he’s already learned from you about the impact of open affection, in how you don’t let your feelings lead you, but you let them breathe, not suffocate them. It’s part of how he even can acknowledge his fears to himself and to you without berating himself under the too-simple phrase “fear leads to the dark side.” There’s truth in it, but also inaccuracy. 

Because he’s afraid, and yet, there is so much light in the acknowledging of it to himself, and in that very act, it loses much of any power it could have had over him. Oh, how deeply he wishes he could have articulated that understanding to Anakin. 

The pain is fresh, but so is his anticipation for the future, swirling together in a potent drink, and his throat bobs with the effort to swallow them down simultaneously. 

He knows you’ll help ground him through it, he trusts you, even in his uncertainty in himself.

It breaks your heart but also warms it: the knowledge that he lets you into that place where he keeps the questions of himself, the place only you and the man who’s caused most of this doubt have been permitted. 

 With a thankful short farewell, you part from his mind as you know exactly what you want to do.

The remains of your snacks still rest on the edge of the blanket, including the shells of the deep purple-pigmented melons. The one draw-back to their delightful taste was how badly they stained your fingers. You had to break them into tiny pieces, plopping them into your mouth without allowing them to touch your lips unless you wanted your mouth to stain too. 

But right now? The staining quality was just what you needed. 

Although first you needed a blank canvas. 

“May I take your tunics off?” you ask, sitting up. 

Despite a short twitch of confusion and then interest, Obi-Wan follows, raising himself up into a kneel, slightly lifting his arms in compliance. 

The paleness of his skin catches all the light of the lantern, highlighting your view as you slowly slide the fabric up and off, gliding your hands up the line of hair dipping below his navel as it becomes more exposed. It grants you a quiet, steep intake of breath from him and you suddenly give halt momentarily, distracted by the alluring appetite you’ve created. 

No, you won’t give in. Not yet. He needs to know this. 

You take one of the broken pieces of melon rind in your hand, where little tart bits of the fruit still cling, dribbling pigment, but before your finger makes contact with the taut skin of his chest, you pull back at the realization you might have bitten off more than you can chew. 

How do you even begin to describe him? Obi-Wan is so many things at once, so many attributes, and every descriptor that comes to mind falls blatantly short of him. 

Then you recall Obi-Wan going through the motions of Alchaka, watching his body fight to maintain the poses at times. Being such a personal practice, you felt honored that he let you see him go through the exercises, and even more honored that he opened up to you about the purpose behind it later. It was an exercise of both physicality and Force use, and the goal was absolute exhaustion. That was the destination. Trying, knowing from the start that he’ll fall short in the end, but doing it all the same. Because there’s so, so much to be said for the trying.

So you do. You bring the messy fingertip to his clavicle, smearing the first word you know to absolutely be true of him, as if starting the premise with a whisper of I know you’re even more than the sum all of these singular praises. 

The word ���complex” appears in your penmanship on his skin as you drag it to life. You look up to his eyes, and his curiosity is clear there, but also so is the tenderness that is elemental to any time he looks at you. And just like that, you have your next word.

Kind.

And at the way he flushes so lovely for you at that?

Beautiful. 

You feel his protest before you see it, the objection in his signature, and you know you’re going to have to switch methods. 

Just then, a droplet from where you’ve written the last word on his pectoral falls, down, down, threatening toward the hem of his trousers, but you’re fast, dropping your mouth down and catching it all on your tongue before it can stain the bleached beige of his remaining clothing. 

When his stubborn revolt at the affirmation quiets in his mind in exchange for a flash of searing lust, you know exactly how you’re going to continue. 

Because Obi-Wan Kenobi, general, warrior, negotiator, Jedi Master, legend, has rarely ever been affirmed as such, and he squirms under the thick blanket of his humility and deprivation anytime someone endeavors. 

So you need his mind to be preoccupied enough, guards down low enough, so he can even hear the message get through.

When you place your hands over his waistband, locking eyes in inquiry, stopping when he hesitates, scanning the area around you, vigilant as always. Overly so now. 

“We’re alone. And wouldn’t you be able to sense it if we weren’t?” 

He looks down at you as he answers. “If I stay mindful enough to do so, yes.” 

Good, he’ll be even less prone to fight you if he has some of his mind sensing outward.

You look back up at him with the facial equivalent of asking “well?” to which Obi-Wan sighs in response. “Very well then.”

With your familiarity with ridding him of clothing, it only takes moments before you can finally taste him where you want to, where he’s already hard and swollen for you. 

 You know you won’t be able to take him as much as you want, a recently-developed overactive gag reflex preventing you. But it just so happens to be convenient tonight, as the resulting taunt should have him right where you want him.

A gentle kiss, right to the head of his cock is all the warning you give him before taking the whole tip in your mouth, swirling your tongue around him, pulling a choked hum deep from his throat. 

Oh, oh, Maker, have you done a grand miscalculation, because you forgot an entire factor in this equation: the way you have been borderline hysterical in hunger for him.

You’ve kept so much from him, and part of how you’ve even managed is starting to convince yourself of less than fact. Facts like how many times you’ve had to change underthings recently, physical evidence of desire unwilling to comply to your head’s demands. Facts like how you’ve literally had to bite your finger to keep the feelings at bay. 

You’d expected changes in your body even before your belly grew, but this was one you hadn’t anticipated. In some ways, it wasn’t that different than usual. You never knew you could want someone with the breadth that you want Obi-Wan. 

But this? Of late? It feels like it’s been amplified tenfold. 

You’re not keeping any cards close to your chest anymore, but you do have to ignore your own body’s screaming cries as you complete this.

He needs to know. 

Nerves still serenading his brain with feedback, you re-wet your finger with the purple juice and write the next words across his abdomen. 

Wise.

Perceptive.

He’s caught on to your scheme by now, cued by the all-too appropriate addition of the last word, and he lets you know it, an impression projected, speechless but still unobstructed. He’s still powerless against it. Or rather, letting himself be powerless. Trusting you with the control he has left, trusting you in his vulnerable places. The places where he’s weak.

Strong.

The word spread over his right upper arm, where he’s obviously just that. But may the tint of the word bleed through his skin, may it run through his veins, because that’s how deep and deeper still that his strength runs. It’s in the way he doesn’t flaunt it. It’s in the way he chooses to wield it. 

Gentle. 

He closes his eyes, flinching at the onslaught of acclamation, and you dip your head down again, wrapping your lips around his cock, letting him slide to where you can take him comfortably, just starting to build a pace as his hips squirm in harmony with his suddenly erratic breaths. Oh, how you’d love to let him deeper, allow his cock past your lips beyond the teasing amount you can take now, but the little writhes his body gives in protest are enough to almost make you okay with how your mouth won’t agree with your ambitions. He says your name, groaned out in bliss as he cups a hand on your cheek.

His barriers are down, so it’s easy to hear when his deprecating thoughts quiet again, and you switch back to coloring him again. 

You know the moment you look up at him that it’s a mistake, because he’s flushed, so torn, suspended in the limbo of your give and withdrawal, mouth ever so slightly open, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. 

You’re only human, so before you draw anything else, you bring your lips to his, which is yet another mistake, because among the many things Obi-Wan is, he is a deep kisser, and as his tongue delves into your mouth, your will power takes a devastating blow. 

You pull back, reeling at the reminder of how easily he can take back control, knowing you have to complete this before you let him. 

Stars, how you want to let him. 

For now, you need that control back, so you take him into your mouth again, filthily wet and not nearly long enough as you quickly pull back, watching in satisfaction as he heaves forward at the loss, correcting himself quickly back into straight posture. 

With a smirk, you drag your slippery, pigmented finger across his lower stomach. 

Disciplined.

There’s so many more words, so much more he needs to know, and if you covered every inch of his skin in the smallest writing it still wouldn’t be sufficient of all that he is. 

Or you could whisper it all through the Force, embed it all in his mind. 

But because you’ve been there, know his mind inside and out, you know every time he sees his own skin, all he sees is the red of blood on his hands. The blood of his brother. 

And that’s exactly why you’re going to stain it in your own colors. Take back territory and push back the front lines that the army of guilt has taken over on him. 

Your Jedi, ever-adorned in unassuming beige, now drips in the color of royalty.

Charming.

Humble. 

Confident. 

Steadfast. 

You’re only left with enough space for one more word, and you want some sort of conclusion to it all, something to summarize the expanse of the man kneeling in front of you. 

Nothing can. 

But maybe, just maybe, one word encapsulates what he is to you. 

Treasure. 

This time you do chant it across his thoughts, prompting him to open his eyes and look at you.

Cerulean blue blinks open, slowly, almost painfully and nearly overflowing with emotion. 

Thank you, is all he says, unable or unwilling to say it out loud, much too heartfelt and newly-budded for that.

You know his pain has older roots than those tended to in this moment, but you vow to yourself that you’ll never stop trying. 

Lowering your mouth around him once again, you don’t tease him anymore, at least not intentionally, even though you still can’t take more than half of him. 

“Look at you, you’re…” he hisses in a breath as you swipe your tongue against that vein on the underside of him. “Stunning. You’re doing so well, little one.” 

The taste of him compels you as much as his words, seizes you in spice-like addiction, and how interesting it’s going to be explaining that taste craving to him, among your sudden adoration for those damn melons. 

“Darling, I’m…” 

You feel it in his energy before he says it, already pulling off, replacing your mouth with your hand, dropping your lips down even lower, mouthing at his balls, and the feedback is instant. An outpouring crest of his pleasure blasting outward as he lets out a depraved moan, netting his hands into your hair.

Your hand is wet and so is where he’s spilled on his still flexing and releasing stomach, clear white maring the lettering halfway through “disciplined.” You’d clean it with your tongue if you weren’t sure how your overly sensitive taste buds would react now. 

It’s not the first time you’ve had sex since you’ve known you were pregnant, but it’s the first time since he’s known, and it’s the first time you’re not hiding the symptoms. Before, you carefully shied away from anything that might give you away, and between the preoccupation of everything on his own mind he was trying to keep from you and his respect for your boundaries, he never pressed. He had questions in his eyes, but you knew how to carefully reveal partial vulnerabilities to keep him off your trail.

Your chest flares at the memory.

We’re not hiding now. 

It’s your chant, your reminder, your comfort. How nothing of this caliber will be kept between you again.

His eyes confirm it, sincere and exact as they fight to break through their dazed slipping. 

Never again. His voice in your head is home, so consoling it can and has put you to sleep before. 

Right now, it wakes you up in a different light, dowsing you in heat as Obi-Wan takes your hand in his, wiping it on a piece of his discarded clothing before wiping the spend off himself. 

Then he’s taking your face in both his hands tilting you up before kissing you soundly. 

I love you, he says across the wire that ties your minds, the wire that keeps growing stronger every day. So, so very much.

You say it back, a fact as simple as breathing. You love him.

You want him, borderline need him the way you need your next inhale, you don’t say, but he must hear it anyway, because that cocky little smirk that’s been gone far too long is back.

“Shall we do something about that?”

You’re about to just lift your shift dress up and off in response, but he halts you, grasping your wrists. 

“Allow me.” 

He pulls you into another sultry kiss, completely neglecting the task of ridding you of clothing.

Or so you think.

There’s buttons all the way down the dress, and you’ve never used them, always wondering at their purpose if it can so easily lift over your head. 

At first, you don’t even know he’s doing it until you start to feel the coolness of the night air on your nipples. Opening your eyes, you pull back from him to watch as seemingly in thin air, your buttons undo themselves. 

“You needn’t seduce me further. You already know how much I need you,” you gasp, breathless from the kiss.

Obi-Wan just gives a small smile as he drops a hand, dragging it down your side, then down your thigh. “Hm. So impatient. All this from just pleasuring me?”

Maker, he knows! He knows that you are. You always have been, and it’s not as if you weren’t projecting your feelings too.

When he reaches a hand between your thighs, parting them and making a single, tempting stroke through them, his fingers come back glistening. 

“I should think you could feel that I am.” You let the tide of your frustration spill over into your connection to his mind. 

You know he had to hear you, but he gives no indication that he did. 

“Mm. Desire needn’t always be indicatory of impatience,” he punctuates his statement with a hand at the base of your skull, tipping your head back to expose your neck. “I need you to be patient, little one. Let me savor you.” And with that, his mouth makes contact with your neck at the same time his other hand plays with one of your exposed nipples. 

You whimper at the attention, quietly pleading with him for more. Among the still slight changes to your body, this has been the most notable one. How sensitive your breasts have become to even the scrape of the fabric of your clothing. 

And with the rough pads of his fingers working only one, leaving the other to pang in want...

“Obi-Wan,” it’s a prayer, a request. He doesn’t need his hands to cause sensation, and you’d beg him right now if he asked. 

He lets up on your neck, only barely, lips moving against the now throbbing skin. “Answer me first.” 

Clearing your throat, you give the most cogent response you can muster. “Depends on if you’re definition of savor is synonymous with torture.”

He locks eyes with you then, gently grasping a breast in each of his hands, dragging his thumbs over the nipples as you moan out your assent.

His chuckle is far too self-satisfied to be becoming of a Jedi, but you’re already too far gone to call him on it. 

“Is that what you want, little one? For me to torture you so?”

An affirmative whimper is all the response you can give, and Obi-Wan reacts quickly, taking your chin in his fingers and tilting your eyes up to his again. 

“Then you will be patient for me. Because I’m always happy to stop, and we can begin again when you decide to adhere.”

Your brain short circuits on the spot, and all energy is redirected much, much lower. His voice, stars above, his voice when it takes a commanding tone. 

It’s intimate, it’s personal, and yet this game is almost inappropriately playful for how sincere the moment is. 

But such was being loved by Obi-Wan. Full of dissimilar feelings that shouldn’t fit, but moved together in liquid consistency. Like metaphors that didn’t rhyme but still somehow gave their own life-giving rhythm, not dissimilar to the sound of his heartbeat when you lay your head against his chest at night. 

Making quick work of the remaining buttons of your shift and underwear, he beckons you to join him as he lies back down, large, warm hands guiding you to turn around so you’re facing away from him. 

You know that the purple stickiness of the fruit will smear from his body to yours like this, but you can’t at all bring yourself to care. 

You gasp a sigh of relief as one of his hands finds your breast, brushing a knuckle over the too-sensitive nipple. 

“Please.” Your whispered beg sounds pathetic, even to your own ears. But as you arch against him in a frenzied attempt at skin contact, Obi-Wan juts his hips forward, grunting into the exposed column of your neck, and stars, yeah, maybe he didn’t find that so pathetic after all. 

“What do you want, darling?” His voice doesn’t divulge any desperation, and for only the hundredth time do you envy his immaculate self-control. 

“You know, don’t pretend you don’t.” Leaving any doubt to the wind, you push your chest against his barely-touching hand. 

“Specificity can be a virtue; that I also know.” 

You change techniques, driving your hips back softly into where he’s hard and insistent against your ass, hoping it compels him. 

Then you simply… can’t anymore. You’re frozen, unable to move your lower half at all. 

Tangling your desires into a knot and tucking it away, you find the mindfulness to reply. “Yeah, so is mercy.” 

“Indeed it is. I shall concede when you do.”

You won’t win a battle of the wills with him. You’re not sure anyone could.

So you bring his hand over to your nipple. “Touch me here.” 

You feel his smile without even seeing it as he starts tweaking the bud. “Like this?”

It’s so much sensation, all concentrated on such responsive flesh, that you want to beg for him to switch to touching you between your legs.

You haven’t even finished the thought when you feel his unmistakable metaphysical brush against your thigh.

Extending a tendril of your own energy, you invite him in, and he takes it eagerly, ever as eager if not more to be entwined with your mind as with your body. 

He hears it all, the besottment, the arousal, the neediness. The panic that he might drag this out longer, that you’ll have to go a single minute longer without...

“It’s alright. It’s alright.” He sends soothing waves through your connection, and he swaps the positioning of his hand with the curl of power. He turns his hand so that the back of it runs through where you’re aching for him, gathering up your slick on the backs of his knuckles. You have to contort your neck to see what follows when he takes the hand back behind you, and your mouth goes dry when he sucks the knuckles in between his lips. 

You want to hear, you want to know what he’s…

He’s welcoming you in, navigating you to the brink of his mental barriers, letting you take that final plunge into the unsuppressed fullness of your bond to each other.

Now it’s your turn to hear it: how his carefully constructed unaffected persona is not at all a match for his naked, wanton need for you. 

And under that, the foundation on which that desire is built, not the product of it, is his love, his unyielding, unashamed, iridescent love for you. 

It’s all you can do but to pour it back, affirming and soothing and calling his love into action with your own. 

You both don’t want anything else except the most complete of entanglement, and that’s exactly what he moves to do, situating your bodies, hiking your top leg in the crook of his arm as you feel the initial breach of his body into yours, and all breath leaves your lungs in an exhilarating evacuation.

His audible gasp is an echo of his emotions, how he thinks he’s prepared for this onslaught of feeling, but how you take him off guard, how his equilibrium threatens to teeter every time. 

The web of his consciousness enveloping you, it’s easy to pick out a single thought blaring within him: How much he adores the way you fit together. Your back against his chest, how your breast fits in his hand, how the snug joining of where his cock presses into your body sends you into trembles, how comforting your very presence is to his soul when he lets you in like this. 

Tears, without warning, seep out of your eyes as he starts to move against you, slow and deep. You close your eyes, willing the powerful emotion away, but glimmers of light flash out behind our closed lids the moment you do, and how the kriff does he stay composed? 

Anchor. Anchor against me. 

He stills, letting you have a break from the barrage of pleasure blinding you as you search him out, looking for the cords of his intellect that seemingly both steam downward and beam upward, grounding him.

You find it, and you clasp on tightly.

But the moment he starts moving again, you lose sight of it all over again.

Your heightened hormones make your flesh so susceptible, and the tears start to fall again. Obi-Wan rolls your nipple in between his thumb and index, and he’s so good, and you’re so full, and you can hear his pleasure as your own, adding, doubling everything…

Scorching, electrifying heat speeds through your veins, hitting hard and fast, leaving you astounded and even more sensitive than before. 

Obi-Wan’s signature spikes as your climax resounds through him, and you can feel the vibration of the wanton noises he’s making right where his beard scratches against your neck. 

But he doesn’t allow it to overtake him, letting it run through him without resistance, making himself pliable but unmovable, keeping himself back from the edge. 

You still have much to learn.

Because that control? Gives him the ability to not even stop, not even hesitate once, even at both yours and his own ecstasy flowing through him.

When he starts striking his hips hard into yours, the weight of him inside you dragging exactly in the right place, you start to cry in earnest. Obi-Wan stops for a millisecond, concern radiating off of him, even when he can hear how much you want this so clearly, has access to every little passing thought. 

“Don’t stop, I’m fine, I pro…” He does just as asked while moving his hand down to your belly again, a soothing touch to his rough thrusts. Your eyes are blurred with wetness, overwhelmed with him. 

He’s listening to it all, applying every micro-feeling of feedback into action against your desperate, post-orgasmic skin, hand switching back and forth from your nipples to loosely clutching your neck, Force energy focused on applying pressure to your clit. 

“You’re doing so well, so good for me,” comes the wisp of his sultry tone, lips pressed against your ear. 

Since you aren’t even thinking about changing position, you know it’s his own preference that has him withdrawing, guiding you onto your back. 

There’s no inhibition this way, not the way there is when you’re on your side, no separation from your bodies being flush when he pushes into you again. You have to anchor in him, both mentally and with your fingernails clawing at his shoulder blades as your body starts into tremors.

He’s keeping the weight of his chest off of you, even though your belly is still barely swollen into distinguishable roundedness, and as much as you miss the contact, you can look into his eyes like this, can see the unfiltered attachment and all the weight of all the emotion he wills his body to not cave under. 

But then the tremoring transforms into series of contractions throughout your body, centering through your slick core, and you thrash your head to the side catching a glimpse of Obi-Wan’s fingers clenching into white knuckles, grasping into the exposed sand from the blanket being bunched up. 

He projects his thoughts across the tether to you,  how thoroughly impacted by the very fact you’re carrying his child, how affected he is by every little thing about you, honored that he’s allowed to touch you like this. 

You roll your hips back up into his, and that’s what it takes. His stuttering body is the lightning, and the searing, molten pleasure across your connection is the thunderous repercussion. 

It completely overthrows you, and your body bows against him as his high instantly cues yours again.

You can feel him throb inside you at the very moment you do, his turn to experience the secondary sensory white-out of your mate’s climax through the Force, his shuddering shout meeting your breathy whines in the close distance between your mouths. 

And he does kiss you then, soundly but with the haze of afterglow slowing it. 

“Have you any idea how bewitching you are to me?” He breathes it out, and despite all the ways you’d normally scoff at such words, his eyes tell the story, and you listen to it’s truth. 

His eyes hold that constant infiltrating study of you, the one that could be unnerving if his mind, still tethered to yours didn’t hold such amor, heart bleed such fondness that settles in the creases around his eyes. 

How interesting it is watching someone as knowledgeable as him having such an inquisitive outlook on life, and being so frequently the object of those investigations. 

Did the galaxy know her debt to him? Did she know the sum owed to inflicting the worst of life’s pains on someone who refused to let it build anything except an even gentler man of himself? When does she plan on repaying him? What does she offer in exchange for her cruelty of the hand she’s dealt Obi-Wan Kenobi?

Then the whisper comes, soft but crisp, from somewhere in the threads of existence around you, “Can’t you see? It’s you, child.” 

You could argue it. You could scream how it’s not enough, how you’re not enough,  how he deserves so much more from some dark insecure place inside you. Or how love shouldn’t be treated as currency in exchange for pain, how the galaxy could still have your fists if that was how it tallied. 

But the finality of it settles in your soul, more impressionistic than in solid wording: there is no easy conclusion that ties the suffering of life into purpose, no experience that erases or mends its pain. But love. Love makes the complicated endeavor of trying to find purpose in the madness worthwhile.  

Obi-Wan’s hum of agreement resounds in your ears and through to your head. His Force signature feels so familiar, so at home within yours and yours within his, that you’d briefly forgotten he could still hear you. 

With all the strength still left in quaking limbs, you wrap your arms around him, and he melts into it. 

The compassion of his soul hardly matches his war-ravaged skin, his guilt-ridden memories. Every good thing here came to be with a war waged, refined and not burnt away in fire at his sheer tenacity. 

It’s a growing thing, blooming in the desert. The beliefs in both of you. Your love for each other. Your own trust in the Force. 

Healing is no short journey, but her two sojourners here are determined.

And if that tender hope can blossom here?

Then maybe, just maybe: Tatooine is exactly the place for a baby after all. 

*********

In the valley beyond the hut, a boy jets quickly away in some mechanical contraption he recently motorized, a girl in a similar vehicularized compilation of junk not far behind. 

On the cliff’s edge stands Obi-Wan, eyes scanning the landscape intermittently for any sign of threat between longer affectionate looks at the children before him.

He turns, feeling your approach in his keen awareness as you set a hand on his shoulder from behind. His temples are now even thicker with sun-bleached silver, and his eyes wield the lines of laughter around them. 

And you? You’re as roped in by his gravitational pull as you’ve always been. 

He puts a hand over yours, clasping it to bring you in front of him, where he can still watch the children and encase you in his arms at the same time. 

“Slow down, Luke! You’re going too fast!” comes the distressed cry of your daughter, Ahlina, drawing your attention away from admiring Obi-Wan and back to the valley. Her vowels curl in the same way her father’s does, but her more casual phrasing was certainly thanks to you. Luke shouts back at her, “Come on, keep up!” while he races on ahead.

Obi-Wan smiles, seemingly amused at a secret joke. 

“They are much too young for this nonsense still,” he speaks, muffled slightly as he hides his lips in your hair. 

“Probably,” you reply with an airy laugh.

Not long after, the engine on Luke’s small contraption gives out, jutting him off and tumbling forward into the sand. 

“I told you!” Ahlina yells, her own machine coming to a halt not far away from Luke. 

When they make it back up the cliff, Obi-Wan couches and opens his arms, and they both come running with smiles. They’re still young enough to be unshy about affection, and Obi-Wan knows to soak it up, closing his eyes in relishment. 

Luke is the first to wiggle down, waving before running over to hug your leg, which you happily return, brushing some of the blonde mop of hair from his forehead. You adored the nights that the Lars let him sleep over. 

Although the nights that Ahlina slept over at theirs certainly had their allure too. 

“Can we have a snack, Daddy?” Ahlina asks, still happy to be hoisted up on one of his arms. 

“Hm. Perhaps I can make some of those ahrisa sweet breads again?”

She wrinkles her nose. “Can Mommy make them?”

“Why not mine?”

“Because you always burn them.”

He bops a finger lightly on her nose with a smile. “Cheeky.”

She goes to bop him on his nose in return, but he catches the finger, holding it. 

“Give it back!” she screeches through a giggle. 

“No, no. I think I’ll keep it now.” 

The suns are dipping low as you retreat into the hut, the two children running ahead, racing to gather the ingredients to help you bake the bread. Luke especially was an enthusiastic sous-chef. 

You step to follow them, but Obi-Wan grasps your hand. You turn back to him, and he barely gives you a second before he joins his mouth to yours. Sliding a hand into the auburn beard, you open your mouth to him, letting his familiar taste permeate your senses. 

He reluctantly breaks after a long moment, and you take his hand in yours. When you turn back to the horizon, the suns are dipping, blanketing the landscape in the most celestial light of the day. 

The planet’s eyes aren’t harsh in the way you used to see them. They’re still intense, and frequently unforgiving. 

Perhaps they never changed. Maybe only you did.

But as they sink now, you give a silent, partial farewell, knowing they’ll greet you again in the morning. 

Because if Dark’s patience is infinite? 

So is the promise of the return of the Light. 

Tagging upon request: @million-dollar-legs

[imthepunchlord]

Nino’s Best to Least

Marinette, Adrien, Alya, Kagami

Nino is a bit of a hard character to get down as, canon wise, he hardly gets any focus and you really got to pay attention to him to get a sense of his character together. What I’ve found is that, just as Alya and Adrien are similar, Nino and Marinette are actually similar too. Like Marinette, Nino is a character ruled by both his heart and his head. As seen with Alya and Adrien, when he loves, he loves deeply, and is always there with physical affection and support, whatever may be needed. Pixelator shows us he is diligent and helpful, not only taking over Adrien’s job but working on his homework at the same time. And Party Crasher shows us he can be an elaborate planner. And with all of these, we see that he is an incredibly passive character, one who likes to move at his own pace but can be quick to follow along. Similarly to Alya, he has his bouts of being oblivious to others or prioritizing his own wants more. And unlike the other 3 of this friend group, he himself isn’t really one to be in the thick of things or get direct with anyone or anything. He has his moments of standing his ground and is able to, but its not something he’s inclined to do often. With this, Nino has two best matches. 

NIno’s best are Peafowl and Butterfly. Both give him flexibility and options, Peafowl matches his preference to work as he wants to, Butterfly works off Nino’s strong sense of empathy and the connections he can easily form with others.

Starting with Peafowl, this works off Nino’s preference to move at his own pace and to play by his own rules. As a want to be a director, this sets him up to be a background role, directing others from a distance, and having a sense of control. With a power to create golems that serve out one purpose, this is the most ideal power for him as golems will do as he wants them to and offer him the control he wants. This also opens up a chance of creativity and exploring possibilities with his golems. This miraculous also isn’t a must be on the battlefield, which can allow Nino the chance to have as much distance from the heat of things as he likes, and can join in if he wishes. This probably fits his comfort zone most out of all 5. 

Growth wise, this can work on his danger response without overwhelming him, and by extension, his courage. Watching him in the background, when akumas show up, he’s typically the first to hide (Refleckta hiding behind Alya) or runaway (Animan). Anansi was his bravest moment, but it was also incredibly reckless and dangerous. The tricky thing about learning courage in this aspect is that he’s learning courage in the face of danger. You don’t exactly want to encourage someone getting brave with something dangerous that can hurt them or worse. You want them to be smart in how they address the danger without risking themselves as well. Peafowl allows his courage to grow while giving him that distance and means to provide help. And as his comfort and courage grow, he can involve himself more, but be smart and cautious in his approach. This also helps him address his biggest issue and flaw as a hero: his attachment. Seen in the s2 finale and in Zombizou, when Alya is knocked out, Nino had immediately given up despite both instances, he actually could’ve done more to help. This miraculous can help him put distance between himself and this strong attachment that has him fall apart when someone falls, and his golems by extension can help him with that. They’re not always going to work and there will be instances that they fail and are destroyed. In the wake of their fall, this can help Nino prepare for cases like these and become aware that there is more that he can do. 

With Duusu, I find that she’d probably be the best match for Nino out of the 5 kwamis. She has ideal differences to counter him but also enough similarities to work well: where he is passive, still, and calm, she’s incredibly animated, energetic, and expressive. And in terms of similarity, both are very affectionate and live by their feelings. Technically is a headcanon right now, but Duusu should be a very observant kwami, one who will catch Nino’s attention if he’s ever inconsiderate or oblivious with others. I also have a little headcanon that he calls her “Little Blue” instead of “Little dude/dudette”. 

Butterfly has a lot of the same appeals and matches that Peafowl has for Nino, but more works off his empathy and connection with others. As this is a miraculous about giving power to another, being supportive, and helping build people up, this is up Nino’s alley as someone who is very naturally a big supporter of others. We this with Adrien and Alya that he strongly works off being there for them. Butterfly works very well off this strength and aspect of him. And when watching Nino in the background, he’s actually second to Marinette in having the most friends, making him a very desirable social butterfly that is far more ready to reach out to others and be open to who he may get. And empathic and calm as he is, he’d be able to have people agree to be his champions readily, and allow them a chance to address the problem. And much like Peafowl, this offers flexibility in where Nino would like to be in the field. If he himself isn’t comfortable being there, he doesn’t have to be and can be allowed to join at his own pace. 

Growth wise, this miraculous can address his occasional issue of obliviousness. It’s not often, but Nino does have issues of noticing the discomfort of his friends (specifically Adrien around Lila and Chloe, he has offered both once a chance to help them hook up with Adrien). Being based around emotion and empathy, this can help him be more conscious of others and their emotional state. And the biggest appeal, this miraculous can help him with distance, also addressing his biggest flaw. A Butterfly needs to know when to back off and put distance between themselves at a situation. This distance can help Nino with his attachment issues, and not fall apart when his champions or allies fall, realize that he himself can do more if it comes to that. 

I see Noroo and Nino getting along very well, both appreciating a shared calm and gentle personality. Nooroo himself would be an observant kwami, and when he voices concerns, Nino I see listening readily. 

Nino’s second best are Fox and Turtle. Fox allows the distance and creativity to flourish. Turtle plays off Nino’s strength as a supporter and having his allies’ back. Despite these matches, their not so ideal. 

Fox allows the distance Nino wants, though it doesn’t allow that flexibility to join in if he really wants to, but chances are good that it may not come to that. Mirage can work off his creativity and elaborate planning, and can give him that desired practice to direct, put on a show and work his audience into believing what they see. The issue stems that Nino himself isn’t the cunning or manipulative sort. We can even see that he can be a little loose lips as Animan, he almost dropped that Alya told him about Marinette’s crush on Adrien (not cool Alya). It’s not entirely true to his character that we see him be underhanded, and the few times that he does something underhanded (change the script in Horrificator and threw a secret party in Party Crasher), it doesn’t take long for him to get caught. The lack of subtlety can be an issue with him as a Fox. Not to say he can’t pull it off, but things aren’t always going to work out when he tries to be crafty. Animan is another good example of this as he almost revealed to Marinette that Alya told him about her crush on Adrien until Alya had cut him off. And similarly to Alya (and by extension Adrien), there’s an issue with Lila, and the factor that Nino is easily led and manipulated by her. A solid Fox would catch onto Lila’s game, but Nino has yet to. 

Growth wise this can work on his observation skills as there are factors and issues that can go over his head (Adrien’s body behavior around Chloe and Lila). Fox can also have him work on subtlety and be smarter and sharper about how he goes about things. I don’t see him going full manipulator, but will have an edge of subtlety to him as he works with others. 

Nino would be another that’s easily led with Trixx, though I can see him having a few bouts of getting frustrated with the kwami. Trixx is the sort to be vague/beat around the bush as he wants his users to figure stuff out on their own with the smallest nudge in the right direction. Nino’s the sort that likes things to be more direct and clear. But Trixx ultimately will help Nino in catching details, and can work on Nino’s attachment issues. 

With Turtle, it matches Nino as someone who wants to be there for his friends and have their back. And it matches Nino in that he has capacity to stand his ground and be rooted in where he is, and can be willing to be in the heat of things (Lady Wifi easily standing up to Chloe, the entirety of Horrificator, and Anansi, going up to face the akuma). But those are far and few in between. It’s not a persistent trait to see in Nino that he is willing and ready to be in the heat of things. He can if he really wants to, but its not something he naturally prefers all the time, and this miraculous who is quite ready to be in the heat of things and brave the dangers. As such, this miraculous puts Nino where he’s not comfortable, and he has no means of naturally adjusting that comfort level as he’s essentially dropped into the middle of the ocean and expected to swim. And when watching Carapace closely, most of the time he is fumbling in battle (specifically the s2 finale) or hardly does nothing, like Anansi. You could probably cut out Carapace easily from Anansi. He never fights her himself and it's in the realm of possibility that Chat could turn his hand to Cataclysm the web. It is a possibility for him as he can stand his ground and he’s all for having the backs of his friends, but its not entirely an ideal match as it shoves him where he largely doesn’t want to be. 

Nino’s least fit is Bee. 

The Bee has the same issues as Turtle, plus being a more aggressive miraculous, and Nino himself is not the aggressive sort. He’s not one to go out of his way to approach and be on the offense. The most aggressive we ever see is him being snide and underhanded, but those are rarities. Another factor that Nino himself isn’t very involved in a lot, which is a tad ironic as he’s the 2nd to Marinette in having the most friends. He’s there to have other’s backs, but typically he involves himself when needed, not taking initiative. And this miraculous is more active, involved, and direct. Which are just all things Nino isn’t. 

Growth wise, this can help Nino step up as a leader and have him involve himself more with others and be more active in helping out; but that is something that’s going to take time. Especially in building enough courage to approach a volatile target to use Venom. It can be done, but I don’t see Nino pulling it off immediately with ease, especially as this power requires tact, subtlety, and acting quickly. He needs more time to process and prepare. Bee doesn’t offer up that time. 

And Pollen, assuming she’d treat Nino the same as other girls she’s being used by, I can see her interactions with Nino helping her grow. And if she has capacity to call out her humans, she can call out Nino when he’s being inconsiderate of others. I do want to say that I see him listening, but chances are also good that I can see him brushing her off when he’s in his rare uppity moods. 

Between Ladybug and Cat, Nino would do better with Ladybug. 

The biggest appeal is that this is a miraculous that requires distance and an elaborate planner, which for Nino is right up his alley as he rather not be in the heat of things and does like to take time to think things through. Biggest issue though is that this miraculous is going to require quick thinking and action. This will lead to some struggle near the start but I see him getting it down. 

Growth wise, this expands on his complex thinking, and can work on his observation skills as this needs a resourceful user who can use what’s around them. This can give Nino leadership practice as this requires giving other direction to assist with whatever plan is required. 

Tikki and Nino I do see butting heads occasionally but otherwise will be a very amiable pair. Tikki can be optimistic and affectionate, enough so that she can work off Nino’s friendly and easy goign nature quite well, and he himself works well off those who are more energetic and active than him. She will swiftly call things out when she sees issues and Nino will be conscious of these; but I don’t see him getting to a similar point as Marinette in accepting Tikki’s criticism as always right or correct., nor to that point to always consider others before himself. As much as others are the world to him, he still has a lot of consideration for his self and his own needs and wants. 

[dramioneasks]

HP FESTS: Dramione RomCom Fest (Part 1)

Dramione RomCom Fest 2020:

12 Years and 3 Months by pixiedustandbluebutterflies - T, one-shot - As news of their engagement takes Wizarding England by storm, elusive power couple Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger are finally sharing their love story in this Witch Weekly interview!

50 (First) Dates with Hermione Granger by HufflepuffMommy - G, WIP - Draco Malfoy sets his heart on romancing Hermione Granger, but she has short-term memory loss; she can't remember anything that happened the day before. So every morning, Draco has to woo her again. Her friends are very protective, and Draco must convince them that he's in it for love. Plot (andsummary) taken from the movie "50 First Dates" for the Dramione RomCom fest!

About Time by WordsmithMusings - E, WIP - When Draco's Father reveals to him that the men in their family have the ability to travel back in time, he uses his newfound gift to do many things - save a life, be a better friend, reconnect with a witch, and fall in love.

All's well that ends well (to end up with you) by weestarmeggie - M, one-shot - Hermione Granger is all set to be the maid of honor at her best friends wedding. She is taken back when she finds out that the best man is none other than her ex-fiance.

Away by In_Dreams - E, WIP - Desperate for a change of pace, Hermione unknowingly commits to a home exchange with Pansy Parkinson and finds herself swept up in the chaos of New York City and into the arms of Draco Malfoy. Dramione/Hansy. Loosely inspired by The Holiday.

Bells on a Hill by HeyJude19 - T, WIP - Left by his fiancée a month before the ceremony, Draco never got his dream wedding, so agreeing to assist Granger with her own wedding planning to distract himself from his broken engagement seems like a great idea—though Draco probably shouldn't fall in love with the bride-to-be. Based very (very) loosely on The Wedding Singer.

Chasing the Future by Rdlentz8 - T, WIP - An unusual and anonymous Patronus finds a frustrated Hermione alone in the library and talks to her about being lonely. Could this be the push she's needed to change her fate? Inspired by A Cinderella Story. There are direct quotes from A Cinderella Story.

Domino Effect by KoraKwidditch - M, WIP - Resolved to live her life in Muggle London, Hermione Granger finally felt free. Free from the Ministry, free from her celebrity status and everything that entailed. But who knew that one cataclysmal incident would lead her straight into the Malfoy's den and down a series of unfortunate events? At least they think she's a Muggle.**A Dramione retelling of While You Were Sleeping**

Fairytales and Wishes by Charlie9646 - T, one-shot - All Scorpius wants is for Hermione to be a nice step mother, but somehow that sort of gets lost in translation with his accidental magic.

Flipping Through the Pages by DarkAngelOfSorrowReturns - T, WIP - Draco Malfoy had a fascination with a popular book series and its writer. His life changes when he meets her.

The Hate List by bethelson - T, WIP - While chaperoning the post graduation trip, Hermione and Draco find themselves wandering the streets of Paris in the middle of the night, fruitlessly searching for the seventh years they were supposed to be in charge of. What Hermione doesn’t know, is that those seventh years struck a bargain with Draco to keep her occupied so they could sneak out for a last hurrah before they all head back to London. So in his efforts to derail her search, he convinces her to join him in their own night of frivolity. As they paint the city red, they slowly learn to let their guards down, and find that putting the past behind them allows them to finally focus on the present. ___ My contribution to the Dramione RomCom Fest!

Hollywood & Vine by dreamsofdramione (Bugggghead), msmerlin - M, WIP - As the manager of an occult bookstore currently renting a room from an old friend and living paycheck to paycheck, Hermione wasn’t exactly living the Hollywood dream. But her life is turned upside down when a chance encounter with Tinseltown’s current heartthrob, Draco Malfoy, leaves her questioning everything she thought she knew about life and love. or the one in which Hermione unintentionally falls in love with a movie star.

Home is Where the Heart Is by lrs002 - T, one-shot - A rewrite and Draco/Hermione look at basically the last scenes of the movie Sweet Home AlabamaOr in the other words: The Wedding and the Kiss

How to Lose a Wizard in 10 Days by GracefulLioness - E, WIP - Hermione will do anything to prove to her boss at Witch Weekly that she's ready to take on more serious topics, including dating a man just to drive him away for the sake of her next column, How to Lose a Wizard in 10 Days. But pushing Draco Malfoy away proves to be a challenging task, perhaps because he's got ten days to make her fall in love with him. Inspired by How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days.

It Happened One Knight by Klawdee - T, WIP - “A spoiled heir running away from his family is helped by an old classmate, who is actually a journalist in need of a story.” Based off of the 1934 film, It Happened One Night

It's All In The Malfoy Family by TwilightToMidnight - M, one-shot - Over a decade of longing and desire comes to fruition one night. Not quite the way Hermione expected but definitely with a bang. Everyone and their dog seem to be working against her. For the 2020 Dramione RomCom Fest. Loosely based off Sabrina (1954 - with Audrey Hepburn).

Love, Actually in Dramione by Blessedindeed - G, one-shot - I absolutely love the movie "Love, Actually" and was so excited to make some art pieces from a few of the more memorable scenes! Many thanks and kudos to QuinTalon & NuclearNik for hosting and being such amazing encouragers to everyone! I cannot wait to dive into all these fun pieces!!

Love, Hermione by pandora_rose_xo - G, WIP - When Hermione leaves some personal letters lying around in a sleepy haze, Dobby comes across them, and trying to be helpful delivers them to their recipients. Who were never supposed to see them.

Metamorphosis by persephone_stone - T, WIP - Draco Malfoy is king of Hogwarts High—student body president, captain of both the water polo and basketball teams, and boyfriend of Astoria Greengrass, the hottest girl in school. That is, until said girlfriend returns from Spring Break with some unexpected news: she’s dumping him for a college boy. Now, Draco is on a mission to win her back. And who better to help him turn into a more intellectual, cultured version of himself than Hermione Granger, the smartest girl in school? As he and Hermione spend time together, will Draco learn how to be the right type of boyfriend for Astoria? Or will he instead learn that maybe Astoria is not the right type of girl for him? Written for the Dramione RomCom Fest, based on the 90’s teen romcom She’s All That.

Midnight in Paris by Aneiria - E, one-shot - ‘Granger,’ Draco replied, casting a quick wandless charm to clean his own clothes. ‘Want to watch the magic you’re casting next time? Whatever spell that was, it nearly took both of us out.’ Hermione’s face settled into a frown of confusion. ‘I thought that was you,’ she said, hesitantly. ‘I wasn’t using magic.’ They both looked away at the same time, taking in their surroundings. ‘Where are we?’ Hermione wondered out loud, as she spun on the spot and took in the sights. It was the wrong question, really.

My Big Fat Muggle Wedding by BiscuitsForPotter - G, one-shot - Draco's gotten more used to having Muggles as future-in-laws, but what about his parents?

No More Waiting by anchoredto717 - T, one-shot - The end of Hogwarts, an impending Mastery, and confirmation that Hermione is well and truly over Ronald Weasley: three factors that push Draco into a place he never imagined. Is he really going to Harry Potter’s house party? A one shot heavily inspired by the 90s teen classic, Can’t Hardly Wait.

Off the Rails by RoseHarperMaxwell - E, WIP - For the Dramione RomCom Fest 💚 My adaptation of the movie Trainwreck (Amy Schumer/Bill Hader), featuring Draco in Amy's role. “Pans.” Draco’s head falls back petulantly. “I can't interview Granger, especially not about how she's healing Potter. Neither of them are going to want to talk to me. Make Creevey do it.” “No, you'll do it. And don't sulk at me, Draco.” Pansy shuts him down immediately, not that he expected to talk her out of it. She gives assignments, not suggestions. “Old Quidditch rivalries. Gryffindor Princess confiding in the Prince of Slytherin, with a side of The Boy Who Lived. You’re the only one for it.” She drops her pen on her notepad with finality. “She’s also fit as hell now. I’d even fuck her, so our readers will be drooling over her. This is easy, Draco. Don’t fuck it up.”

One Thing We've Got by IrisCalasse - M, WIP - Over a decade after the Second Wizarding War, Draco Malfoy is a broke socialite straddling the Muggle and magical worlds. One day a new neighbour moves in his residential complex. What has happened to Hermione Granger to make her hide from Ronald Weasley? If Cormac McLaggen is gay, why is he hanging around Granger so much? And why does her cat seem to know way too much about everything? Based on the plot of Breakfast at Tiffany's, but set in 2012 London with a magical twist. Updates every 16th of the month.

Pin down your heart by hiyas - G, one-shot - Hermione Granger contemplates a door when Destiny comes knocking.

Playing Cupid by tygermine - T, one-shot - Set It Up AU.

Pretty Witch by TakingFlight48 - E, WIP - When confronted with the opportunity to take on an alter ego - Hermione Granger, Potion's Mistress and the Wizarding World's Golden Girl became Vivian Roberts - London's weekend escort. For three years she lived in this duality until Draco Malfoy, lost in Soho and driving a precious DB6, wound up uncovering her secret. This is the tale of Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy finding a balance between work and love through the guise of fake dating, unacknowledged feelings, and Hermione not wanting to let go of a part of herself that is no longer serving her.

Promises, Promises by Musyc - T, one-shot - Lawyer and social work advocate Hermione Granger is one signature away from fulfilling her dream to have a house-elf education program. All she needs is to seal the deal, and Draco Malfoy has promised the full support of Malfoy and Son Developments. But the owner of the property is balking, there's a new buyer in the mix, and a promise isn't a contract.

The Proposal by FaeOrabel - M, WIP - When Head of Creatures Division of the DMLE, Hermione Granger, is pushed into a corner regarding a new marriage law she doesn't want to comply with, she gets the brilliant idea to stage an engagement with her long time, loyal assistant, Draco Malfoy. Draco goes along with the charade on the condition she gets him promoted to a new position. A deal set, they prepare to fool not only the Minister of Magic, but Hermione's best friend, and Draco's entire family. What could go wrong? Just the threat of Azkaban should they fail.

PS I love you by emotionalsupporthufflepuff - M, WIP - After a tragic accident, Hermione must reintroduce Draco to a life they've built far away from home. She recieves unexpected help in a series of letter written by Draco himself before the accident...

Regrets Only by nztina - T, WIP - Draco and Hermione are the best of friends - until Hermione goes off to teach at Hogwarts and Draco realises that he doesn’t just miss her. Upon her return to London, he intends to reveal his feelings, but she has a surprise of her own, one that will definitely put a damper on Draco’s plans. Draco. Hermione. And...Hermione’s fiancé?

Restless in Ripon by QuinTalon - T, WIP - Scorpius Malfoy wants his father to be happy again and as his grandfather often told him, a Malfoy always gets what he wants. A nosy radio host, well-meaning friends, and fate will help bring two lonely souls together. Well, that and one tenacious eight-year-old.

Rushing Back by floorcoaster - M, WIP - Draco Malfoy is thirty, surviving, and very much not thriving. He's near the utter end of himself when he experiences the worst of all possible bad days--a double betrayal that rocks him to his core. Unmoored, untethered, he winds up in a strange place, where he begins an adventure through time that will change the course of his life. A time travel fic with a twist on the movie "13 Going on 30."

Say Anything by MidnightValkyrie - G, 9 Chapters - To know Draco Malfoy is to love him. Hermione Granger is about to know Draco Malfoy. Written and created for the Dramione RomCom Fest, based on Say Anything.

She's the Snake by monsterleadmehome - E, WIP - In a universe where Voldemort never came back, Harry lives with Sirius, and Dumbledore isn't dying, the worst thing the Golden Trio has to contend with is their grades and Quidditch matches... oh, and the recent magical attacks on Muggles and Muggle-borns. Harry is sure Malfoy had something to do with it, and though Hermione doesn't agree, her sarcastic offer somehow turns into her latest nightmare: to go undercover as a boy in the Slytherin dorms and find out what's really going on. And maybe throw a Quidditch game or two. But there's one thing she hasn't prepared for: falling in love with the boy she's supposed to be spying on.

Signed and Sealed by niffizzle - M, WIP - She owns a children's bookstore. He runs a corporation buying significant shares of small businesses. Never in their lives have Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy gotten along — or so they think.

Timing is Everything by anne_ammons - M, 7 Chapters - Draco Malfoy is your average bachelor living an average bachelor's life, until he crosses paths with his former classmate, Hermione Granger. Strike that - when has Draco Malfoy ever been average? A retelling of the 1994 movie, Four Weddings and a Funeral, Dramione-style.

A Trip to Kouloura Beach by rennaissance_woman - one-shot - A day at the beach, what could happen?

The Truth About Kneazles and Crups by samkablam7 - T, WIP - When Draco Malfoy started hosting his wizarding radio show The Truth About Kneazles and Crups, he had no idea that it would bring Hermione Granger back into his life. He also didn't know that they would both be interested in each other. The only problem? She thinks that the radio host she's interested in is his best friend and Pro-Quidditch-player-wannabe, Blaise Zabini.

Untitled Marital Crisis Comedy by Darlingheart - G, one-shot - Draco is rich, handsome, and most importantly, excellent with the ladies. Harry Potter is not. Which is where Draco comes in. With Draco’s help Harry will learn there’s more to life than being a one-woman man. But what happens when Draco meets someone who changes his mind? And what does Hermione Granger have to do with it...

A Woman of Some Dignity by mcal - G, one-shot - That seemed to get his attention. “What are you—of course I respect you, you daft witch!”

“Your actions today show the opposite!” I answered. “And now if you’ll excuse me, I’m a woman of some dignity and I’d like to shower in peace. You’ll kindly wait half an hour before Apparating back to my flat.”  Hermione's not one for diaries, but it's been a week to say the least. It all started off with a confusing meeting with Draco Malfoy in her office, and... well, Hermione thought maybe recording her thoughts on the events would help her process. She isn't wrong.

You lost and lonely, You just like heaven by Wake_The_Dragon - T, WIP - Dramione Romcom Fest. Hermione Granger had needed something new and a change of scenery was a good start. What she hadn't counted on was renting a flat with an annoying (if handsome) ghost, who claims he isn't dead. Somehow, helping out a ghost and falling in love were two things she hadn't bargained for.

You Wish by Talonwillow (Ehollis303) - T, WIP - What makes a bad case of "Black Cat Flu" more tolerable? Young Perseus is learning that hearing about dueling, torture, revenge, giants, dementors, chases, true love, and miracles from his Grandfather Scorpius certainly makes things easier- If the man would finish the story that is. A story about love, where not even death can keep the beautiful feisty stable-girl and her sometimes irritating one true love apart. Together they must battle the evil Lord Voldemort through an adventure crossing the magical and fairy tale realm.

[raijinden]

     meta.001 on the subject of the FUTURE OF INAZUMA && THE CONCEPT OF ETERNITY

     ( warning !! heavily references information present within the 2.1 Omnipresence over Mortals questline as well as the Imperatrix Umbrosa Act I: Reflections of Mortality questline !! )

      “ what I take from these stories is not so much the content itself, but what they represent in terms of the effects of time upon Inazuma. -- in accordance with my wishes, the Shogun did her best to create an eternal nation. a nation that, in theory, should remain entirely unchanged over time ...

     i'm wary of any and all change, but I do not wish for my pursuit of eternity to stop human lives from changing for the better. “

     as ei makes abundantly clear through the visitation of her own city with the traveler and paimon at her side, she finds herself at a very critical crossroads in her life for a number of subjects . she must re - evaluate what eternity means to her and how she will continue that pursuit, what she must do to ensure her citizens remain protected, yet able to change and evolve further-- and in the light who she and the shogun are . additionally, she is coming to terms with the modernity that her nation has become since the last time she walked upon it .

     the greatest and most apparent impact that affected bael during the cataclysm of khaenri ‘ ah was, of course, the passing of her sister . you could call this the ‘ icing on the cake ‘-- having dealt with the untimely passing of the tengu general sasyuri during the inazuman civil war between followers of narukami and followers of orobaxi, the corruption of the oni swordmaiden chiyo which would result in her turning her blade upon bael, and the sudden disappearance of the revered kitsune saiguu . inazuma had ever been jointly ruled under baal and bael since the archon war reached its conclusion, founded and maintained for 1500 years of unchanging and relatively peaceful rule until these events, in fairly rapid succession, would assail her . with but one confidante to confide in in the form of the newly appointed guuji yae miko, yet no desire to load her troubles and problems onto someone else, she would decline so rapidly, and so terribly too .

     eternity has ever been the domain of the inazuman archon, and it was bael’s firm belief that it ought not to change-- not with the reverence and respect and adoration of their god that she saw in the people . and so she decided to let that eternity live on, to take up the mantle of her beloved sibling, to take her name and her role and pretend things were as they were not-- she had played the part of ‘ baal ‘ many a time during archon gatherings . but oh, she found quickly that she was not prepared to be a true ruler . she was a warrior, the age - old kagemusha who hid in the shadows, who paraded with a hundred demons and rained judgement lightning upon the enemies of the shogunate . she was no shogun ... no ruler, and there were many a time she would falter before her council-- ‘ what would makoto do ? ‘ ‘ how would she respond ? ‘-- for it was makoto who was a ruler, and ei who was a warrior . but though the two differed greatly in their style of leadership, what did not change was the love they held for the people .

     and so it was that she, in recognizing her failings, constructed the ideal ruler . one who could fearlessly and faultlessly seek out ‘ eternity ‘ for herself and for her people, all the while bael could return to her position of old-- to hide in the shadows . once again there was a figurehead of power that she worked and supported from behind-- though she was ever reminded when speaking to the Shogun that it was she who was supported instead . and thus, with knowledge blessed of her last living companion, she vanished, self - imposed sealing within her blade to ever remain strong of spirit in contemplation of the eternity she sought, while the Shogun would keep safe the people .

     and for 500 years, she sat in utter silence . the shogun would not ever speak to her, did not ever need to seek council for she was stalwart, and ei was fine with that . she had faith in what she created, in the blessedly simple directive ‘ seek eternity ‘ .

     so when it is that the traveler is the first being she sees in hundreds of years ... she is confronted once again with the confusion from before . the shogun could not have faltered, and she had not been inquired by the one without, so why then, were there those who opposed her with all their might ? but still ... she remains faithful in the shogun, and remains contemplative . contemplative even as the traveler returns, and yae miko herself appears within the plane of euthymia and she loses a duel for the first time in her long, long 2000 years .

     and contemplative she returns, demanding a period of ‘ rest ‘ in which she grows introspective, changing the shogun’s directives and debating what the proper step forward would be, until the traveler, once again, seeks her out and invites her out .

     as with so many other things in this eventful year of hers, it is the first time in 500 years she has returned to the mortal plane . and oh, by the gods, how it changed-- she is so overwhelmed she damn near returns to her blade . ( for retrospect, let us consider the 500 year difference in our world:

          the 1500s were rampant with disease, conquest and invading of ‘ uninhabited ‘ or ‘ barbaric ‘ lands is very much the norm in spite of its despicable nature-- there is no separation of church and state in most places, and in fact, religious systems are something of an overbearing force on societies at large . if we were to step through a door that transported us to the 2000s, say, current day, would it not leave us shell - shocked ? to go from that, to a world where food can be stored for days, weeks on end, can suddenly be warmed up in a little box-- to see a means of communication with people all around the world a manner of seconds ? now certainly, teyvat is no earth, there are not towering builds of metal, save for the factories of snezhnaya as we know of now, but it is still such a monumental difference ) .

     to step out into this world, to walk a street she rules over, but has never seen in her life-- it is unbelievably eye - opening to ei, who has spent half of millennium staring at the same, run - down torii gates on a backdrop of bleak scarlet . her concept of eternity is shaken unto its very core-- and it only further is turned on its head as she sees how her people live .

          everyone is very uptight and fearful to her-- and she has said before that she is no fan of lofty titles . she sees tomoki, finds delight in his stall and the dango milk he has-- but she learns that he is unsuccessful because people are afraid to try something new-- they are afraid of CHANGE, and so they do not even know what they miss out on . her curiosity in yae’s other pursuits brings her to the publishing house wherein she learns of her people’s passions . they are no books or literature she has ever before written-- and she has such interest in each book that is presented to her--

she’s intrigued by the liyue martial arts story, even claiming that she would dearly delight in sparring with the main character and that she has a respect of his sense of justice

the daily life romance story presents her with the concept of challenging decisions with regards to love-- something she does not quite understand in her claim that one could simply choose all seven interests-- which she is told would make a poor love story, and she realizes she has a different view on ‘ love ‘ than her people

finally, perhaps the most interesting one, the reincarnation adventure story . it gives a very clear cut view of how at least some of her subjects view her, or rather, the shogun . she is not in the least insulted, but instead applauds the creativity and imaginative writing ( also noting that publications are approved by yae miko, and this one too must have crossed her path ) .

     even in spite of this ‘ eternity ‘ that she seeks, having believed for so long that it meant stagnation and unchanging in the face of time, the people have changed . and, perhaps more interesting to her, is that the Shogun did not view this as a threat to eternity-- so why then, should she ?

     finally, she is given an inside look at her own executive system, the inner conflicts within the tenryou commission in the face of the kujou clan’s treachery . with the traveler at her side, she enters the mountain - side base and bears witness to a sight she had seen just weeks before-- her people attempting to curry favor to themselves by providing falsities .

      “ if you still think you can copy the fatui's strategy of providing me with deceptive information to produce flaws in my judgment... “

     yet, where the kujou clan head did this with the firm belief that the almighty shogun would simply triumph over the fatui anyway, the takatsukasa clan head did this knowingly in the belief that his clan would benefit . even with the Shogun’s unwavering and eternal gaze, there are still things that cause her people to suffer . she sees this now for her own eyes, in her own body when she stands somewhere the shogun would never have even considered . and so she decides then that she will return . there may be a time for her and a time for the shogun, but she will be among her people again . whether that is simply traversing the tenshukaku grounds or descending into the city proper to ensure she always has an understanding of her people that is not based on what others tell her .

     “ the Shogun does not make mistakes — she is incapable of doing so. but i, as ei, would like to offer my apologies. “

     she recognizes that she has made a grave miscalculation, but for the first time in her life, she has elected not to hide away for it, but to take responsibility for it . though the traveler is not the one she has wronged most severely, the fact that she apologizes is incredibly significant . she understands that she has failed-- that it was not the Shogun who failed inazuma, but that she did in not understanding how much it affected her people, how much it was not eternity for her people she was seeking, but a selfish wish of her own .

     she recognizes too that one, single apology to the only person who managed to best her in combat is not even a drop in the ocean of work she has to make up for 500 years of ignorance . on the conclusion of her story quest, she states that she will return to her plane, but that her solitude will not last much longer .

     ei convenes with the Shogun, on the subject of reprogramming, and the nature in which they might jointly have a place within the body that was once only the Shogun’s . when she concludes her ages long period of reflection, she begins her work in earnest -- she has had 500 years to ponder the nature of eternity, and how it effects both herself and her people, and that period of time is at its end . she spends well upon a week in deep concentration, remembering the years before the grief, remembering the words of the kitsune saiguu, of torachiyo, of sasayuri and most of all, of makoto . she is no born ruler as her sister was, she is a warrior, but for inazuma that she loves with all that is left of her heart, she will learn to be the ruler that it deserves, had long deserved for 500 years .

     the second fear that was born of the cataclysm of khaenri ‘ ah, was the fear for her people . because khaenri ‘ ah was godless, its people sought to elevate themselves in that place, and they became so wise, so very, very wise . oh, how celestia did not like that . and so it was that ei and her sister went to fight in a war for a cause which they did not believe in, and it was not the sister bathed in blood that would pay the price, but the sister the people looked to that would . especially in current day, ei deathly fears celestia and the whim in which it acts upon-- what if that temper one day fell upon inazuma for their successes ?

     long ago, ei’s eternity hinged upon stagnation because if the people did not ever change, then celestia would never find reason to decimate them, to take the people that held what fragments of her heart remained from her . now she realizes that no matter what, people will change, they will soldier forward . why then, she thinks, should they feel the weight of a god who opposes this inevitably so staunchly . if the day should come that celestia turns their hellishly divine gaze upon inazuma with fire in its hands, ei would now sooner die fighting tooth and nail for their ability to grow ever stronger and ever greater rather than opposing and weakening them for celestia to come and sweep away what remains .

     and so she is different now . she walks on shaky legs for a future that she does not know if she believes in wholly yet, but it is a future that her people look upon with eagerness in their eyes, and so the electro archon’s eternity will align .

     eternity is a ceaseless and unattainable thing for humans, but for ei, it is the belief that every sun she watches raise will do so over the people she has protected even though they are not the people of yesterday, and the people of tomorrow may not be them . the people change, this is something she cannot control, time goes on whether she likes it or not . but no matter how many times the hands on a clock spin, they will always and eternally ever be inazuma’s people, and she will always give blood and blade for them .

     and the only moment that that fact will cease to be true will be the day that celestia hurls a blade of judgement through her chest and cuts away at the one who no longer bears their ‘ gift ‘ .

     “ inazuma shines eternal “

[jazzforthecaptain]

Hi! I'm here to bother you with more Harkstiel :)

I was wondering how you think Cas being an angel would impact the way Jack views him, especially toward the beginning when they first meet each other? After all the years of gruesome alien invasions, man-made/natural disasters, and loss Jack has experienced in his long lifetime, do you think he'd hold it against Cas and angels in general for not being there to save people? If so, what would be the turning point that makes Cas and Jack view each other with respect instead of holding their pasts against each other?

I can't say I've seen much of Jack's character outside of just Doctor Who, but he's never struck me as the religious type (at least, not in the christian sense), so maybe he wouldn't expect angels to be kind and merciful cherubs as much as others would.

Thank you so much for answering my earlier ask, by the way! I loved everything you wrote for it, and I never even stopped to think about live music in that way, but the way you said it was so in character for Cas and Jack <3

Hi again, you wonderful person, you! I needed time to think about this one, plus I needed a keyboard, because I wasn't going to tackle this answer with just my thumbs.

The issue with Jack Harkness is that while I think some things are consistent about him, quite a lot can't be pinned down. How Jack perceives Castiel and how he'd react to the reality of him would depend an awful lot on the context through which they're introduced, and where Jack's headspace is at the time. That's also part of the glory of writing these two: a coffeeshop meetcute is honestly just as likely as Jack obsessively hunting Castiel down is just as likely as Castiel obsessively hunting Jack down is just as likely as meeting on the same side of a fight for the universe and snarking their way into an eternal friendship. They've never met in canon, and that means they can meet a million different ways, and those first impressions will transform their relationship into something wholly different every time.

So, for this, I'll stick to the context you provided, of Jack meeting Castiel after years of grief and loss on Earth. I've written Jack interacting with Castiel for the first time in similar circumstances - when I wrote them meeting in Grace, Jack wasn't too far into his offworld sojourn, post-Children of Earth.

I agree with you that Jack's not inclined to be terribly religious. I'd go so far as to say he's not, at all. Jack's been cursed with the terrible, unwanted job of watching humanity go through its patterns of behavior over and over again, and humanity's search for Something More Than This is one of its oldest. Also, he's already aware of at least one species that the universe applies the 'angel' designation to. I expect that his reaction, when and if Castiel gets around to honesty about his origins, would be cynicism. I don't think Castiel will ever, ever convince Jack that he's an angel in the sense that Castiel means it. To Jack, Castiel's just another extraterrestrial. Another person from a species he's never met before. He's met people who could do incredible things and people who hold cataclysmic power, and they were all just... people.

With that in mind, I think Jack might air some frustration with the angels over their inactivity against the 4-5-6, and I think he'd have some questions about why Heaven - if it has all this power - doesn't intercede in things like plagues and wars. But to be honest, Jack's been the cause of some of those things, and sometimes a participant. He's had his turn as soldier, jailer, war profiteer, interrogator and spy. Out of anyone, I think he's the least inclined to be self-righteous or judgmental. He didn't yell at the Doctor about ditching them during Children of Earth and Miracle Day, even when he had the chance. I think his mentality is mostly 'do what you can, when you can, but shit things happen all the time no matter what and it's probably my fault somehow anyway.'

I actually think that if he has a real problem with Castiel and they're on good terms, it's going to be about his vessel. Jack's going to be all over that. Who is that, is this consensual, what does he think about what you're doing, how is this affecting him longterm, CAN I TALK TO HIM, etc. And his impression of Castiel will be informed by the answers - and the answers will be informed by whatever point in Castiel's timeline that they meet. I tend to have them meet after Jimmy's already been freed from sharing his body with Castiel, but their relationship would take a very different trajectory otherwise (also due to where Castiel's mindset was when Jimmy was still alive vs where it is after he perished).

In response to your question about when the turning point would be from wariness to respect, I think Castiel and Jack's difficult pasts would be a unifying factor, rather than something they'd need to overcome. I'll air a little bit of my saltiness here: I ship these two more than anything else I ship, and it's because Jack is the first person outside of Castiel's own kind who sees him as a person - not a monster, not a tool, not a weapon. When I first started writing them, I didn't know what a dramatic difference that would make. But oh, how it does. Castiel, approached with Jack's calm, neutral curiosity, becomes a very different Castiel. He unfurls. He trusts. He tells stories. And he has a lot in common with Jack, especially about that whole 'I was doing fine until this passionate moron came along and made me question everything I was doing,' thing. Jack loves to talk, more than pretty much anything else. I think they'd start unlocking the Tragic Backstories fairly quickly, although the process of completing that unlocking will take... a very long time.

And, I think they'd get each other. They'd fight - honestly that's part of why I love them - but not about who was a Bad Person for Doing X Thing. They both have committed atrocities, and neither one of them justifies any of it. I think they see themselves and their past motivations with a clarity that most people don't have, because they've had the time to realize what useless, dangerous bullshit self-deception really is. More than that, I think the thing that would weld them together is their commitment to helping people. They're stuck in this life, destined to live a very long time beyond this ephemeral present. They have to live those lives with the memories of all the horrible things they've done, and no way to find forgiveness for them. I think Jack would show Castiel that the only way is forward, and that giving up would be a waste of every person's sacrifice that brought him here. And I think Castiel would be able to give Jack the gift of understanding; of being seen, fully, by someone who's dealing with similar experiences. The one person who can hear Castiel confess to killing a sibling he loves with all of his being... is Jack.

If there's a turning point, it comes when they do the thing that makes me love them most: ask each other questions.