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pastshadows · 4 months ago

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Shadows of the Past

Chapter 19: I Will Find You

Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.

Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.

The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.

With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?

Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.

Word Count: 4.8K

Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.

Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]

Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [Implied/attempted sexual assault: Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions. Panic attacks. Anxiety.

The constant drip, drip, drip of water raining from the stalactites is unnerving, and your fingers tremble as you set up the tent. Astarion wraps his hand around yours, giving it a small squeeze. He takes the metal stake from your quaking grip and hammers it into the stony earth.

“We should not have brought them.” You catch just a flit of Astarion’s crimson eyes as they flash to the side to leer at you accusingly. “Their hearts beating is like ringing a dinner bell.”

“They promised to stay in camp while you and I do the scouting,” you conclude in a clipped response.

The initial idea was for Astarion and you to go alone into the Underdark and search for the siblings whose scars did not match the parchment that was discovered in the derelict manor. You would have been able to convince Gale to stay behind with Hecat, but Shadowheart was as obstinate as ever, declaring that you would have need of a Cleric should things go south. It’s not common for you to lose arguments, but after hours of back and forth, you eventually conceded.

Gale, Hecat, and Shadowheart are all erecting their tents in a tense silence. A makeshift fire pit has already been situated in the middle of camp, crackling and popping with whatever wood you could scavenge.

“Lovely,” Astarion chirps with feigned cheeriness. “A stationary meal then, like a hobbled goat left out for wolves.”

“I tried,” you say under your breath, trying to keep the agitation out of your voice while unrolling bedrolls and placing furs. “They are not sheep I can shepherd. If you could have done a better job convincing them to stay behind, you were more than welcome to try your hand at it.”

He scoffs. “As if those imbeciles ever listened to me.”

“They just want to help.” You try to assuage his irritation.

“I know,” Astarion sighs, brushing his hands together to clean off the dirt. “I just wanted you all to myself again. I miss home — our home. Gale’s is lavish, but it’s becoming rather crowded as of late.”

You crawl into the tent, and Astarion joins you, holding his arm up for you to curl up next to him.

“I miss home, too,” you acknowledge. It may have started out a little rocky, but those days spent lounging in bed, talking, and making love from sunup to sundown fill your heart with longing to return. It had been nice to leave behind all of this and just be. It makes you rethink your decision not to pursue the deal offered by Aldous. “It was nice, just you and me.”

“Indeed,” he agrees with a heavy exhalation. He buries his nose in your hair. “I cannot wait for this to be over, and we can return. We could buy a new residence if the other is too… painful.”

“Maybe,” you muse on the notion. “Where would you want to live?”

He shrugs. “It matters very little to me. Anywhere is home with you.”

“Even this tent?” You twist, crawling further into his lap, and he cradles you in his arms with a grin.

“Yes,” he coos softly. “Even this godsdamned tent.”

You brush your fingers through his hair and narrow your eyes mischievously. “You’re a terrible liar, Astarion.”

The crimson of his eyes burns, and he scoffs with a rumbling, deep laugh. “I said it’s home as long as you’re here. I did not say it was an acceptable accommodation for someone of my import.” He glances around. “There is very little room in here to do all the terribly depraved things I wish to do to you.”

“That never stopped you before,” you taunt back with a giggle.

“And it will not stop me now,” he purrs, dipping his head to mould his lips to yours. "I am a master of improvisation, after all."

Your fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him closer, and he tightens his grip on you, slipping a hand into your hair to hold you to his insistent mouth. Astarion sucks on your lower lip gently and takes advantage when you gasp, slipping his tongue in to tangle with yours.

“If you two are quite done canoodling in there,” Gale’s says from somewhere outside the tent. “The meal has been served.”

Astarion breaks the kiss abruptly to stare at the tent door with a vexed, furrowed brow. He leans close, keeping his voice low. “Canoodling? Truly? How old is he?”

You giggle at his ire. “What’s the problem? Don’t you want to canoodle with me?”

Astarion groans, rolling his eyes. “Decidedly not. I want to make love to you; commit the carnal sins of depravity, fuck. I do not canoodle.”

Kissing the tip of his nose, you taunt. “I see so much canoodling in the centuries to come, my love.”

“You’re terrible,” he grunts, pushing you away playfully. “Come. We need to get you fed lest your stomach growl and keep me up all night.”

“How bad does it smell?” You whisper.

“Bad,” he smirks. “Atrocious, if I am being totally honest. It’s times like these that I am thankful I do not have to sup on food.”

He was definitely not lying. The food is rather bland, and you would prefer not to eat it, but it’s either this or listening to Astarion complain about your growling stomach all night, so you shove spoonfuls into your mouth and try to focus on the conversation and not the taste.

Gale, Shadowheart, and Hecat share stories, though it’s mostly Shadowheart and Gale reminiscing while Hecat is enraptured and dazzled by every tale of daring they spew. It unsettles you to let her know this much of your past, but you cannot quite see the harm in it. They know well what to keep to themselves and mostly just tell her perfunctory random things.

“Did you really do that, dragon girl?” Hecat inquires, breaking you from your thoughts.

“Do what?”

“Allow a servant of Loviatar to beat you bloody?” Hecat grins widely. “And taunt him the entire time.”

You narrow your eyes at the pair, who are snickering like fools. Astarion chimes in before you can confirm or deny this. “Oh-yes. That was a splendid day,” he says dreamily. “So much blood, although a dreadful waste for it to end up on the filthy floors.”

“I seem to remember you enjoying yourself a little too much, Astarion.” Shadowheart quips blithely.

“Nonsense. There is no such thing as too much when it comes to watching others be beaten and bloodied by an imbecile in a costume,” he taunts deviously.

Gale shakes his head in disbelief. “I must say, I am glad I missed that particular spectacle. It sounds positively hedonistic.”

“Gods. You are truly as vanilla as they come, Gale.” Astarion laments with a smug undertone.

Gale’s brows furrow. “What’s wrong with vanilla?”

Shadowheart bursts out laughing, Hecat snickers, and Astarion cannot hide the jubilant chuckling even though he tries.

“Do you remember that time you got drunk on blood, Astarion? You came out of the forest, stumbling and slurring your words, looking for our fearless leader,” Shadowheart says, bringing her hand to her mouth to hide her laughter. “I do not believe I ever saw you in such a spectacular mood again.”

“My friend!” You mock him, and giggle when he shoots you a pointed look.

“Do you people even realize how much blood there is in a bear?” Astarion grunts, crossing his arms to feign irritation and jutting his chin out pompously. “It would be comparable to you drinking a barrel of spirits to yourselves.”

“You can get drunk on blood?” Hecat asks, obviously astounded by this new information.

Her eyes sparkle with the firelight when she looks at him, and she swoons. It makes you bristle like an angry cat, but you manage to conceal it before you can scoff.

Astarion nods. “If there is enough of it, but it’s not exactly drunk, it’s more of a euphoria.”

“It’s drunk,” you retort quickly, shoving another spoonful into your mouth. “He couldn’t even stand without tripping over his own feet. I would never have believed he possessed the capability to be so positively ungraceful. Embarrassing, really.”

Astarion bumps you with his shoulder, making you almost spill your soup or stew. Honestly, you’re not quite sure what to call this connection.

“Ungraceful? Let’s not go throwing stones, sorceress. Glass houses, and all that.” His eyes narrow, and he tries to frown at you, but his eyes are glinting with amusement. He gets up and bows shallowly. “As delightful as his conversation has been, if you’ll excuse me, I will retire for the night before we can do any more of,” he waggles his fingers at the group. “This," he cringes.

“Me too,” you add in, taking his offered hand. “We have a lot of ground to cover tomorrow.”

Gale smirks, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Yes. I’m positive you’ll be going straight into your trances. Rest well, you two.”

“Would you mind keeping it down tonight?” Shadowheart gibs with a snooty upturn of her nose. “It was a long night of travelling, and I would like to get some sleep.”

Hecat eyes rake over Astarion, and you flush, but not with embarrassment. You take what you hope looks like a normal step in front of him to shield him from her sultry gaze. In all truth, it’s less for him and more for you, but both things can be true.

“Hmm…” Astarion muses, tapping his chin with his finger. “Unlikely. We will canoodle as nosily as we please,” he chirps boisterously.

Shadowheart groans out loud , letting her head hang, and mumbles, “I’m going to cast Silence over your tent.”

Astarion smirks. “You must concentrate to keep that up, don’t you, flower? I wish you the best of luck. I am positive I can draw it out far longer than you can manage to stay awake.”

Gale nearly chokes on his food, going as red as Karlach. Shadowheart pats him hard on the back with a sly grin. “Hells below. Goodnight,” she finally says, chuckling and making her way to her tent.

When you crawl into your tent, Astarion digs through the pack and tosses you one of his shirts, which you quickly hurry into and slip under the furs.

He joins you quickly, his nimble fingers doing up the laces at the front of the shirt you’re wearing. “We cannot have you catching a chill.”

“I do not get grumpy!” You snort.

He smiles widely, the tips of his fangs peeking out from his perfect lips. “You get downright petulant,” he jeers. “Would you like to read or rest?”

“Read,” you confirm.

Astarion grabs the book, lays back, wraps an arm around you, and pulls you close. “Lights, my dear.”

Tiny, pinpoint spheres float from your palm into the air, like tiny golden stars. You read the pages with your head resting on his chest, and he turns them when you tap him with your finger. Before long, your eyes begin to flutter shut despite your attempts to keep them open.

He presses a kiss on your forehead, pulls the furs up, and tucks you in tenderly. You murmur, moving to push your face into the crook of his neck and inhaling deeply. The orbs of light ebb, blinking out one by one, and Astarion hums low and lyrical until you slip into your trance.

The Arcane Tower dominates the horizon with its spectral glow from the lit lamps. It’s simultaneously an unsettling and welcome sight. Though the devastation of the spawn on the environment can be seen on account of the skeletal remains of creatures large and small, none have crossed your path. It’s hard to know whether to be glad or alarmed by it. The last time you were overtaken without much warning.

“I would hear them long before they could descend on us,” Astarion assures, sensing the neurotic turbulence that’s making you grip your quarterstaff so hard that your knuckles are white and straining. “If I give the order, run and do not look back.”

Your brows pinch, and you exhale noisily through pursed lips. “You can give the order, but I will not run,” you retort, shaking your head. “If you think I will leave you, you’re out of your godsdamned mind.”

“They are less likely to attack me.” Astarion grunts with a pronounced sigh and a rigid scowl. “I will not smell like food to them, but you smell delectable.”

He doesn’t understand - can’t understand — how wild and raging they are because you’ve run from this conversation despite his repeated attempts to have it.

“Tell that to Sebastian,” you murmur dryly. You don’t pay any mind to what you said until you realize Astarion has stopped dead in his tracks and is staring at you wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

“Sebastian?” Astarion looks askance. “You saw him?”

The fondness in his voice is unmistakeable, and even though it is beyond silly, your jealousy spikes your blood with flames, and your heart rate soars on the wings of the envious monster you’ve become.

“He saved me last time I was here when I was attacked,” you reply tunelessly in an effort to keep the resentment out of your voice. This is not the time or place to have yet another conversation where Astarion reassures you, but it does nothing to assuage your fears. “He was the only one of the spawn that didn’t seem completely savage.”

Astarion’s head cants slightly, picking up on the revving engine that is your heart. He knows, you think, and you wait for him to react in one of two possible ways. He will either chastise or soothe, depending on his mood.

“That soft heart is what got the idiot killed in the first place,” Astarion remarks frivolously in that devil-may-care breeze he so easily encompasses.

It’s hard not to laugh at his flippant comment. Perhaps many would find it cavalier and uncaring, but to you, it’s wholeheartedly something Astarion would say.

“Humans are incredibly slow learners,” you quip back offhandedly with a rascally smirk while continuing down the path toward the village.

Astarion grins deviously. “That, coupled with their supremely short life spans, it’s a wonder they have not gone extinct.”

“There’s still time,” you concur.

“I think we should kill them,” Astarion blurts suddenly with furrowed brows, looking at his feet in contemplation.

“The humans?” You arch a brow at him, not quite following the switch.

“What? Hells. No. I have a casual relationship with murder, not genocide. Gods. What do you think of me?” He chuckles, smirking smugly, when you scoff at him. “The spawn. If we find them and they are beyond any hope of redemption, I think we should put them out of their misery. I likely should have done it when I had the chance. I had hoped they would be able to learn control, but if that’s not possible..." He pauses for a moment to gather his thoughts. “It’s what I would want should I ever find myself robbed of speech and reason again.”

You put your hand on his chest. His hands come to your waist, and his fingers firmly squeeze. “Whatever you want to do, Astarion, I support you. I will follow your lead.”

He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, which are scarlet mirrors reflecting a canvas of sorrow and regret. “Thank you.”

Your footsteps on the rickety boards that make up the scaffolding in the abandoned village thump, echoing out into the cavernous crepuscule ceiling blanketing the lake. The boats that once carried you towards the old temple of Shar and the forge have scuttled themselves, lying on their sides with their masts reaching out like the arms of drowning men begging to be saved.

The village is as silent as the dead, except for the soft whooshing of waves brushing the banks of the shore. Astarion offers his hand and pulls you up the small cliff, and you both crane your necks to look at the tower dwarfing you.

“Do you hear anything?” You ask as your heart leaps into your chest with memories of watching his siblings deliberate your fate.

And subsequently begging them to let you die, which they obviously decided was not in their best interest.

“Nothing.” Astarion says with a frown. “They could be sleeping.”

The idea of walking through the floors of this place fills you with nothing but dread, and you swallow thickly, your muscles buzzing with something between adrenaline and terror. Astarion’s hand snakes into yours, and he holds your shaking fingers tightly.

“You do not have to go in there,” he murmurs, keeping his voice low in a timbre meant to soothe. “I am capable of searching the place by myself.”

Have you really become so timid that Astarion now offers to leave you behind and retrieve you when he’s finished? There was a time when he never doubted your ability to handle a situation, but it seems those times are long gone. Is it that he cannot trust you to react in time in the face of danger? Does he think you will fold like wet parchment?

The woman you were might be a memory, but you are sick of being afraid — of being the weak link. Most of all, you’re appalled by the pity you see reflected in his eyes as he looks at you like an abused pup.

Maybe you might not be who you were, but you have the chance to become whatever or whoever you want. For better or worse, a new you awaits, lurking just outside of the box you’ve built around yourself, addicted to this lonely kind of love that has done nothing but hurt.

She might be dead.

But you live.

You live.

You squeeze his hand, tugging him a little more harshly than you meant to toward you, grabbing his armour, and pulling his face down to your height. “Where you go, I go. Remember? Stop treating me like a child. You requested I stop being so gentle with you; I’d like the same curtsy.”

Astarion’s surprised expression morphs into a sly grin, and he closes the distance between you, catching your lips. You melt into him, pressing your body into his. He grips your hips, pressing them firmly into his, and grinds against you. It seems like an odd place for this sort of act, but you’re not complaining. It’s been some time since he’s taken you into the dirt.

Unfortunately, he breaks the kiss just as the throb between your legs makes you squeeze your thighs together for relief. “It’s been some time since you bossed me around like that with such delicious authority,” he grins. “I quite like it, you know,” he purrs.

Astarion turns quickly and gives you a gentle shove and a playful swat on the ass. “Come on, bossy thing. After you.”

You roll your eyes at him with a huff, but you cannot hide the yearning smile quirking your lips up and dazzling in your eyes.

You only make it a couple of steps before you hear his taunting voice. “And Kamena? If you want me to make love to you in the dirt, you have but to ask. I would be more than pleased to throw you down, let my hands explore every inch of you, map your goosebumps with my tongue, taste you.”

How would the old you have reacted to such lewd comments? No. How would the new me react? Who do I want to be?

You pivot quickly on your feet and walk backwards while he stalks toward you like a predator. His scarlet gaze is filled with a hungry desire that makes your flesh ache.

It’s time to start reacting without thinking. You were never innocent or soft-hearted, but you were sweet once upon a time. It no longer feels right. There is a new bitterness to you — a fiery bite.

You would rather be whisky neat than sweet tea.

“It makes me wet when you look at me like that, Astarion. If you’re not careful, I might request that you take me right here.” You purr low and seductively, and you relish the way his eyes light up.

Hedonism suits you.

Astarion chuckles, smirking mischievously. He taps his nose. “My love, I know you’re soaked. I hope the others have rested while we are doing all the hard work. I doubt they will be getting much sleep tonight.”

“I’ll hold you to that, darling,” you taunt, turning and hurrying toward the tower. “Gale and Shadowheart will be more than used to our… late-night trysts.”

“You’re a tease, Kamena.” He grumbles, adjusting his trousers. “This is not comfortable.”

“I’m happy to assist you out of that armour at your request,” you quip, and giggle when he groans.

“Good Gods. You’re cruel, sweetheart.” Astarion growls low and silvery, walking up to you and ghosting his lips over the shell of your ear. “Now, get going so we can get back to camp. I’m feeling rather peckish.”

Astarion drags his fangs down your neck — not enough to break skin, but it sends a pleasurable shiver cavorting down your spine with the promise of later. You don’t smother the breathy sigh that shakes out of your throat, and your core clenches involuntarily.

You groan and push forward, determined to scour this damned place as fast as you can so you can retreat to your tent. The massive front doors to the tower are already ajar when you approach, and the first floor holds nothing more than barrels, crates, shelves, and boxes. There are some signs of life with random articles of clothing strewn around, but they are covered in a thick layer of dust and sediment.

The third floor is likewise unoccupied, but there are random packs here. Astarion and you rifle through them but find very little to indicate who they belonged to. They could have been travellers, adventurers, or his siblings.

Or aventurers his siblings ate...

Astarion stands with his arms crossed by a bed when you glance toward him. Walking over, you follow his anchored gaze and see a doublet that he seems particularly interested in.

“Petras’s,” he mumbles.

“Was he always such an asshole?” You ask, remembering the way he wanted to eat you to get back at Astarion.

Astarion snorts out a small laugh. “He was always a snivelling idiot. We did not get along particularly well. Why?”

“I didn’t like the way he spoke to you,” you shrug. It’s not exactly a lie. The way he talked to Astarion when you found him in the flophouse had made your blood boil, and you actually rather enjoyed watching Astarion burn him, but you refrain from telling him the whole truth.

He regards you with a highly arched brow, reading you the way he does, so you quickly move off toward the elevator to get out of his scrutiny. There is little point in telling Astarion the specifics. It would only create more animosity, and his siblings are the only family he has. You will not be responsible for the further deterioration of whatever relationship he has left.

In the event you die, from old age or otherwise, they might be the only thing he has left.

“Come on. We should keep moving.”

“In a rush, are we?” He saunters over.

“I have a date with my very charming, handsome lover that I wish to get to.” You wink at him, your foot hitting the button to go up to the fourth floor. “Post haste.”

The elevator ascends to the topmost floor. From what you recall, it’s mostly destroyed, and you doubt there would be any reason for his siblings to be there unless they were trying to watch for attacks. If that were the case, though, you imagine they would have made themselves known by now.

When the elevator clicks into place, your heart stops in your chest when you see the pale, snake-like grin of Aldous staring back at you with several other spawn poised just behind him.

“Sorceress,” he pouts sarcastically. “I’m disappointed in you. I thought you would have been smart enough to recognize a good deal when it was offered.”

You scoff, turning your nose up, and your teeth grate together. Astarion growls, sliding in front of you with his daggers already held, poised and ready to kill. You cast Stoneskin on Astarion out of a reflexive habit.

“I’ve been waiting to meet you,” Aldous chimes, his voice braided with choler. “It seems the odds between us have evened out, and I cannot wait to make you watch me drain her dry just as you did to me.”

Astarion laughs cruelly, snarling. “I enjoyed your death the first time, but I will enjoy it all the more the second.”

This is not a good place for a battle. The floor has fallen prey to the ravages of time in too many places, with large blocks and rubble littering the pieces that remain, restricting space and movement in equal measure.

You try to find the button to descend, but Aldous notices your movement and barrels toward you. Astarion leaps into battle, and the clash of blades rings out in the air. The two are almost a moving blur of glinting steel as they grapple. Astarion’s footwork is superior, and he gains ground until the other spawn join in the fight.

Adrenaline anoints your muscles and nerves, and your heart throttles in your chest. You cannot lose him here. You will not allow it. Flames writhe over your body, your skin heating to unfathomable temperatures, driven by a hatred so intense it seems to consume all fear. You Misty Step between Astarion and Aldous to intercept the charging spawn.

Thunderwave throws them back. Your fingers dance in their perfected rhythm, and you lace the Weave into spells with quick and masterful precision. You catch a spawn by the neck to your left, and flames erupt from your palms until their screams subside. With your other hand, you summon Chain Lightning, killing some but causing the remaining ones to seize up with paralysis.

You skate through them with your quarterstaff in hand. With limited space and Astarion and Aldous moving around the battlefield with the speed of a shooting star, there are a limited number of spells you can use for range. You’re forced into close-quarters combat, which hinders your abilities.

Clawed fingers rend your skin, sending a sharp agony radiating through you, making you suck in a sharp breath. The spawn hisses at you through their teeth, fangs bared. Before you can retaliate, Astarion is at your side, his shoulder slamming into the spawn and throwing them to the side. There is no time to catch your breath before Aldous attacks while Astarion is preoccupied protecting you.

“Astarion, down!” You shout.

He remembers the command and leans down, flattening his back so you can roll over him. Scorching Ray blasts from your palms, buffeting Aldous and forcing him to counter and change his path on a whim. It gives Astarion enough time to get into a better position and continue pushing Aldous back while you deal with the other spawn.

You cannot use Sunbeam in such a small area, not with the way Aldous and Astarion are moving, but you’re not merely the embodiment of fire; you’re a wildfire that cannot be thwarted. You pellet the spawn with fire that burns as white-hot as your hatred and rage. A ball of fire to the chest of one sizzles straight through them. Shatter to throw the ones to your right off the edge of the building.

You sink into the battle and luxuriate in the ghostly-coloured death that writhes over your skin and explodes from your fingers.

“Solicallor, switch!” Astarion snarls.

He only ever asks to switch in battle when he’s been injured and needs a moment to recover. You look back in horror at the blade buried in his shoulder and Aldous’ maniacal laughter permeating the air.

You cast Telekinesis, throwing the spawn in your path to him off the building, and try to sprint to his side, but you’re not fast enough before Aldous instructs the spawn remaining to create a barrier.

Every spell in your arsenal jumps off your fingers and rolls off your tongue, but you cannot get to Astarion before Aldous has pushed him near the edge of the tower.

In a fraction of a second, the spawn all sprint toward Astarion, throwing themselves off the edge of the tower to their deaths. The last thing you see are his scared red eyes and him shifting as fast as he can to grab Aldous by his armour. Aldous thrashes, trying to pull free from Astarion’s grip, and another blade sinks into Astarion’s stomach.

“I love you, Kamena,” he smiles as his feet lose their footing. “I would have liked to marry you in this life, but I will find you in the next, thiramin.”

Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. I'm forever thankful for the support. I love reading your comments ❤️

Chapters Master List - Shadows of the Past

AO3: Crossposted

If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Small Notes: - Chapters might be a little smaller for the foreseeable future. Sorry! - Astarion 🥺 - I smash my keyboard angrily whenever I have to write Aldous' name.

#astarion x tav #astarion x you #bg3 astarion #astarion x reader #astarion romance #astarion #astarion x mc #astarion ancunin #astarion smut #baldurs gate astarion #shadows of the past #astarion bg3 #astarion x female tav #astarion x oc

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green-enby · 1 year ago

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Heyo! Have you watched Koisenu Futari (恋せぬふたり, Two people who can't fall in love) yet? It's a great series, just 8 episodes long! I binged it in one day :) [smiley]

It focuses on two aromantic asexual people living together. This is a little appreciation post, containing some thoughts that it evoked in me as an aroace.

If you don't want spoilers, please don't read!

It's so relatable how Sakuko keeps blaming herself all throughout the show… Insecurity stemming from societal expectations that dictate romance is for everyone, and that people who don't date are somehow "failing" in life; I think this affects allos as well.

When I broke off my romantic relationship, I too felt like it had been my fault, for not having been a good enough partner, for not being able to love them in the same way they loved me.

To finally learn that you are not "defective", that there's other people like you…! I love how the two MCs don't grieve their lack of attraction; Sakuko is perfectly happy discovering she's aroace. She and Takahashi are living their "best life" together.

Sure, many aroaces do wish they were allo, and that needs to be represented too, but this series to me really shined a light over why they want that: it's because amatonormativity is rampant in the world, not because lacking attraction is inherently sad. The main conflicts in the series stem from the clash between allo society and the aroace experience, after all. I think that's neat! It gave me a good dose of aroace joy—while still showing the hurts that come with it, realistically—and I really needed it.

I didn't expect her to come out to her family so soon, but whoa, that was intense. Her mother's negative reaction is what all people who exclude a-spec people from the LGBTQIA+ community should see, to understand that we face the same issues they do.

I haven't come out to my parents as aroace yet, and watching this made me realize how awful it actually feels to be in the closet. I somehow hadn't realized I am. I've always felt safe coming out to them as other things, as bisexual back in the day, and as trans non-binary.

It might be because my confidence disappeared when they reacted badly both times, but this coming out feels almost impossible.

Comparing it to coming out as bi, it's really not that different: if you're bi, you're promiscuous and date too many people; if you're aroace, you're a prude and cold-hearted. If you break away from the status quo, you're wrong either way.

But at least, most people do eventually understand the bi experience, if they understand same-gender attraction, and fuse it with straightness, even though it's a flawed method.

With aros and aces, instead, it's such an alien concept for an allo, which makes it way harder to come out and have to explain to them how to deconstruct allo-amatonormativity. It's exhausting. Thankfully, there's people like Kazu who are actually willing to learn about us. That gives me hope.

I feel like it's super eye-opening to find out the concept of romance didn't even exist in the past. Pretty sure that in Europe, it originated during the Middle Ages from the ideal of chivalry. So it's really just a social construct, and opting out of it shouldn't be so controversial!

It's just a set of pointless, annoying rules like having to kiss eachother, having to say "I love you", and doing it all a set amount of times, otherwise it's not good enough. What if we don't want to? What if it doesn't come natural to us? If it's just a social construct, fuck it, I'm not adhering to that! We do whatever makes us happy!

Even in the series itself, Sakuko too goes through a heartbreak, even if it's not the romantic kind: she valued her friendship and future cohabitation with Chizuru above all else, but Chizuru abandoned her, because of romantic love. It's not true that aroaces have it easy.

Like our MC, we have to deal with fear that we'll come off flirty when we're just being friendly, confusion over concepts that we feel we should understand, shame over the fact that we're different, fear of loneliness, frustration and pain that we'll always come second to our friends' romantic partners, or even trauma from a relationship or sexual encounter that we didn't really want. I could go on and on.

These last scenes really got to me. Especially the second one… I admit that I cried, when she had to turn her down, and it seemed like her aromanticism had ruined their relationship. It hurts that the way I am could seriously harm someone I care about. It hurts that most people work differently and that they can't help it, and that we can't help it either. I don't like being put in that position, to cause someone a heartbreak. I have with my ex, and had to watch them spiral down… It was horrible.

Still, I wouldn't change my orientation for the world. I'm confident in my identity, I love being aroace.

In the end, we can all reach our full potential, reach a point where we feel fulfilled and that we're living our best life, find ourselves a family if it's what we want, have our dream job and house. Being aroace doesn't condemn us to a life of unhappiness. That's what this series left me with by the end; it gave me so much hope for my future.

(I'm aware I'm coming off as a bit toxically positive here haha, sorry if I'm striking a bad chord; I'm just in a really good period right now, and riding this wave for as long as I can! Hopefully I can rub it off someone else as well.)

That said, I really loved this j-drama, it was funny and relatable and emotional, I wished it had lasted longer! It seems like the author isn't even aroace herself, so I'm amazed at how good the representation was! So much thought and research has gone into it, and it shows; the result is amazing.

Thanks for reading my scattered thoughts about this! 🧡💛🤍🩵💙

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kscheibles · 1 year ago

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e la vita ch. 1

content warnings: f! reader, drug mentions, drinking, emetophobia, bisexuality (homophobes and biphobes begone I will block u so fast)

word count: 3.8k

I didn’t want to be in Italy this summer.

That makes me sound ungrateful or something, but it’s the truth. Three months ago, I had planned to stay in Brooklyn with Claire all summer long. Hosting dinner parties, eating greasy breakfast sandwiches, dancing to old $1 records in our cramped apartment, picnicking in Prospect Park, and being totally, delusionally in love.

That was before things went south, she stopped trying and left me with more rent than I could possibly pay in the city. When Christina had first mentioned that a group of her friends was headed to Italy for the summer, I’d dismissed the possibility of going with them. Not only did I dread cohabitating with her wealthy, influencer friends who seemed to deal only in clout, I thought I’d be otherwise engaged. Weeks later, I’d gone back to her groveling, asking if I could sleep on the pull-out couch in Nina’s family villa for the summer. Luckily, the sofa was still available.

Now I sit at a wrought iron table – lease broken and all of my belongings sold to wealthy Manhattanites – in the warm yellow light of the Lombard sunset. Around me are chatty, outgoing girls, each more beautiful than the last. They gab about clubs and brands and boys. In the sea of Botox and iPhones, I cling to Christina like a life buoy. I push my tortellini around my plate to make it look like I have an interest in food, but I really don’t. I’m jet-lagged and uncomfortable. And even if that wasn’t the case, I’ve barely eaten since the breakup, relying on oat lattes and dirty water dogs to keep me alive.

“Try the pasta,” Christina jabs, “trust me, you’ll have a lot more fun this summer if you lean in.” I break the shell open with my fork revealing succulent ricotta curds and bright green spinach. The filing swims in a sauce of brown butter and fragrant tarragon but doesn’t affect me as it should. Nothing does anymore. The group’s conversation interrupts my train of thought.

“They’ve come every summer since the nineties, same as us,” says Nina, smirking at the girl to her left. “Hottest little accents you’ve ever heard, I’ll tell you that much.”

“Who is she talking about?” I whisper to Christina.

“The boys in the other house,” she says, “the one you see on your way up here.” Nina’s family’s home is at a higher altitude than the rest of the city, necessitating a laborious hike to the bottom to actually do anything while in town. I’m sure that they’d been sold on the privacy of the location, but its impracticality left me wanting. The only other villa nearby sat at the base of the lush green hills before the road disappeared into winding dirt.

Another girl chimes in, “I saw them last year at a dinner in the city. They’re cute, too,” she coos.

“I kissed George the summer I turned fifteen,” brags Nina and the whole table breaks into oohs and aahs. I usually have a shut-up-unless-spoken-to policy at group dinners, but I know Christitna is right. If I don’t lean in then the credit card debt I’d amassed to buy my plane ticket and the back problems I'm sure to contract from sleeping on a pull-out couch for a whole summer will have been for naught. Think of it as an acting exercise, I tell myself, a performance of the girl who is totally not hung up on her ex and excited for a fun summer with her friends.

“I’m sorry,” I interrupt, “who are these guys?”

“They’re in a band,” says Nina.

“Like a real one?” I ask. Years of living in New York have taught me that all bands are not, in fact, real ones. Nina laughs.

“You’re funny,” she muses, “yes, a real one. They’re like famous. We’ll go over eventually, they throw the best parties you can find around here. Get real drugs, too. Not just liters upon liters of Aperol, not that I mind that either.”

With my question sufficiently answered, I return quietly to my pasta, cutting each shell into impossibly smaller pieces until it’s rabbit food that will glide down my throat and do the hard job of nourishing me without any work on my part.

–

After dinner, I tuck into the pull-out couch in the villa’s spacious living room. The lack of A/C and the balmy summer air make it impossible to enjoy the luxurious wool blankets Nina’s family no doubt splurged on. I allow myself to eavesdrop on the elated sounds coming from upstairs: women confiding in each other, commiserating about their troubles, and shrieking excitedly at each other's successes.

I first try to doze off at 10:15, hoping that an early night will be exactly what I need and I’ll wake up refreshed and on Italian time. After an hour of staring at the popcorn ceilings and trying to suppress my crippling fear of missing out, I’ve tired my mind out enough to begin slipping toward sleep. I have fewer and fewer thoughts until I’m jolted by a hip-hop bassline. It resonates through the trundle bed and rebounds off my ribs, cozying itself into my heart. As I begin to come to, I recognize the chords of a house track that used to play at the girl bar Claire and I frequented in Green Point. The melody is warm and familiar and undeniably annoying. How loud must the music be for it to affect me so acutely even as I’m a few kilometers away from them?

I decide I’m pissed – and yes I decided. I’m freshly single, broke, jet-lagged, and fucking pissed at those entitled rich assholes. I slide my sandals on and head out down the hill in my sleep clothes.

I step outside onto the winding dirt road that leads the way to the boys’ home. The night is dark, lit by stars much brighter than I’m used to seeing in Brooklyn. I tilt my head back to look at them, trying to identify the big dipper. After a few seconds, I’m dizzy. I shake myself and trudge ahead, almost lulled into submission by the constant chirping of cicadas and the sweet fragrance of orange blossom that wafts off the bushes.

With each step I take towards the boys’ villa (what were their names again? Nina said one was called George), the music, electronic and fast-paced, becomes louder.

When I first knock on the faded wood door, I’m quite sure no one has heard me. I stand outside for a few minutes, contemplating whether I should knock again or cut my losses and return up the hill. I decide I may as well disrupt their party as some kind of karmic retribution for keeping me awake even as I’m exhausted from a transatlantic flight. I raise my fist and rap harshly at the door. A moment later, it flies open, revealing a curly-haired boy. Well, not boy, I decide as I inspect his features – lines decorate his forehead, and gray peeks out at me from within a ringlet that hangs over his eyes. He gives me a once over and can immediately tell I’m not here for the party.

“Can I help you?” he asks, annoyed. His accent lilts and falls over the words. All of a sudden, I feel insecure in my braless and plaid pajama-clad state. He’s beautiful – and exasperated by me. I double down on my own annoyance.

“Would you mind turning the music down?” I ask, still cordial, “I’m staying at the house up the way and I can’t get to sleep.”

The guy in front of me purses his lips and considers me for a moment. I feel itchy and uncomfortable. He’s looking at me like he can see through my clothes, to my soft hips and painted toes and peaked nipples.

“Let me show you around, gorgeous,” he smiles, “then maybe you won’t mind so much.” He grabs my wrist and yanks me into the party. A warmth covers me as I cross the threshold into the villa. The inside of the home smells like college: cheap weed, sweet sticky mixers, and sweat. My sandals stick slightly to the floor, reminding me that I really shouldn’t be here right now. Like the alcohol that’s been spilled on the ground is some great cosmic interference to convince me to go home and get the rest I ought to.

Suddenly, a big hand falls on the shoulder of the boy who’s pulling me by my limbs.

“Matty!” says the man. I can make out enough to see that he’s tall and devastatingly handsome.

“George!” the boy – Matty, I remind myself – drops my hand and fully embraces the bigger guy. “Was just showing…” he nods at me to introduce myself.

“Y/n.”

“Around,” Matty finishes. George gives me a once over.

“Did she just roll out of bed? Or get released from prison?”

“Y/n came to ask us to keep the noise down,” Matty declares with fake sincerity, “Not a partier, are ya love?”

“Under the right circumstances, I can be,” I retort. Matty and George’s eyebrows raise in amusement, faces breaking out in smiles. That sounded much more cunning in my head. Now I feel like a toy they’re playing with, winding me up to see what noises I make. It feels infantilizing. I’m uncomfortable, crawling in my skin; pride battered and desperate to go home as soon as it doesn’t look like I’m running away from a fight of my own picking. “I’d better be going actually,” I assert.

Matty puckers his bottom lip in an exaggerated pout. “I’ll show you out, princess.” It’s a sweet nickname but it tastes bitter out of his mouth. He seems to twist everything good and make it unbearable. I resent him for it. I trudge in front of Matty towards the door with steadfast focus. As I cross the threshold, I turn to meet his gaze.

“Thanks for nothing,” I say calmly. Matty breaks into a devilishly smug grin. His eyebrows tilt a little and his lips reveal a few crooked teeth at the bottom of his mouth.

“My pleasure, darlin’,” he says. I scoff and turn on my heels, leaving Matty in the dust.

–

The scent of freshly chopped garlic fills the kitchen as I stand in an assembly line of young women with cutting boards and chefs knives, each diligently chopping an ingredient for the bruschetta.

In front of me is a bunch of basil, perfectly fresh and green. I gently remove the leaves from the stem and create a pile in the middle of my board. It reminds me of when I would be tasked with raking the leaves as a kid. Too distracted by my childish whims, I would create more work for myself by piling the leaves on top of each other and taking a grandiose dive into them before scooping them up into a trash bag and discarding them. Each leaf was like a piece of confetti, a celebration of the season and of youth. Now I do these things to prove to myself that I’m young and that I can still conjure up that imaginative, playful nature if I try hard enough.

As I rock my knife back and forth over the soft leaves, Christina asks me where I was the night before.

“I came out around eleven to invite you upstairs, but I couldn’t find you,” she says.

Embarrassed, I train my eyes to the task at hand. This is not the group to look like a tattle-tale in front of. Actually, there’s very few groups in which that would fly. My penchant for playing God and divvying out karmic consequences to everyone whose path I cross is a part of my nature I’m not particularly fond of. I’m not keen to share it, especially around people who are still making up their minds about me. Despite my steadfast beliefs and borderline-outlandish behaviors, I maintain a fervent desire to be liked. It’s pathetic.

“I stepped out for some air,” I murmur.

“Really?” she nudges, “Because I didn’t see you on the porch.”

I turn my basil bunch 90 degrees in a flourish, beginning to chop it lengthwise.

“Fine, I couldn’t sleep because of the music,” I spit.

“And…” Christina has always been too good at getting me to reveal my true feelings. She goads me torturously until it’s easier to say what I’m thinking than to conceal it.

“And I went to ask them to turn the music down,” I finish, “There, are you happy?”

“Very,” she smiles.

I pick up the chopped basil, letting the pieces float through my fingers and deciding I need to chop them smaller, still. I whack at the pile haphazardly, ruining the lovely squares I meticulously crafted earlier.

“They didn’t turn it down, if you were wondering,” I pant, “Pricks.” Christina chuckles to herself.

“No one ever does.”

–

The music of the club is omnipresent as I enter hand in hand with Christina. On my feet are heels too high to be comfortable, but the perfect lift to accentuate my calves. As soon as I cross the threshold, I drag Christina to the bartender, ordering two negronis. We idle by the bar for a moment and I take in my surroundings, savoring the bitter aftertaste of my drink and the waltz of the lights that flicker and cover the dancefloor with reverie. I listen to the synths and flourishes of the melody that envelop my senses. I hadn’t expected to like the music, but the DJ is spinning disco and it just feels right: the cold Italian aperitif, the funky basslines, and the tranquil nighttime air. I almost wish I’d left my phone at home. Nights like these aren’t compatible with phones anyway. The atmosphere feels like a relic of a bygone era, full of free love and intoxication.

Nina and a friend of hers find Christina and me at the bar and run up to us with inebriated bravado. “You guys made it!” she squeals. Little does she know we were pre-gaming at the villa in anticipation of this exact moment. I couldn’t handle Nina while sober tonight, that much I was absolutely sure of. It also didn’t help that I was alone – for the first time in several years – in a romantic foreign country without the girl whom I still loved. As unhealthy as it was, alcohol made that reality hurt a bit less. Nina grabs my hands and leads Christina and me away from the bar.

“I need to introduce you to the DJs!” Nina exclaims. I glance at Christina to communicate that no, I’m not particularly enthused at the prospect of meeting some Eurotrash guy whose head is shaved and whose torso is covered in Gucci logos. She returns the glance, silently begging me to behave. I relent.

Nina leads us around the side of the floor to some kind of dark stairwell. Rationally, I should be scared of being kidnapped but my drunken stupor inspires more carelessness than I would usually indulge in. I watch the sway of Christina’s hips and follow her like a lost puppy. Finally, we reach the top and the DJ deck is revealed. It’s shadowy and hazy. To the left is a corner booth with a straight couple making out in a way that really ought to be illegal in public. Past the lookout, laser lights flicker and sweep across the dancefloor, catching on the artificial fog and filling the air with psychedelic color. My eyes fall on the backs of two figures at the DJ booth, smoke rising above their heads. I can make out that one has headphones on and is faffing with the turntable while the other has their hands in the air and the small, flickering glow of a lit cigarette dancing around their figure. I’m dragged towards them by Nina who throws an arm around each of their necks in greeting. As soon as the one with the cig turns around, I catch his eyes.

It’s Matty. Selfish, arrogant Matty. I nod my head and flatten my mouth in a kind of recognition. The room is spinning from the alcohol and my skin is buzzing with discomfort. The bass of the music resonates in my ribs, teaching my heart how to beat. My mouth tastes salty and my knees feel weak.

I’m running to the corner where I can see a bin. Tears prick at my eyes and my hair sticks to my sweaty forehead as I swiftly empty the contents of my stomach into the small trash can. I kneel on the rough carpet and brace myself on either side of the bin with my hands. Between heaves, I lift my head to shake my hair off the back of my neck. The cool air feels grounding, but I’m soon back with my head in the can. I feel a hand on the back of my head, wrangling my frizzy hair off of my shoulders. I gasp, looking back for the sisterly comfort of Christina’s bottomless, cerulean eyes. Instead, I find a pair of brown, honey-flecked irises: Matty’s. I’m reeling too severely to be upset or confused; I’m just grateful when he uses his free hand to sweep my damp bangs out of my face and nods at me.

“Go on,” he encourages, “better out than in.”

I bury my head in the bucket again.

“Atta girl,” Matty coos in my ear. I can almost notice his hand rubbing circles on my back. Even when I’m quite sure I’m finished, I keep my head down for a moment savoring the last few seconds that I don’t have to look Matty in the eyes. Curse him for helping me. I wouldn’t know how to interact with him under normal circumstances, much less when he’s been nice to me – and watched me unceremoniously blow chunks into a bin.

“You feel better?” he asks. I lift my head tentatively, still scared another wave of nausea will hit me.

“I think so, yeah,” I mumble. Matty searches my eyes for any warning sign that I’m still sick.

“Have you got a hair tie?” I instinctually fish in my jeans pocket for one, handing it to him. Slowly, he corrals my locks into a ponytail and secures it, fingers grazing the tops of my ears and making me shiver. I sit back against the wall with my legs splayed out in front of me, knees visibly carpet burnt from my previous position. Matty flops down beside me. He reaches out to touch the red, irritated skin.

“You don’t need a doctor or something, do you?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” I hiss when he applies a little pressure to my knee and shake his hands off me, “Why are you being nice to me?”

“When have I not been nice?”

“You wouldn’t turn the music down the other night,” I state. He smiles at me, eyes scrunching up until his pupils are totally obscured.

“No one ever turns the music down,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Plus,” he adds, “I thought you were a buzzkill. Now I can see that’s not the case, sweetheart.”

“I can usually handle my drink better than this,” I protest, “And I’m also usually not a buzzkill.”

“I guess I don’t know anything about you, then,” he acquiesces, thinking for a moment, “Do you want to start over?”

“Sure, I’d like that,” I nod, smiling tipsily.

“So what’s caused you to be sick tonight?” Matty asks, leaning his head back against the wall. His hair is curled up in perfect ringlets and his skin glows golden even in the dim club light. He looks at me carefully, like his stare could hurt me. It could, I suppose.

“Alcohol?” I say it like that should be obvious. His face wrinkles up again in a laugh I can vaguely identify as something that’s my fault. He looks pretty. I realize I want to make him do it again and again forever. I want to see the crinkles that grow at the sides of his eyes and the curl of his upper lip that reveals his boyishly crooked teeth.

“I figured as much. Anything in particular that drove you to drink?” I frown for a second, trying to remember.

“My ex,” I say quietly.

“What’d he do?”

“Nothing,” I shake my head, “that’s the problem. She didn’t do anything.”

“When was that?”

“Two months ago?” My god, it’s already been two months.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, “that’s still fresh.” I shrug.

“It’s alright I guess. You just feel a little betrayed when someone stops trying. I thought that was the whole point of…” I trail off, gesticulating aimlessly with my hands, “love or whatever. To keep trying.”

“I get it,” he utters.

“People stop trying with rockstars, too?” I tease. He smiles.

“How did you know that I’m a musician?”

“Well, first of all, I said rockstar–”

“Which I chose to ignore because it was sarcastic.” I roll my eyes.

“And second of all, the girls I’m staying with told me,” I finish. He nods in understanding.

“Well yeah,” he sighs pensively, “people stop trying with everybody. Even rockstars. If I’ve learnt anything in my life, it’s that giving up usually has more to do with them than it does with you.”

“You’re probably right, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less,” I argue.

“Nothing does. You just have to let it hurt for a while.”

We’re both quiet for a second. I catch a couple of bars of an Earth, Wind, and Fire song and hum along, content with the silence. I let my head fall onto Matty’s shoulder and he immediately turns his head to look at me.

“Oh fuck, sorry. Is this okay?” I ask, hand flying to my mouth “I know I just puked.”

“It’s okay,” he says, “I just didn’t think you would want to.”

“I want to,” I kiss his shoulder through the cotton of his white button-up shirt. He watches me the whole time as though he can’t quite compute what’s happening. Then he snaps back to his regular confident state.

“Let me know if you ever want to deal with your girlf– ex without drinking your feelings away…” he trails off, mouth meeting the crown of my head, “I’d love to show you around here sometime.”

“Okay,” I mumble, the alcohol, tiredness, and emotions beginning to get the better of me and coax me toward sleep.

“Okay?”

“Yeah, I’d like that.” Matty grabs my hand from my lap and wraps it in his two larger ones, caressing my thumb and humming into my ear.

–

a/n: the next bit is written, but I am still writing the end. smut soon! x

#matty healy fanfic #matty healy x reader #matty healy x y/n #matty healy fluff #matty healy fanfiction #matty Healy

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nonotnolan · 1 year ago

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The Great Gym Shift

Day 15 of life after the body swapping incident that affected downtown Washington DC, and life was still weird as shit. Some people were calling it the Great Shift-- a government cover-up for a science experiment gone wrong. I don’t think a two mile radius really deserves a “Great” moniker but I had to admit it was catchy. Others were calling it a terrorist bioweapon meant to cause havoc across the nation’s government. That did seem possible, but the terrorists had terrible aim if that was the case.

A few people even said it was a plan to put key politicians into younger, healthier bodies, but... I know for a fact that one isn’t true. I was there at ground zero when the swap occurred, working as a personal trainer at the gym. All those desirable bodies, mine included, went to some of the most pathetic white collar workers you could imagine. Whatever happened, it was definitely an accident.

It’s been a month, and I still haven’t gotten used to my reflection. I hope I never do, to be honest. The government is working on getting this whole mess resolved, and I can only hope it will be sooner rather than later. I’ve never had hair this long, and I am in desperate need a of a haircut. Since it’s not my body, I’d have to fill out a requisition form, and I keep hoping it won’t come to that.

One of the first things the Government did was send in the National Guard to put everyone affected into a quarantined hotel area, and then they started drowning us in regulations and paperwork. I’m still working as a personal trainer... only now most of my clients are lazy office drones. Those desirable bodies I mentioned? I’m in charge of making sure their new owners keep them in shape. I’m slowly losing my sanity.

“Mitch! What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” I said, walking out into our shared kitchen. Uncle Sam was putting us up in some very nice accommodations, I had to admit, but my clients-turned-roommates left a lot to be desired.

“C’mon Grady, it’s Saturday,” he said, as if that was supposed to be an answer. I kept starting at him until he continued. “Saturday is my self-care day, and today that means Netflix and cookies. I don’t see what the big deal is...”

“Absolutely not,” I said, holding out my hand. “Give me those, that is way too many calories for one serving. We’re sharing those with the whole floor.” He rolled his eyes and sighed at me, but at least he obeyed me. I can’t help but feel self-conscious bossing all of these men around, especially when they’re large enough to beat me to a pulp if they knew how to leverage their strength. The real Mitch was a lanky college intern who had no idea how to build or maintain muscle mass. Russ would’ve had a heart attack if he was here to see even half the things Mitch wanted to do in that body.

As I walked the plate of cookies out to the common area, I couldn’t help but notice that Larry was still sitting at his room’s computer desk, shirtless and surrounded by a few wadded tissues. Gross, but... I’ve seen Larry’s old body. I can’t entirely blame the old pervert. “Please tell me you didn’t stay up all night watching porn again.”

He just smiled at me, his bloodshot eyes telling me everything that I needed to know. “So what if I did, Grady, it’s Saturday. The fitness schedule you made for me says I don’t have to work out today, and a sleep schedule isn’t a part of the body cohabitation contract we all signed. As long as I still eat three healthy meals today, you can’t make me do anything. So how about giving me some privacy?” He was right, of course. Larry was one of my most frustrating clients, because he knew exactly how to do the bare minimum and nothing more. Tana was one of the gym’s biggest over-achievers, so seeing his body do a complete 180 had been quite the adjustment.

I knew better than to engage with him right now-- better to save my strength for fights that I would be able to win. I set the cookies down in our shared kitchen, waved at a few of the other guys, and retreated back to the bedroom I shared with one other man.

Simon smiled at me, and I could feel my frustrations starting to lift away. “Good morning, Grady. Rough start?” he asked, looking up from his book. Simon was a licensed psychologist who happened to be at a nearby Industry Convention when the Great Shift happened, and I was so glad to have his assistance dealing with all of the heated emotions that boiled over during the aftermath. Furthermore, Simon had ended up in my body. It was a relief to know that my body was being controlled by someone responsible, even if seeing myself each day came with its own set of weird situations.

"You have no idea,” I said, shaking my head. “Or rather, you have an exact idea, because you’ve also had to deal with those guys. I don’t suppose you would be up for some... stress release?” I asked, peeling off my tank top and tossing it onto the floor.

He laughed, quickly setting aside his book and his glasses. “In this body? Always!” Was it weird that I was having sex with my own body? Maybe, but honestly, our daily hookups felt like one of the least weird things about this whole mess. I always knew I was an attractive man, and I’ve always been attracted to anyone who keeps themselves healthy, regardless of gender. Presumably that’s how Simon now felt-- I know that ever since I’ve been in this new Twink body, I have only felt attraction for hairy men. Sexual attraction seemed to follow the body, not the inhabitant.

“Do you ever worry that we’re complicating things?” Simon asked. “For whenever the government is able to switch everyone back into the right bodies, I mean. They’ve told our loved ones that we’re in quarantine, but... how can we go back to normal life when this is all over?” I understood where he was coming from-- his real body was at least twenty years older, and while he didn’t like sharing too much about his life, I’d gotten the impression he had a wife and maybe a few grandkids waiting for him back home.

Simon clearly had a tendency to overthink everything, and I was now used to offering friendly advice while his warm load was still inside of me. “Honestly, I think we’re dealing with a stressful situation, and we’re all just coping however we can. There’s nothing wrong with two consenting adults having sex. And I don’t know about you, but... if I didn’t try to get a wide range of experiences inside of this temporary body, I think I’d regret the missed opportunity forever.”

He smiled at me. “I suppose you’re right,” he said, as he sipped on cheap hotel coffee. “’In sickness or in health’ wasn’t really meant to cover something so impossible. And I’d rather seek forgiveness than forever ponder what might have been.”

“Glad to hear it,” I said, smiling back at him. I think we both knew it was a bit selfish, but how else could we be expected to process these strange new desires? Yeah, I guess I felt a bit guilty having sex with someone other than my girlfriend back home, but... when else would I ever get an opportunity to have sex with myself? I don’t think there is a person alive who could blame me.

#male body swap #gay body swap #after the swap #muscle jock #great shift

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notmorbid · 9 months ago

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still born.

dialogue prompts from still born by guadalupe nettel. this book deals directly with infant loss / illness.

nothing will happen to you while i'm here.

in friendships like ours, there's no room for hypocrisy.

they say that violence begets violence.

the more we love a person, the more fragile and insecure we feel because of them.

if you disappeared, a part of me would go with you.

i can't take any more of you.

can i bum one off you?

what was it like to live with ____?

i didn't come here to argue with you.

i've got you to love. i don't need anyone else.

can you talk? i need to tell you something.

it's a long story. you'll need to pay attention. do you have time now?

did you just get back from school?

i just went for a walk around the block.

why don't we go to the park this afternoon?

i talk to myself, too.

did anyone tell you what happened?

what did i do wrong?

there's nothing like looking at a lake to calm one's thoughts.

do you mind if i smoke?

i promise you i won't leave until it's better.

the city is full of dangerous people.

i can't imagine what it would feel like to be in your place.

there's no word for a parent who loses a child.

did you used to play in the street when you were little?

it's not healthy to wallow in pain.

what should i have done differently?

i can't keep explaining it over and over again.

talking about it made me feel better.

anger is nothing but a screen for avoiding pain.

you're totally unreadable.

you're smoking again?

being a mother means being worried about someone else all the time.

love and common sense are not always compatible.

some music fuses with our selves, we've listened to it so much.

cohabitation is one of the hardest experiences to survive.

i wouldn't mind a vodka tonic.

some people are more awake at night.

what did you used to like doing before you shut yourself in?

i don't want kids, even adopted ones.

you forgot how to be happy.

there's nothing for you here. go away.

it's easier to blame others for what we can't tolerate in ourselves.

you look like you've gone back in time.

you can spend the day with me.

it's not right, but sometimes it's worth doing.

what i want is for you to stop meddling in my life.

i need to know so i can help you.

it's as if ____ needs to suck my life force to grow.

all i feel is worn out.

normal mothers don't think those kinds of things, do they?

i'm not sure 'normal mothers' exist.

you'll judge me. you always do.

there are people who consider misfortune an infectious disease.

we tend to see our mother's mistakes as the source of all our problems.

you're always questioning the past.

if you don't leave home, you suffocate. if you go too far, you lose oxygen.

from hereon in, anything that happens is a bonus.

i'm here to help you, not to fight you.

i like to say things straight.

there's always a way to renegotiate debt.

i can't believe you hid this from me. it's like staying quiet when there's a fire in the house.

you're not on your own. we're a family now.

i ask myself why you stay sometimes, too.

are we going to stay like this for the rest of our lives?

blood ties don't guarantee anything.

the biological family is something that's been imposed on us. there's no reason we should settle for that if it doesn't work for us.

i can't stand being in my head.

is it your voice in your head, or someone else's?

what do you do when your thoughts bother you?

you've got space inside you where you can go and hide.

we have the children that we have, not the ones we imagined we'd have.

what could someone so young know about despair?

don't leave my side for a minute.

i feel like an absolute worm.

do you think you'll be able to fall in love again?

don't be nervous. whatever has to happen will happen. no one gets out of that.

#rp meme #ask memes #inbox memes #rp memes #ask meme #rp prompts #inbox meme #sentence starters #families

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decepti-thots · 11 months ago

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☕ MTOs & specifically what do you think they were going for with that?

MTOs are an interesting narrative thing to me in the sense that they really are so localised to only one part of the canon; they're very clearly Roberts' idea and only really matter, inasmuch as they do matter, in MTMTE. It's pretty clear to me that's the case for one specific reason: they'd actually fit SUPER well into the narrative arc of exRiD, especially early-to-mid RiD, but they basically never come up! You'd think 'neutrals and soldiers stuggling to cohabit socially and politically' would be prime fodder (lmao) for taking advantage of a narrative about mechs born of and into war coming back to a civilian life on a planet they really don't know. And yet.

What they're doing in that comic, in MTMTE, is a little headscratching to me at times. It feels, to be honest, somewhat like worldbuilding put in to make the texture of the backstory of the war feel grander than IDW had really managed up to that point in actual on-panel stuff, without a lot of thought when doing so in the moment as to the knock on implications going forward. MTMTE does this a few times, tries to use vague gestures at important sounding stuff to bring a greater sense of history and depth to the war in the face of the actual stuff we saw in phase one being. Mmmm. Basically just twenty dudes we already know shooting at each other across parking lots. LMAO.

(Sidenote: I know for a fact Roberts watched original flavour nuWho, and this is PEAK Russell T Davies doing worldbuilding when he was on Doctor Who, and I fully believe he was cribbing from that playbook. Every damn episode RTD would make them just sort of say stuff about the Time War that made it sound incredibly vast and textured and complex but which, crucially, never made any actual fucking sense. Good examples of stuff like this would be the Crucible, the Simanzi massacre, etc. This is, to be clear, a neutral observation, not praise or criticism per se.)

I say this because MTOs should probably be a bigger deal in terms of the impact on our cast, and their outlook on life and reasons for joining the quest, than they wind up being. An MTO is a character with no experience of living in peacetime at all, likely no experience of Cybertron, no sense of kinship or home necessarily to the planet they came "back" to. All of this provides a really clear motivation, given the implication most surviving non-neutral Cybertronians are now MTOs due to huge numbers of deaths, to join a quest like the Lost Light's! But it tends not to come up much, and I think it's because it wasn't really part of the plan. Later on, there's room to slot in some details here and there- Riptide talking about his experiences with being infodumped at by the 'training' comes to mind- but it takes a while for the comic to come back round to that.

The two big exceptions, of course, are Getaway and Brainstorm. The idea is definitely interacting with their characters more, though again, it... tends to come up later. Especially for Getaway, who I'm not convinced was originally conceived as an MTO, but had it slotted in a bit later as 'well that works' stuff tbh. (And it does, so that's fine!) Which leaves Brainstorm, who lies about being forged to throw off suspicion, who it's implied never got the time of day from Quark in a way I wouldn't be surprised we're supposed to assume is some kind of remaining bias, perhaps. Who didn't see a future for himself 'back on Cybertron' and so concocted a very weird plan to avoid having to. Who never got a choice about his 'side' in the war, and wound up with no real loyalty for anyone.

I think if there's any avenue I'd have liked to see more about MTOs via, it's Brainstorm. I wish there'd been more room to focus on that instead of (I'm so sorry shippers) his thing with Perceptor as the way to talk about his sense of inadequacy, tbh. What did it feel like, lying to Chromedome about remembering a pre-war life he never got a chance to experience? Being made to shoot people and be shot and escaping the fate of having that be the only thing he ever knew by the skin of his teeth? Not being able to imagine an end to the war, so all he wants to do is save one guy and run off with him as a pipe dream? That seems like the character where a lot of this stuff should naturally lie, to me. And I think it's a shame I've seen very little talk in fandom about it!

#ask meme

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taterswithranch · 4 months ago

Text

smol but still deadly

#this deal of ours: cohabitation #my art #fnf #fnf tabi #entity #entity agoti #entity nikusa

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enigmaticexplorer · 4 months ago

Text

Chapter XXV

Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

General Summary. Nearly a year since the Galactic Empire’s rise to power, Kazi Ennari is trying to survive. But her routine is interrupted—and life upended—when she’s forced to cohabitate with former Imperial soldiers. Clone soldiers.

Pairing. Commander Wolffe x female!OC

General Warnings. Canon-typical violence and assault, familial struggles, terminal disease, bigotry, explicit sexual content, death. This story deals with heavy content. If you’re easily triggered, please do not read. For a more comprehensive list of tags, click here.

Fic Rating. E (explicit)/18+/Minors DNI.

Chapter Word Count. 7.2K

19 Elona

Over the months, Kazi had grown complacent.

With the Empire’s arrival, Magistrate Aro was distracted. The busyness of Imperial consolidation and organization required his focus elsewhere. As such, Kazi hadn’t seen or heard from him in months.

Until this morning.

Picking another piece of white fur from her uniform, Kazi took a steadying breath. And then she knocked.

The door slid open.

With a professional smile, she strolled into the magistrate’s office. Her smile twitched at the sight of a bronze-skinned man with shoulder-length hair. Bash.

Kazi masked her surprise and bewilderment, stopping beside Bash as she faced the magistrate’s desk. Bash stood alert. His hands were clasped behind his back. An easy smile warmed his face.

The combination of this random meeting and Bash’s appearance furthered her disquiet.

Magistrate Aro sat behind his desk, his fingers steepled. Eyes formerly sharpened by political cunning glinted with increased paranoia. A possible side effect of the growing Imperial presence? A connection to the continued evasion of rebels and the lackluster attempts to stall clone desertion? Kazi wasn’t sure.

The magistrate looked between her and Bash, and then, silently, he gestured to the two chairs in front of his desk. They both took their seats.

“I have called you here this morning to discuss a problem,” Magistrate Aro said. Though his demeanor was effortless, Kazi noted the fury hardening his jaw. “A banking retraction alerted me and other officials to the loss of twenty thousand credits.”

In the grand view of the government’s reserve, twenty thousand credits amounted to little. Simply a blip in the records. But its loss signified potential security issues.

“Pirates?” Bash offered.

An uncanny smile darkened the magistrate’s countenance. “A quick search through the government’s account has revealed more covert losses. Five hundred credits one week. Three hundred another. Small enough amounts to be overlooked. They can be traced back to Helona.”

An alarm of understanding flashed in the back of her mind, and Kazi grew rigid.

Bash first approached her for access to government funds back in Helona. She thought it was a one-time operation. Apparently, the network had kept busy the last few months.

Stupid, she hissed to herself. The rebel network was fucking stupid.

Stealing a couple hundred credits every few weeks was smart. It allowed them to avoid security scans and database searches because the government reserve, due to its vast amount, couldn’t bother itself with minute details like a couple hundred credits.

But twenty thousand credits?

What compelled them to stupidly—arrogantly—steal that much money was outside her clearance. But it was so fucking stupid. So fucking risky. And now they were all going to pay for it.

“You believe, Magistrate,” Bash said slowly, his astonishment practiced and seemingly genuine, “that someone is stealing money from the reserves.”

Kazi maintained a frown of confusion, of unbridled shock, even as unease wound through her blood.

“I do.” Magistrate Aro leaned back in his seat. “It is evidential that rebel activity has found a permanency on this planet. Amongst our very own government employees. This is cause for concern.”

The magistrate keyed into his datapad and a holographic image cast the desk in a blue haze. Kazi blinked at a familiar building. A building caved in and burning. The building Wolffe had studied the last few weeks at breakfast.

“I received reports early this morning of an attack on an Imperial lab,” Magistrate Aro said. “A lab dedicated to medical advancements.”

Ignoring the fear bunching in her muscles, Kazi assessed the magistrate. Was he aware that the lab dedicated to “medical advancements” was, in fact, a lab conditioning clones into mindless assassins?

“Reports from my contacts confirm the assailants were rogue clones,” the magistrate finished.

Grainy security footage revealed blurred images of armored clones engaged in a shootout. Apprehension tautened her spine. She forced herself to remain still. Unaffected.

The men had left for their mission three days ago. Three days without contact from Wolffe. Three days not knowing if he was alive. And all she had was this grainy footage demonstrating just how dangerous this mission was.

The footage burst in a flare of sparks. Kazi swallowed.

“Were the assailants apprehended?” Bash asked.

Keying off the hologram, Magistrate Aro sighed. “By the time reinforcements arrived, the building was destroyed and the assailants escaped. However, a military stealth ship overseeing the lab confirmed the ship’s escape vector. It placed the assailant’s ship in the heart of Veridian Sector.”

Kazi curled her fingers into her thigh. Curled them hard against her flesh.

“I have spoken with Moff Harpy and she agrees with me.” The magistrate steepled his fingers once more. “Eluca and nearby planets will be shutting down transportation spaceports and closing space lanes for the foreseeable future.”

The decision would surely anger locals and travelers. And it would negatively impact trade in the Sector. Based on the fury simmering beneath the magistrate’s self-effacing countenance, he didn’t care. Then again, he had never cared about Eluca’s locals.

Forcing herself to relax into her chair, Kazi crossed one leg over the other, feigning confused intrigue. “Do you believe these assailants have connections to Eluca?”

“That is why I have called you here.” Magistrate Aro tapped a finger to his desk. “I want you to investigate both the money-laundering and the attack on the medical lab. Determine if there is a relation between the two.”

That…was surprising. There was no connection between the two. The project would be easy, then—

“I also want you to determine who has been stealing our money. Treasurer Aurelius”—Magistrate Aro beckoned to Bash—“will grant you access to the accounts, all necessary data, and information on who can access what.”

From the corner of her eye, Bash nodded solemnly. Kazi dipped her head in acceptance of the new task, even as sweat clammed her palms.

The magistrate pinned her and Bash with a hard look. “I want these rebels found.”

A few minutes later and Kazi found herself alone with the magistrate. She tried to ignore the fear creeping at the corners of her mind. The fear biting into her bones.

But Wolffe was far away, and if something happened to her, she would be alone. Neyti and Daria would be alone. Defenseless. Vulnerable.

“I was unaware you have a daughter, Ms. Lucien.”

Her heart dropped.

“It was in a report I read this morning.” A bemused frown wrinkled the magistrate’s forehead. “I was also unaware that you are married.”

The statement, while casual, was a façade for something colder. Threatening. And a guileless smile made his teeth shine brighter—the snap of a lurking shark in the darkened pits of the ocean.

“I’m not,” she said, keeping her features masked. Her mounting panic contained.

His smile sharpened; his eyes flicked across her face.

“Your daughter attends Hollow’s Schooling One.”

Dread lumped in her stomach, and, stiltedly, she said, “Yes.”

Magistrate Aro tsked and set aside his datapad. He studied her. “There are far better schooling options here, in Canopis. You should consider relocation. It would be…ideal to have you closer.”

“I’ll consider it,” Kazi said, discreetly drying her hands on her uniform. “Once the school year finishes, it will be my priority.”

“Excellent.”

The magistrate reached behind him, to the wine rack, and grabbed a bottle. The snap of the cork echoed in the silence. A phantom pain grasped her neck; she ignored it.

Pouring himself a glass, Magistrate Aro swirled the blood-red wine, sighing. “I must confess to you: I am quite disappointed in our lacking advancement in capturing these rogue clones.”

Kazi nodded, silently expectant.

“I thought I had made a breakthrough,” he continued, his voice quiet enough it could have been a mumble. He stared into his wine glass. “My assassin was…checking your work. He had a lead, and he was supposed to provide me the intelligence I needed. But he never returned.”

As she would when she encountered a curious yet possibly aggressive shark on her dives, Kazi held still. Her eyes remained on the magistrate. She watched for minute changes in his face, his posture, prepared for a swift change in demeanor.

“Your personal analyses have revealed a former Republic outpost connected to these deserted clones,” Magistrate Aro said. “I had it investigated. It was abandoned.” His gaze returned to hers; his pupils were constricted to tiny pinpricks of black. “Yet your analyses claim the outpost has received twelve long-range transmissions in the last four months. Peculiar, isn’t it?”

“It’s more than likely the clones live nearby the outpost,” Kazi said, her tone calm, musing. “They are engineered soldiers, after all. They would be clever enough to avoid constant association with the outpost, yes?”

“Hmm.” The magistrate regarded her for a long moment. “I suppose that is one theory to consider.”

Kazi inclined her head in acknowledgement.

A sip from his wineglass and then Magistrate Aro faced the windows. He gestured in her direction. “Continue with your work. It will lead us to an answer, I know it.”

Outside the office, Bash was leaning against a wall. Kazi glared at him. He motioned for her to follow him, and once they were secluded in an empty hall, she rounded on him.

“Did you steal the money?” she demanded.

“Careful,” Bash warned. He scanned the hall, gaze drifting to the single cam. They stood in its blind spot. “That is above your clearance.”

“That was lazy and risky,” she spat. “There will be no surviving this.”

“Which is why you’re on it.” Bash patted her cheek and she jerked back. He levelled an unimpressed look on her. “Your orders are to make certain the data leads elsewhere.”

A sardonic scoff seared her throat, and Kazi fisted her hands behind her back, gritting her teeth. She was tired of the network using her as its scapegoat. She was tired of their negligence threatening her fucking life.

“The clones who attacked the lab”— Bash straightened his black robe, the lapels golden and polished—“were they yours?”

“No.” She sniffed disdainfully. “Their sole focus is rescue-and-relocation.”

Bash appraised her for a long moment. Skepticism narrowed his eyes but he shrugged, turning away. “I hope your clones aren’t on a mission,” he said. “Who knows how long the borders will be closed.”

As soon as his footsteps faded, Kazi crumbled against the wall, massaging her temple.

The magistrate had confirmed her suspicions—he had hired Court. To “check” her work. At least she now knew he was watching her, spying on her. And she also knew her data manipulation remained solid under investigation.

Small victories, though disappointment clung to her hunched shoulders at the knowledge that Wolffe wouldn’t return anytime soon.

There was nothing to be done about the closed borders, though. She could only hope Wolffe and his brothers could find a safe holdout in the interim.

22 Elona

The closed borders dampened Eluca’s winter holiday festivities.

A somber hush haunted the Marketplace and the Square. Even the weather, unrelenting rains and dense fog, cast the holiday week in darkness. The planet’s morosity affected Neyti the most.

All primary schools were closed for the week, and Neyti had made plans. Plans to stargaze with Nova. Plans to paint with Cody. Plans to hike with Fox and Fluffy. Plans to garden with Wolffe.

Instead, the little girl had spent the last few days hunkered in the sunroom, watching raindrops arc down the window panes. It didn’t matter that Cody had commed—a brief message confirming they were alive and waiting for the borders to open. Neyti was upset by their absence.

To lighten the mood, Kazi and Daria had spent earlier today with Neyti decorating the house.

They strung lights. They baked berry pies. They watched a holiday holofilm. The sight of Fluffy trying to bat a string of lights from a curtain rod made Neyti giggle. Kazi had considered it a success.

Tying off her robe, Kazi stepped from the ‘fresher and into her bedroom. The chrono revealed the lateness of the hour—she and Daria had spent two hours after Neyti went to bed redecorating, and after sleeping so poorly the last few nights, she needed to sleep.

With a yawn, she watered the bouquet of purple flowers she had bought for Wolffe two weeks ago. (He’d started keeping his bouquets in her bedroom, a splash of color to her wall’s shelves.)

A soft knock on her door pulled her from her thoughts. Daria must have needed—

Her door swung open. Wolffe, freshly showered, stepped into her room.

Stunned, Kazi could only stare at him. “How are you back?”

“Didn’t get the government update?” he asked. His smirk was amused as he shut her door, dropping his duffel bag to her floor. “Check your ‘pad.”

Sure enough, a news report dated four hours ago revealed an update. The headline was simple: Imperial Pressure Forces Immediate Space Travel Reopening for Five Affected Planets.

Kazi glanced at Wolffe. “When did you get back?”

“Ten minutes ago.” He approached her, his eyes flitting across her face. “Needed to shower first.”

She didn’t have time to respond before his hands were on her jaw and he was kissing her. He was kissing her, and she was melting into his body, and she couldn’t help but laugh her relief. Because he was alive, and he was here in time for Eluca’s holiday, and she had missed him.

He kissed her harder, stroked her tongue in a desperate, slow caress.

An arm around his shoulders, a palm to his chest. His heart roared beneath her hand—a steady beat that said I’m here. I’m right here.

Wolffe flattened a hand to her lower back; he pressed his body against hers. Her fingers slid to his stomach—a need to feel his skin, to touch him fully—and her palm skimmed his lower stomach. He flinched, hissing between his teeth.

Startled, Kazi pulled away, searching his face. A wince tightened his features. When his gaze met hers, he rolled his eyes and he straightened.

“It’s nothing—”

“Wolffe—”

Warm lips were on hers. A hand was sliding down her spine and the other grazing her jaw to entwine itself into her hair.

The back of her legs hit her bed, and Wolffe was pressing her to the mattress, and he was untying her robe. Longing softened his expression at the same time desire darkened his eyes.

Swiftly, Kazi shoved Wolffe to her bed. He hissed, again, and she took advantage of his momentary shock to straddle his hips.

A yank on her robe’s belt. A quick loop around his wrists. And then he was tied to her headboard.

Wolffe blinked, glancing from his bound wrists to her face. He cocked his head to the side. “Impressive, Ennari.”

“Wolffe,” she scolded, unclasping the first button of his white shirt.

“Yes, Kazi?”

With an exasperated shake of her head, she made quick work of unbuttoning his shirt. The two pieces fell apart, revealing his chest and his stomach. Her lips parted.

He sighed; defensiveness lined his tone as he muttered, “It’s not so bad.”

“This is…” Gently, she grazed the poorly stitched scar cutting from his hip to the middle of his ribcage. The skin around the cut was swollen. She blinked at him. “What happened?”

“We were discovered,” Wolffe said flatly. “There was a shootout. A trooper knocked my blaster away. We got into it, and he stabbed me. Got his vibroblade right between my armor plates.” He shrugged. “Nova did what he could.”

Kazi leaned back on his thighs. “Were you going to tell me?”

“I’m fine.” Wolffe tugged on her robe’s belt, scowling at his failed attempt to free himself. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

“I deserve to know these things.”

“It’s an injury.” He rolled his eyes. “I didn’t die.”

“You were injured, Wolffe.”

“A minor injury—”

“A vibroblade to the ribs isn’t minor.”

The thump of her heart was loud in her ears, and her chest seemed to be collapsing on itself, tight and restricted. The stitches were a jagged range across his ribs, and she couldn’t look away.

A vibroblade to the ribs. Mangling skin and muscle.

Heavy machinery crushing a chest. Mutilating bone.

An injury from a fight.

An injury from an accident.

Survived.

Dead.

Kazi pushed herself away from Wolffe, yanking her belt’s knot and releasing him. Slowly, distortedly, she sat on the edge of her bed, her hands trembling as she re-tied her robe.

The white wall wavered before her. Like the white walls in the med center. The white curtain surrounding her father’s bed.

“Kazi.”

“You weren’t going to tell me,” she whispered.

“Because I’m fine.” The bed dipped behind her but Wolffe kept his distance. “I didn’t die.”

“What if things had worsened?” Looking over her shoulder, she scowled. “What if you thought Nova had healed you but you got an infection? What if the stitches weren’t enough? What if something had happened and you didn’t tell me?”

“Is that what you’re mad about?” Wolffe glared at her. “That I didn’t comm you?”

“I deserved to know.”

“Communication goes both ways,” he said curtly. “You could’ve commed me. If you were that concerned.”

Sharp fingernails pierced the skin of her knees. “And what happens when I comm you and you don’t answer?”

Bemusement furrowed his brows as Wolffe eyed her, and she dropped her gaze.

Not once had she ever considered comming him when he was on a mission.

It was easier to count down the days before his return. It was easier to delude herself into believing all was well, rather than acknowledge the true dangers of his missions. The true consequences of his missions.

It was easier to ignore the fact that her father hadn’t answered her comm call that day long ago. That he hadn’t answered either of her comms.

The bed dipped, again, and Wolffe settled himself beside her. Tentatively, he reached for her hand, his fingers playing with hers.

“I’m sorry,” Kazi whispered.

“If I had known…” Wolffe traced the curve between her first finger and thumb. His touch was careful, tender.

“The magistrate has tasked me to look into the attack on the lab.” Wolffe stiffened; a muscle flexed in his jaw. His hasty glance at her neck was subtle but Kazi still noticed it. She fiddled with the hem of her robe. “He thinks there’s a connection between your attack and the money missing from the government reserves.”

His hand tightened around hers. “What missing money?”

“The network.” She lifted her gaze to his. “They’ve been stealing money. Small chunks here and there. But last week they stole twenty thousand credits. It alerted security.”

Calculation hardened the planes of his face, and he grew quiet, assessing. The look of a military strategist planning a battle.

“Sabotage the network,” Wolffe demanded. “Sell them out. Pin this on them.”

“Wolffe—”

“No, Kazi.” His fingers trembled around hers; his grip was tight enough it hurt. “They dug their own grave. Let them pay the price.”

“I can’t do that,” she said. His nostrils flared, and he opened his mouth to argue but she cut him off. “They’ll retaliate. And who will they go after? You and your brothers.”

“They don’t know where we’re located.”

“But they know you’re here.”

“We can handle them.”

“They will turn you into the Empire.” A plea hollowed her voice. It was her turn to tighten her hold on his hand, to make him understand. “And when the Empire puts a target on your back, you won’t be able to escape it.”

He scoffed. “I have for the past two years.”

“There’s nothing to be done,” she said firmly. “If I pin this on the network, it’s possible they could trace something to me.”

A slow blink revealed his fleeting unease, and then Wolffe squared his shoulders. Resolution set his jaw.

“Don’t.” Kazi peered into his face, reaching for his cheek, forcing him to look her in the eye. To see her despair. Her fear. “Don’t interfere.”

His silence confirmed her suspicions, and she started to shake.

“Your life matters to me,” she said hoarsely. “Please, Wolffe, please don’t risk it.”

“Kazi.” Frantic desperation softened his tone, and Wolffe placed his hands atop hers. Gripped her wrists. “Everything I do—” He swallowed. “I will get on my fucking knees and beg you. Betray the network.”

“It’ll endanger you—”

“Kazi. Please.” Wolffe dropped his forehead to hers. “Let me and my brothers handle whatever retaliation comes. We will deal with it. Trust me.”

At the break in his voice, she sighed. Exhaustion weighed on her, a woolen blanket wet, and she could only close her eyes, her hand falling from his cheek.

“If my analysis leads to the network,” she murmured, “then I won’t protect them.”

A hand cupped the nape of her neck, and Wolffe lowered his head to her shoulder, his exhale shaky. His breath warmed her neck. He brushed a soft kiss to her throat.

“I’m sorry.” His voice pitched low. “It wasn’t my intent to scare you.”

“I’m scared every time you leave,” she said, winding one of his curls around her finger. “And I know it’s not fair to you. But I meant it: Your life matters to me.”

23 Elona

Baubles of blue and silver twinkled. Faint morning sunshine trickled through the vaulted ceiling and lit the main level.

The distinct scent of melted berries and the delicate aroma of baking seaweed warmed the air. Kazi flipped the sea-cakes; Daria stirred the stellaburst sauce.

Mellifluous music resonated from the radio.

Finished washing the dishes, Nova tried to steal a sea-cake—the only man who enjoyed their taste—and Daria smacked his hand.

Debating the Imperial military’s recent yet secretive move to Geonosis, Wolffe and Cody grabbed the necessary dishes for the meal. As always, Wolffe prepared Neyti’s lemon juice.

Leaning against the kitchen bar, Fox stayed out of the way, stealing chocolates from the sweet bowl, Fluffy a white mass in his arms. Occasionally, he allowed the anooba to nuzzle his jaw.

Soon, padded footsteps, quieted by bunny slippers, eclipsed the holiday music. Daria threw Kazi an eager smile. Kazi returned it with one of her own.

Tucked into her pajamas and rubbing her eyes, Neyti reached the last stair step.

“Happy life day!”

Surprise widened her eyes as Neyti looked from the adults to the sea-cakes. Her cheeks darkened, and a shy smile warmed her face. Fluffy leapt from Fox’s arms and bounded toward Neyti, bumping his head against her leg. The anooba had grown in the last month, too heavy for Neyti to carry, so she scratched his ears.

“Are you hungry?” Kazi asked, plating a handful of sea-cakes, drowning them in the sauce, and topping the stack with nutow powder. “We can wait—”

“I’m hungry,” Neyti said, her grin bashful.

Wolffe and Cody passed out the plates and silverware. The men, except for Nova, filled their plates with their own rendition of sea-cakes. They moved into the sunroom where Neyti gasped at the decorations beautifying the interior.

Vines of bioluminescent gray flowers tumbled from the curtain rods. Strings of pale yellow and dark blue flowers cascaded in loops along the walls.

However, it was the bouquet of pink flowers—muted pink, bright pink, reddish-pink, grayish-pink—that drew Neyti’s attention.

The bouquet was Wolffe’s idea. An idea he spent the early morning hours perfecting. Only the slight lift of his mouth revealed his pride in his work as Neyti brushed her fingers through the various petals, sniffing the bouquet.

While the others seated themselves on the couch and the chairs, Kazi knelt beside Neyti at the game table. A haphazard stack of presents festooned the surface.

“Not everyone gets to share their life day with a nationally recognized holiday,” Kazi said, placing a silver candle in Neyti’s stack of sea-cakes. She lit it. “That makes you special.”

Neyti stared at the flickering flame. A pensive expression, borderline wistful, subdued her initial surprise, and she closed her eyes. Whispering under her breath, she blew out the candle. A blink of her eyes and Neyti stared at the empty candle.

“Thank you,” the little girl murmured.

Kazi frowned. “You okay?”

A small nod was her only reply before Neyti took a bite. The corners of her mouth lifted, and Kazi decided not to push her.

Later, as she chewed on her own stack of sea-cakes, she couldn’t help but ponder Neyti’s stoic demeanor.

The morning passed in plates of food, warm laughter, and gift-giving.

A detailed painting of Coruscant at night—a personal request from Neyti that Cody obliged.

A book of the galaxy’s most popular fairy tales from Fox.

A star-charting holograph from Nova.

A ruffled pink dress from Daria.

A dragon nightlight from Kazi.

And an empty scrapbook from Wolffe. His knowing grin made Kazi suspicious but she didn’t question it.

In a quiet moment, while Nova showed Neyti how to use a star chart, Kazi perched herself atop Wolffe’s armrest. Daria was admiring the wooden carving of a whale—her favorite animal—Fox gifted her. Cody was listening to their conversation while he flipped through a cookbook Daria had made for him. A cookbook of the Ceaian meals he enjoyed.

A strong arm tugged Kazi closer and she settled herself on Wolffe’s thigh, lounging in the heat of his chest. His mouth skimmed her ear. Lowly, he asked, “Was the candle tradition?”

“More like old folklore,” she said, smiling. “We believe dragons are guardians, and we also believe they protect wishes.” Wolffe blinked his bemusement, and her smile widened. “On your life day, you make a wish. When you blow out the candle, you’re sending your wish into the universe. But wishes can get lost, so we believe each candle’s flame is bestowed by a dragon. When the flame is extinguished, it’s now the responsibility of the dragon to protect the wish.”

Wolffe hummed his intrigue. “Why make a wish?”

“Because sometimes life is hard and you need something to look forward to.” He stilled beneath her; her smile softened. “It’s a comfort to believe that something out there will protect our hopes.”

A hand warmed her thigh, skimming the bare skin beneath the hem of her dress. “What do you think Neyti wished for?”

Across the room, Neyti stuck a green bow onto Fluffy’s tail. The anooba stared at the bow, perplexed.

Kazi shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“What would you wish for?”

“A life far away from the Empire and the network.” Brushing a curl from his forehead, she scanned his face. “What would you wish for?”

He stroked a slow rhythm against her thigh, and then he pressed a kiss to her temple, murmuring, “Your seeds are doing well.”

His refusal to answer wasn’t lost on her but she switched focus, too, observing her pot. The two sprouts had matured, each the length of her arm. According to Wolffe, they had reached their adolescent height.

Orange as a summer sunset, each stem was thicker than her hand. Thin branches blossomed from the stems, and wide leaves, pale orange veined yellow, lazed from the branches.

Wolffe ran his thumb down the length of a leaf. “They should start bearing fruit any day now.”

Rubbing a leaf between her fingers, the fuzzed surface tickling, Kazi asked, “Where did you find citrus-star seeds?”

“The Marketplace.” At her unimpressed scoff, Wolffe smirked. The hand on her thigh tightened, his thumb stroking her inner thigh. “I asked the right people.”

Amused, she rolled her eyes and then kissed his cheek.

More merriment ensued. More presents unwrapped. More food—roasted vegetables, loaves of buttered bread, bowls of soup—warmed their bellies.

Bioluminescent flowers glowed serenely; sketches Neyti had drawn for each adult decorated couch and chair cushions.

Kazi found herself beside the windows, enjoying a bowl of creamy potato soup, watching Neyti, Daria, and Wolffe play a round on a board game. Beside the backdoor, Cody and Nova nursed glasses of the expensive whiskey Fox had bought, chuckling over a story.

A glass in hand, the whiskey a deep amber, Fox joined Kazi at the windows. They stood together for some time.

“There are mornings when I wake up and wonder if this was all a dream,” Fox said, sipping from his whiskey, the ice clinking against the glass. Sunshine swirled in his eyes. Earthy brown. He chuffed a self-deprecating chuckle. “I wonder if I’ll wake up and return to reality.”

Setting aside her finished soup, Kazi frowned. “What would that reality be?”

“War.” His gaze slid in her direction. “Seeing my vode as they were nearly a year ago.”

“A lot has changed,” she remarked.

“It has.”

“For the better?”

He considered her. “You tell me.”

Kazi studied his features—the wearied wrinkles weren’t as pronounced, the dark smudges beneath his eyes dimmed. “That look in your eyes…it’s gone. Mostly.”

He inclined his head, almost mocking, and she rolled her eyes, offering him a leather-bound book.

“You’re running out of space in the current one, so I thought this would be useful,” she said. Fox accepted the book with a grateful nod, and she tugged on a strand of hair, observing his reaction. “Wolffe has told me stories. About your childhood. The first quarter of the book is filled with those stories.”

Surprise widened his eyes and Fox flipped open to the first page. The dark ink of her script reflected back at her.

“Your story also deserves to be told,” Kazi said quietly.

With a resigned smile, Fox closed the book, tucked it beneath his arm, and then reached into his pocket. A small, wooden figurine perched in his palm. It was unlike his other carvings: the wood gray, streaked with black. As if its donor tree had burned and a thin layer of ash had settled into the bark.

“Do you have wolves on Ceaia?” Fox asked.

Kazi slid a finger down the wolf’s back. “No.”

He nodded, as if he’d expected her answer.

“Wolves represent loyalty and strength; independence and courage,” Fox said softly. “They also represent instinct and intuition.” He placed the carving in her palm. “In the heat of a battle, you’re forced to make quick decisions. Decisions that will have long-lasting consequences. To survive, you trust your instinct—trust your gut—and then act.”

The wolf was carved in the midst of a gallop, front and hind legs expanded, tail weaving through the air. Its ears rested atop its head and its eyes slanted against imaginary wind. Kazi ran her finger down the smooth planes of its flank. The wood was coarse beneath her finger.

“Here’s my holiday gift: advice,” Fox said. Kazi returned her attention to his face. To the seriousness tightening his expression. “You’ve given Wolffe a taste of what he’s wanted for a long time. And now you need to make a decision. Doesn’t matter what it is, but you need to make one.”

With that, Fox clapped a hand to her shoulder and made his way toward Cody and Nova.

Emptiness stretched in her chest as Kazi stared at the wolf figurine. Emptiness and guilt.

But it was a holiday, and she already had much on her mind because of the network and the magistrate, and she didn’t want to acknowledge the rabid emotions far, far below. So, she slipped the wolf into the bag with Neyti’s sketch and refocused her attention elsewhere.

Namely on the few presents remaining.

The board game concluded with Daria winning and the men ribbing a perplexed Wolffe.

Slices of pie were shared. Fluffy stole Wolffe’s. The anooba was tossed outside while Wolffe grumbled his annoyance.

The sun was setting.

Neyti reached for the final presents.

“These are an old family tradition,” Kazi said.

Perched on Wolffe’s armrest, again, she clasped her hands in her lap, ignoring the apprehension heating her cheeks. They were just presents. Nothing serious. Just presents.

The attempt at reasoning did little to quell her rising anxiety.

Slowly, Neyti tore apart the wrapping paper of her gift. A pause, eyebrows bunching, and—

Neyti gasped, lifting the navy blue sweater from its wrapping. Knitted into the center of the sweater was the Aurebesh letter “N.” Vines of tiny pink flowers poked and wound around the letter.

Leaping to her feet, Neyti gave her a quick hug and then hurried upstairs. Her door slammed shut. Kazi shared a humored chuckle with Wolffe.

Around the sunroom, the others assessed the sweaters she had spent the last few months knitting.

Fox measured his maroon sweater to his body: a silver “F” with a small fox running along the top line of the letter. Ironically, the little creature was his favorite animal. Due to its natural slyness and cunning ability to outsmart its predators.

Beside Fox, Cody inspected the pale yellow of his sweater. A painted sun surrounded the three vertical lines of his letter “C.” He’d told her once that painting sunrises were his favorite: symbolic of resilience. Hope. His eyes met hers and he gave her a small nod. Nova was tugging his black sweater over his head. His favorite constellation—the first one he’d seen on Kamino—speckled his letter “N.”

Kazi watched her sister. Because it was Daria whose reaction she valued the most.

The violet sweater, its package half-open, sat in her sister’s lap. Daria traced a finger along the gray “D.” A dragon—Daria’s dragon—sat on top of the letter.

Reverently, Daria pressed the sweater to her cheek, sighing. And Kazi knew. She knew Daria was remembering their childhood. The sweaters their mother used to knit every year.

A flicker of silver caught her sister’s attention, and Kazi leaned forward. With trembling hands—either from her sickness or sentimentality, Kazi wasn’t sure—Daria lifted the necklace. She flipped open the locket. A tear slid down her cheek.

For inside the locket was a photo of their family. A photo from the adventure album that an artificer at Marketplace crafted into the locket. It was to be a reminder for Daria, whenever she couldn’t remember their parents’ faces.

Smiling to herself, Kazi turned to Wolffe. He was studying his gray sweater. On it: a small, line-drawn wolf sitting on its haunches, surrounded by the box of his letter “W.”

“To match your tattoo,” she said.

His mute nod followed, and then he was picking up his second present. A frown creased his features.

“It’s a bioluminescent stencil,” Kazi explained. Wolffe turned the stencil over, its lissome body blue-silver and pointed tip glittering black. Her voice lowered as she said, “It’s for your notebook—to trace the names. The bioluminescence allows them to glow, so, when you wake up in the middle of the night, you don’t have to waste time fumbling for a light. You’ll always be able to read the names.”

Wolffe pressed a fist to his mouth. His shoulders shook slightly. Clearing his throat, he tucked the stencil back into the box, snuggled among its wrapping paper.

“Thank you,” he said roughly. His eyes sought hers; they shimmered in the waning sunlight, glossy with an unshed tear. “I appreciate it, Ennari.”

Kazi smiled softly at him, and when he tipped his chin down, she moved to his thigh. A hand rested on her knee; the other reached for her hair. Tentatively, Wolffe touched a cream pearl. One of half a dozen sweeping back her loose hair.

Daria had placed them that morning: a Ceaian tradition. The pearls represented prosperity and the dragons’ blessing. For only a dragon could dive to the pits of the ocean and retrieve the once rare treasure, bestowing it upon those who had proven themselves honorable and trustworthy.

With a half-smile and a lingering touch, Wolffe settled back into his chair. He offered her the remnants of his whiskey and she accepted a sip.

The burn was incomparable to the mounting warmth inside of her. The warmth swirling in her stomach and lazing through her veins. The burn nestled in her heart, an ember aglow.

Soon Neyti returned, her grin sheepish. The dark blue sweater hung mid-thigh and she twirled in it, as if she were wearing a dress. Kazi laughed, and it was the dimpled smile she received in return that had her own cheeks hurting. A good hurt, though. The type of hurt you photograph and store in an album, to remember always.

For some time, Kazi was content to sit silently. Wolffe nursed another glass of whiskey, courtesy of Fox, while she partook in a plate of spiced vegetables and thickly-buttered bread.

Neyti let Fluffy back in, ignoring Wolffe’s reproving grunt. The anooba wisely avoided the man, sprawling himself across Daria and Cody’s laps.

Reaching behind the chair, Wolffe retrieved a neatly wrapped box. He set it in her lap. A black ribbon, straight lines and curled ends, decorated the simple, white wrapping paper.

“It’s from me,” Wolffe said.

His voice was unnaturally tight, his eyes darting across her face as she beheld the box. Frowning at his odd behavior, Kazi untied the bow and slipped open the paper. The lid popped off. Her lips parted.

“I thought you’d like to add to your adventure book,” Wolffe said. Tapping two fingers against her thigh, he scrutinized her. “It’ll be useful for Neyti’s play.”

Kazi lifted the handheld holo-recorder from the box. She blinked at Wolffe. “And for the photo album you got Neyti.”

He shrugged, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Do you…like it?” he asked cautiously.

“This is perfect.” Wolffe breathed a quiet exhale, and she buried her face into his neck, kissing his throat. “Thank you so much.”

The tension in his body loosened, and the ghost of his smile brushed her temple. Kazi placed her hand over his heart. Sure enough, it was beating harder. Faster.

“Kazi,” Daria called out. Her sister glanced from the recorder to her face. “Do you want to take photos?”

They started with a group photo.

Daria took over. She positioned Fox near Cody. The former took a long look at his brother’s sweater.

“‘C?’ Does that stand for cun—” Wolffe shoved him in the shoulder and Fox chuckled.

Neyti stood in the middle, Daria to her left and Kazi to her right. The four men stood behind, their arms locked across one another’s shoulders. Kazi and Daria looped their arms around Neyti. Wolffe rested a hand on Kazi’s shoulder.

A few photos passed with the group and then Neyti wanted one with each person.

Photos of the two sisters followed.

Their next bunch beheld Kazi and Daria kneeling with Neyti, the girl’s arms around their shoulders. Kazi snapped a handful of Daria and Cody. The brothers gathered for their own shots.

Eventually Neyti pattered around the room, capturing photos of whatever she wanted. At one point, a flash interrupted Kazi and Wolffe talking. Neyti asked for another photo and Kazi obliged. To her surprise, Neyti motioned for Wolffe to join them.

A train of bioluminescent flowers served as their background. Kazi rested a hand on Neyti’s shoulder. Wolffe mimicked her. His other hand wrapped around her shoulders, so she let hers sneak around his waist.

The three of them stood close. Heat emanated from Wolffe. It flowed through her blood, languid and unhurried, a golden heat warming her cheeks. Warming her very soul.

Blue and silver lights winked.

The aroma of well-cooked food filled the space.

Smiles and laughter embraced them.

Kazi grinned as the flash popped.

A kiss beneath her chin and Kazi breathed a soft sigh; she felt Wolffe smile against her neck in response. Her fingers continued to play with his hair, her nails gently scraping his scalp. With a low hum, Wolffe ground himself between her legs.

“You sure?” he asked. A callused hand skimmed her bare thigh. “We can try again—”

“No.” Wolffe studied her through narrowed eyes and she shrugged. A difficult endeavor considering his heavy weight flattening her to the mattress. “I’m too tired, and I don’t think anything will come of it.”

They had spent the last hour trying: his mouth on her clit, his fingers inside of her. Eventually she convinced him to skip her orgasm and fuck her. He took her from behind, his pace steady, his grip on her hips demanding, his raspy praises promising.

But Wolffe came quickly, with a surprised, choked moan that made her quietly laugh. His orgasm left him trembling and slightly abashed.

Challenge hardened his expression as he flipped her onto her back. Sharpened his assessing gaze as he spread her legs. But Kazi waved him off, uninterested in more. Wolffe started to argue; her exasperated look convinced him otherwise. Instead, he settled himself atop her, his sweaty skin pressed against hers, his kisses languid, his hands wandering.

“We can use the vibrator,” Wolffe offered.

“Not tonight,” Kazi said. A long, slow lick across her nipple had her chuckling, and playfully she tugged on a curl. He gave her a lazy grin. “It’s been a long week.”

Wolffe traced his thumb across her jaw; his caress was tender, understanding. He lowered his face to the crook of her neck, rubbing his nose against a sensitive spot.

A contented hush enveloped the bedroom.

The somnolent heat of Wolffe’s body—the kisses he mouthed against her collarbone, her breasts, her neck—lulled Kazi to sleep. Idly, she skimmed her palms along his shoulders, massaged the knots across his upper back, brushed her fingers through his hair. Her touches grew slower, heavier.

So close to sleep, she didn’t notice his contemplative silence.

“Kazi.” Her eyelashes fluttered open. Wolffe was watching her; he tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, tickling her earlobe. “Where do you want to go with this?”

Sleepily, she nuzzled her cheek against his palm. “What?”

“Our relationship. Where do you see this going?”

She frowned. “I…don’t know. But I like what we have.” She pressed a kiss to his palm. “I like you.”

I don’t want to lose you, she kept to herself.

Thick lashes lowered as Wolffe considered her. Something flickered across his face—something she recognized but was too scared to voice. Before she could question it, though, he was cupping her jaw and kissing her. His tongue was teasing; his hold was gentle.

She gave herself to his kiss.

The comm message blinked at Kazi.

Malaise knotted in her stomach as she stared at the familiar number. The persistent warmth from Wolffe’s affection dissipated, and she glanced at her bedroom door. Wolffe was downstairs, grabbing water for them.

Should she wait for him? Should she…include him?

No. This was her responsibility, and hers alone.

Swallowing, she played the message.

“Ms. Lucien, this is Licae Thurmin with Eluca’s Adoption Center for Young Girls and Boys. I have exciting news: We have a couple matched with Neyti!”

Masterlist | A Muse | Chapter 26

A/N: Artwork of Fox, Wolffe, Cody, and Nova (left to right) by the incredible @sleepingsun501!

Some more Kazi and Wolffe in bed (nsfw, 18+).

Information about Wolffe's Tattoo - Research and Commentary by @/sleepingsun501

"In all, I wanted this tattoo to represent different aspects of Wolffe's life and what makes him who he is.

"Within the outer arms of the mangopare, when seen facing downward from either Wolffe's perspective or someone else's, there are larger pakati that represent fallen brothers. Within the inner arms of the mangopare, there is a koiri that contains more pakati and ahu ahu mataroa, representing Wolffe's duty and ability to protect younger brothers or those serving under him. Both designs existing in the mangopare represent that Wolffe's brothers are what keep him going.

"The raperape in the center represents the balance between life and death, and how quickly brothers can be lost, but remain alive in the memories of those still living.

"The bulk of the designs sprouting from the maui fishhooks are another symbol of Wolffe's responsibility to lead and provide for his men.

"The ngutu kaka represent Wolffe being a commander and having to give orders. He has a responsibility to lead and to give orders that keep his brothers safe, and it's also a stern reminder that his orders may have lead to others' deaths in the past because the gutu kaka encompass the entire design, so he always needs to be mindful. But it is also apt that he is the one laughing the loudest in the picture."

#I Yearn and so I Fear #commander wolffe x oc: kazi ennari

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picturesofthegoneworlds · 6 months ago

Note

For one word prompts, I'm finally seeing some green in my garden again, so: Sage?

Oh, of course you know how to appeal to me. I hope this brings the vibes <3 ~

There was a variety of sage (still is, most likely) - sanctified – a herb that they would dry hanged from the rafters and tie into bundles like broomstick bristles, its own fibrous stem knotted in noose around the neck and ankles of the bale, burnt at the stakes and raised pitchforks to sweep away the wicked.

The smoke was what woke her, herbaceous floral distress signal, thrown through the open (paneless) window, accompanied by salt and circle.

They hoped to lure her out the front ‘door’ - she concluded with groggy post-dream clarity - strategized to trap her between saline force field and stone and mortar.

She stumbled over herself, gathered her few possessions. In time shorter the flames carpeted the threshing covering the floor, climbed into her bed to alight the straw stuffing the mattress, exorcised from there to cross exposed rafters to the mossy thatching comprising the roof-

She left through the vacant fireplace.

From a distance fled she observed the thick grapevine coiling of smoke as it billowed out above the forest canopy from a chimney that had crumbled decades ago.

Fire-licked masonry, tattered and scorched fabrics. Perhaps their malice left the cabin more befitting, well-suited, paralleled - outfitted in ash grey skin and soot ichor stains. The hunting party retreated but she could not return. She wondered who would take up residence in the hollow shell - as such a body must be an invite, must be a vessel (at least that was a lesson she was soon to learn) - but who would cohabitate with the spiders, birds, and other small mammals?

The thick smoke filtered through the pines

All of her grievances aside (packed away once again with her bedroll and cauldron), it smelt rather wonderful-

There was another sage (surely must be, still) - common - cultivated in window boxes and allotments, the leaves torn to marinade meats, to infuse healing balms, unbiased towards the dead or the living, transmuting itself for both in order to permeate soft tissue.

Laudna would grab handfuls of the silver-furred leaves; amass them in pocket-lint-lined-bundles of potpourri. Crushed the sage between her fingers, rubbed it on her pulse points, tied it with red twine dried in parcels of cheesecloth that she decorated around her person. Loose in her coin pouch, trinkets, her spell component satchel too, sewn into Pâté’s stuffing, flattened behind her belts and tucked into the front of her bodice and trampled in the soles of her shoes-

Never sure if it was necessity or in her head, not like when she wore flushing and sweating flesh, saturated, awkward teenager dealing with the stubborn stench of puberty or drenched in the fragrance of a farm-girl-butcher’s-daughter composting straw manure and coagulated pigs’ blood –

-not the perfume of The Ladies, certainly, refined with their age, aged mahogany liquor barrel vintage sophisticated palate, finery of silks satin lace velvet layers stored in lacquered marquetry hardwood armoires and mausoleum-sized wardrobes, aired in gilded vase and bouquet’ed marble surroundings, chandeliers ornately framed paintings in alabaster hallways-

She would feel rather self-conscious of it; of her differences - but continued her play with the worms in the forest regardless.

Then, for a short time, she slept with them.

Or rather, she woke to fall onto a heap moving with them, dancing drunken room-spin carpet shag pile of maggots and flies and mosquitoes and pillows of other larvae unidentified, turning familiar faces into fertiliser.

She was not sure if it was the memory, or the actual (un)working order of things

Permanently rotting

Hard to smell past the end of a decomposing nose

Perhaps it wasn’t so hard to tell for others?

Every time she passed the plant she filled her pockets and hands - ironically unaware of how time had stilled, that she was embalming herself - hoping it would fight the trauma-ever-present smell, that she could throw off the(ir) scent.

There is a sage that blooms violet throughout the summer - wild - like early humid evenings with head thrown back in laughter and perspiration jeweling tanned neck, clouds underlit and voluminous as purple-sunset tousled hair.

Imogen points it out with inquisition; at the gatherings of spears of blossoms lanced into soil growing not far from the bank of a river in the sun-bleached and crunching-under-foot tall grasses of an open field.

Seeds from dried out flower heads are carried along the docile breeze, ashes falling in hazing-heat ground fog, smithing dandelion diamond rings to decorate the fingers of the willows that lazily wave, bid farewell to the jewellery that doesn’t fit, allowing it to marry elsewhere between clumps over the grass and charms accumulated at the banks of the gently moving river.

“D’ya know what this is? Smells good.”

She kneels down with her palm held open to the purple blooming sage, presentory, skin offering the tan lines above her knees exposed from the displacement of the tops of her tall leather boots, a dandelion seed catching in the mass of her mane like a feather, her hand not designated to indicating specimen shading above one of her eyes squinted shut and the corner of her mouth raised baring teeth as she looks to Laudna with the midday sun over her shoulder.

It’s a bit overwhelming, the life and the bliss it elicits.

Laudna walks the few paces over to her, gives a quick inspection with the cast of her shadow.

Smiles in familiarity, nods to the plant in greeting

“Would you like to try it?”

Imogen starts the fire, uses the abundance of dried grasses as kindling. It smells just like the burning cottage had, does so every time. Laudna prunes the wild sage, gathering toothed leaves and small violet petals into her wicker basket, rolls the fragranced stems between the pads of her fingers and inhales, implores the herbal scent to momentarily mask the memory of deterioration as it once had. Imogen sets up the frame for hanging the cauldron, drives the iron spikes into the dry ground, fills it from the river, has to submerge her hand into the gathered water, fingers tweezers removing errant dandelion parachutes that she wipes onto her gauzy dress skirt, skin glistening with the cascading droplets that intuitively follow the scarring of her lightning marks and drip onto the floor, where a lizard with skin like stones flees under the weave of the trodden grass once her footfall returns, retreats for safer ground. Laudna questions whether it will turn to watch the fire or let instinct tell it to keep running-

“You’re quiet…”

Imogen states, offers a softened and upturned corner of her mouth.

Another feather of an airborne seed lands in her hair. A warning arrow shot through the window and puncturing her pillow, innards flying-

“I seem to be having a reflective day, sorry.”

“Anythin’ you wanna share?”

Imogen wears her empathetic apology in her brow, strained, and Laudna isn’t sure of how legible abstract memories are to her, if the furrow is from an attempt at unknotting the tangles, mostly it feels a weight too unquantifiable to know what to share with intention.

“Not now. I think this is good, something new.”

Present is good, a gift, shared (willingly, in part).

“I don’t dislike it…”

Imogen declares, staring into her cup as she swirls its contents under inquisitive-eyed assessment.

“It sounds like you are warming up for a caveat there.”

She pauses, holds the pottery between her hands on her lap.

“I’m not, s’just new. Tea back home was mostly black and made with lemons and alotta honey or sugar; was cold if the occasion were special-” she tucks her hair behind her ear as her eyes read the pattern of the blanket they had laid over the floor. Laudna wonders if there were birthday parties on picnic blankets out in the paddocks, waited by her father, Imogen and her childhood friends drinking sweet tea and running around in daisy crowns “-I guess we had other teas, but they were more for if y’all were sick?”

She doesn’t like to think of that.

The birds and the crickets carry on their background accompaniment, Imogen's hand returning to the other cradling the cup. Laudna feels as though she can see the slow turn of the skin on her exposed thighs from bronzed tan to sun-kissed red, convinced she is observing the freckles multiplying.

“This one is supposed to be good for anxiety.”

Imogen scoffs, it causes a nearby bird in the brush to scatter

“Yeah? Well I’ll report back on that - maybe we should take more with us just in case.”

Laudna laughs agreeably, enthusiastic. She knows how to make plenty of room for sage.

To follow the tea she also makes them a salad with the plant’s greens; a field-foraged thing prepared with borage and dandelion leaves, fleshed out with wild strawberries, a little olive oil and a little cider vinegar, served in a wooden bowl.

finishes the assemblage with an intentionally random flecking of the wild sage's violet petals, as though the bowl is a miniature diorama of the meadow in which they sit, olive oil babbling brook and cast iron fork fallen-tree bridge ready to present on a plinth, garden plans proposed by the landscaper in the study to a snooty gent stroking his chin and um-ing and ah-ing -

the hidden door that was disguised behind ornate wooden panelling, adjoining the ransacked and emptied floor to ceiling shelves of the study via dark stone corridors to the equipped and practical, cell-like laboratory-

She thinks that was the layout, at least - worries who she will rouse if she thinks too hard on it. There is comfort in the answer being left immaterial.

“All’a those times I was sittin’ in fields of flowers, I never really thought I could be eatin’ them.”

It is so nice to have someone she adores break up her ruminations.

“You had a lot of quality produce, there wasn’t really the need.”

"I guess not. Honestly, I think I prefer the salad to the tea."

Imogen licks her teeth, reveals a violet petal plastered over incisor that she shortly removes with a blade-of dry-grass toothpick, re-places the petal on the flat of her tongue, rolling it around her mouth and swallowing it.

Laudna stares.

"You like the flowers?" she finds herself leaning towards Imogen. Wants to tell her that for years this one was her perfume - pomanders adorned and concealed in tattered layers.

“They’re purple, ‘course I do.” she giggles, resting sat cross-legged with her weight behind her on her palms. Her head rolls towards Laudna, leaves their foreheads almost resting against one another, Laudna able to count each individual eyelash.

Purple, like the deep undertones of her hair. That much Laudna was very aware of.

“I should have guessed that that would be what caught your attention.” She brings her hand up and wraps her bony index finger in a ringlet of Imogen's hair.

“More like your magic, I was thinkin’…” She drawls, tenor lowered and breathy.

“And the taste?”

Imogen visibly swallows, cheeks flushing a further tint than what the sun has already given - it makes Laudna feel overly aware of the networking of her own heart and veins.

Imogen clears her throat

"’s’good - kinda familiar."

Laudna feels overwhelmed by the compelling need to kiss her - so she does. Her hand with finger still tied in ringlets of hair sprawling over Imogen's chest as she responds with a squeaked moan that reverberates underneath it. Her lungs halt in their expansion as her mouth is sealed with her own, the increasing pulse at the base of her neck decipherable carved runes under the tip of her fingers, her heart thudding against her palm.

Familiar. Laudna can muse on that in the future, certainly.

She sits back from Imogen - already breathless and chest heaving, lips kiss-swollen - and appreciates the sight she helped curate; the picture of her looking a little dazed on their tartan blanket with the surrounding flora densely reaching above her shoulders, crowned in multi-coloured paint strokes.

“Familiar? And here I thought that was your first time eating a flower.”

Causes her to blush furiously

“Don’t you use ma’words against me.” She pushes Laudna playfully at her shoulder, pretends to look away in dissatisfaction, bottom lip pouting.

“I apologise, that is your advantage to keep. My words are but humble ammunition for your armoury.” Laudna exaggeratedly plays acting pious at Imogen’s half-turned back, Imogen turning back to her with one eyebrow raised and a laugh she is clearly trying to keep within her stomach murmuring at the corners of her lips.

"That so? Well alright, how would y’all describe it?"

She puffs out air towards her head, hairs previously put behind her ear falling back out of (or into, depending on which of them you ask) place, sits forward again, arms folded. Adorable. Laudna is aware of how susceptible Imogen is to her teasing, always so charming and charismatic, and so often a bumbling mess - and it is intoxicating - to exercise any sort of outcome on such a gifted sorceresses’ disposition, is doing her best to learn what the differences and distinctions are between that and her own longer ongoing situation…

Focus.

Despite the more imposing associations, she can still remember

Can still remember her father butchering the pig, her mother in the kitchen slicing its fatty flesh into patchwork diamonds, stuffing the incised indents with sage and garlic and other seasonings, the slab of flesh tied with butcher’s twine around a whole peeled onion and roasted, skin crackling, the three of them sat around the oak table, talking about the small things, Laudna's mother showing off the basket Laudna had weaved that day, presented like a cornucopia on the kitchen table top, holding that weeks offering of vegetables.

She would describe it as herbaceous, sweet, and floral. Peppery, perhaps like a minty aniseed. Earthy. Mulchy. Rich as the soil it grew from. Could also admit to it being 'like the first home I'd made burning down, like the incense I'd crush between my palms and rub behind my ears so as to not offend any people who would be so kind as to get close enough to notice the death’

what she does say is

"nostalgic."

not a lie - though she hopes in futures she won’t be drowned marinating in it, the complex layering of all of the ingredients and flavours, hopes one can remain dominant, bountiful and nourishing.

Imogen there, seen over the end of a nose that did not rot and fall off. She’s sure that it can change.

#Imodna #Imogen Temult #Laudna #Critical Role #Bells Hells #Emma writes #Prompt fill

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