#took creative liberties in a number of directions

[hey-scully-itsme]

la belle dame sans merci

"‘Will you not let me go, Diana?’ he said, looking up, his eyes filling with tears.

‘No, no, no,’ she cried. ‘You must not leave me – go, yes go to France – but write to me, write to me, and come back.’ She gripped him hard with her small hand, and she was away, the turf flying behind her horse." – Post Captain, Patrick O'Brian

[lilac-witch]

If My Wish Came True, It Would've Been You - Azriel x OC

CHAPTER ONE: ALL YOU HAVE IS YOUR FIRE AND THE PLACE YOU NEED TO REACH

word count: 1.1k

synopsis: Koschei's forces are growing stronger by the day, and the fae of Prythian need an answer to their prayers. Thankfully, the Most Handsome High Lord is full of entertaining ideas.

warnings: strong language.

a/n: the above media work is not mine and I have no idea who to credit 😢 if you are the owner/know the owner, please let me know so I can credit their work or replace it should you/they not wish to have it displayed. also, the plot of this series may not align with the writings of SJM completely, and that is because I am taking creative liberties to lead the story in the direction I want it to go 😁

main masterlist | series masterlist

Formal meetings had never been Azriel’s strong suit. Too many fae and no shadows to hide in and watch from—forced to sit in an uncomfortable chair not made to accommodate his wings—subjected to the flamboyant disagreements of those who held power.

“If you sit any straighter your spine may stay fixed in that position.”

Azriel’s head swayed slightly to the right, meeting the amused violet-blue eyes of his High Lord. “It’s not my fault that these fucking chairs make it feel like someone is busy shoving a stick up your arse.”

Azriel’s keen eyes caught the slight uplift of Rhysand’s mouth despite his cool, composed posture.

“Such vulgar language, Az! I think you’ve been spending too much time with Cassian and Nesta.”

Azriel resisted the urge to give Rhys the finger, so as to avoid an uncomfortable conversation with the company they presently shared.

For the last several hours, Azriel had found himself sharing a space with not only one, but seven High Lords. The bi-annual High Lord’s meeting—the only time of the year when one could expect to find all of the great powers of Prythian in one room together.

“Are you going to bring it up?”

Rhys’s eyes narrowed in displeasure, face souring ever so slightly.

“Yes, in a few moments. We can’t delay the inevitable, I suppose.”

Azriel watched his High Lord for a moment before responding. “You’re not to blame. You know that right?”

Rhys's head bobbed—in agreeance or thanks, Azriel wasn’t completely sure.

Rhys cleared his throat, gaining the attention of the bickering High Lords scattered around the table. “As much as I enjoy watching the lot of you nip at each other's tails, there is a much more… pressing matter to discuss.”

“And what would that be Rhysand?” the red-headed lord mused. “Here to tell us you are the mother’s gift to us all? That we ought to bow before your feet? Name you King?”

Azriel snarled in warning, only to be waved off by Rhys. Beron, High Lord of the Autumn Court—and the greatest waste of space Azriel had come across in over 500 years of existence.

“That’s right. Call your dog off,” Beron said, lips parting to reveal that smug smile of victory. Cauldron, it made him want to knock the arrogant redheads’ teeth out.

“As I was saying…” Rhys drawled. “There are signs of Koschei’s troops gathering in great numbers. We assume they are planning to attack. The question begs as to when.”

“And you learnt this from the shadows that whisper in your dog’s ear, I presume?” Beron questioned, the remark causing Azriel’s fists to clench.

“He’s a prick. Don’t let him get to you.”

Azriel took a deep breath as Rhys’s voice infiltrated his mind. In. Out. In. Out. Slowly, his hands relaxed, settling palms down on his leather-bound knees.

“Elain has been having visions,” Rhys revealed as Azriel monitored shocked expressions litter the faces of those who sat around the table.

“Well…that is most concerning,” Thesan breathed, slouching back in his chair—chin finding the cup of his palm.

“You’re certain it’s Koschei she’s seeing?” Helion asked, leaning forward to rest his weight on his onyx forearms. Azriel couldn’t recall a time when he had seen the High Lord of Day look so serious.

Rhys nodded. “We’re almost completely confident that Elain is seeing the death god–”

“And what would you have us do, Rhysand? Our troops are a little thin after the last war you led us into.”

Azriel resisted releasing the primal growl that rose up through his chest—threatening to rattle his ribcage like one of the musical shakers he’d seen being played in the street of Velaris.  “You seem to be misinformed about your own cavalry, High Lord. From what my sources tell me, your troops were barely dented by the war, unlike the rest of the courts.”

Beron snarled at him, eyes ablaze with that raging fire that ran through his Autumn Court veins. A compulsive liar—just like his eldest son.

“So, another war is upon us, and we are low on means of muscle and protection,” Kallias stated, rubbing at the skin between his stark white eyebrows. “What do you suggest as a solution? Will the mortal queens aid us?”

“Vassa might, but Mother knows Koschei will do everything he can to tighten his noose around her.” Rhys leaned back in his chair, and Azriel noted his attempt to appear nonchalant despite his growing agitation. “There is another option…”

Azriel knew that pondering look on his brother’s face too well. That was a look of scheming—of plans that may or may not get them killed…again.

Rhys took a breath before continuing. “A few months ago, the Night Court received a visitor from a distant land. A very distant land.”

Azriel’s breath caught in his throat. No… Rhys would have to be out of his god's damned mind to be suggesting this.

“Her name was Bryce Quinlan. Fae, although not completely like us, but not entirely different either. She possessed the power of a star. And she fell through worlds…”

“Are you meaning to tell us that you had a fae from another world land on your doorstep?” Helion blanched, his deep-coloured skin seeming to glow with excitement. “Why in the name of all things good are you only telling us this now!”

It was Azriel who spoke next. “We didn’t know who she was, what she was, and what she was capable of. We didn’t want to take the chance of word getting out, and the issue becoming larger than what it was.”

Rhys looked to Thesan, whose intelligent eyes were combing through this newfound information. “She’s back on her home planet, where she belongs. Her stay was brief, but her impact… tremendous.”

“You wish to seek out her help.”

“Yes,” Rhys confirmed. “She mentioned great powers that protected her world from harm. Warriors of unparalleled strength. She called them Valkyrie.”

“That’s not possible,” Helion countered. “The Valkyrie died out centuries ago.”

Rhys simply nodded. “They did. In our world.”

The silence that followed was almost painful. No one dared to utter a word—as if fearing that everything would shatter like glass.

Surprisingly, it was the Lord of Spring who broke the spell. “Let’s say your idea holds value. How do you plan on contacting this… Bryce Quinlan, when she is worlds away?”

Rhys’s lips turned up in that arrogant smirk that had earned him his nickname—prick. It was then that Azriel realized. Rhys had been thinking about this for a while—a long while. And he had formulated a plan that he was seemingly confident about.

“My second in command has some incredibly useful qualities,” Rhys hummed, threading his fingers together. “Why don’t you leave the details to me.”

Eeek!!!

I'm so happy to finally be uploading this! I've been mulling over this idea for ages and it feels so good to finally put pen to paper... kind of. I hope you guys love it, and I can't wait for the chapters to come!

Tag List: @mybestfriendmademe @lilah-asteria @talesofadragon

[oneshotnewbie]

Hey wondering if you could do another Natasha Ross fic. Loved the first you did when I requested. Again I give you full creative liberty because how good you did last time.

Authors note: Ugh, there are no gifs of Natasha Ross. I hate it!! But here you have a slightly different story of Natasha, which doesn't really have much to do with Station 19 and might even be considered as an au? I'm sorry if it doesn't suit your taste- it was the first thing I thought of when I read your request 😊

Summary: Natasha is recruited by a secret government agency to take part in an undercover operation dealing with arson and terrorism in Seattle. You are an investigator, or rather a former soldier, who is assigned to help her.

ᕚ---ᕘ

The smoke rose in thick clouds into the Seattle evening sky and the pungent smell of burnt wood hung in the air. Natasha Ross wiped the sweat from her forehead and took a deep breath. Her muscles burned with exhaustion, but she was glad that they had managed to get the fire under control. The last few hours had been a nightmare, but now that the flames were contained, she could finally relax a little.

"Good job, guys. We did it," Captain Sullivan called, patting Natasha on the shoulder. "Now everyone go back to the station and get the cars back in shape." Natasha nodded exhaustedly and looked at each of her team members. "You heard the captain. You did a great job today, I'm proud of you."

When they got back to the station, she was about to go to her locker when she noticed someone standing at the entrance to the fire station. An older man in a tailored gray suit.

"Ross?" The man's voice was firm and authoritative, his serious gaze directed strictly at Natasha. She raised her eyebrows and walked towards him with slow and careful steps. "Yes, I'm Natasha Ross. Can I help you?"

"My name is Alex Carter,“ the man pulled out an older ID card holder and showed Natasha his Homeland Security badge. "I need to speak to you. Urgently."

Her heart immediately started beating faster and her palms began to sweat. What could a Department of Homeland Security agent want from her? "What is it about, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Not here. Follow me, please." Alex Carter turned around without another word and led Natasha to a black SUV parked not too far from the station. Natasha hesitated for a moment, but then decided to follow the request. She couldn't deny that the situation had piqued her curiosity.

There was a tense silence inside the vehicle until they finally reached a nondescript office building on the outskirts of the city. The agent led Natasha through a labyrinth of corridors and security gates until they finally arrived in a small conference room. The room was sparsely furnished, with only a table and a few chairs. On the walls hung various old maps of the whole of Seattle with red circles on them and photos of various fire sites.

"Sit down, Ross," Carter said coldly and closed the door behind him. "What I'm about to tell you is strictly confidential and must not leave this building. You are bound to secrecy."

Natasha sat down and looked expectantly at the agent while resting her hands on the wooden table. "Okay, I'm listening."

"There have been a number of arsons in Seattle over the last few months," Carter began, laying an open file on the table that contained the same pictures that were on the corkboards. "These fires were not accidental. We have evidence that they are the work of an organized terrorist cell."

Natasha frowned and couldn't help but grunt. "With all due respect, but what do I have to do with this?"

Alex Carter leaned forward and straddled the table, his hands gripping it tightly as he looked Natasha straight in the eyes. "We know that you have demonstrated exceptional firefighting skills during your time with the fire department. Additionally, you were previously part of a special task force in the Marines. Your experience and skills make you the perfect candidate for a covert operation."

Natasha felt her pulse rate exceed normal. She had left her time in the Marines more than a decade ago and vowed never again to be involved in such dangerous missions that could drag her and her family into the abyss. "You want me to go undercover?" she asked incredulously and the agent nodded with a straight face. "Exactly. We have reason to believe that the terrorist cell is planning to carry out a large-scale attack in Seattle. We need someone who can infiltrate their structures and gather information. Someone who is inconspicuous and competent. And that's where you come into the game."

Natasha leaned back in her chair and took a deep breath. Her leg was shaking nervously under the table. "I don't know... I've left that world behind me." She spoke in a whisper. "I understand," Alex Carter said calmly. "But remember that your skills and knowledge are needed now. You could save countless lives."

The fire chief was silent for a moment. The idea of ​​returning to a world full of danger and uncertainty was frightening. But the thought that she could actually make a difference and put a stop to it made her hesitate. "Who is my contact?" she finally asked, determined to help.

A slight smile, the first since the meeting, crossed Carter's face. "Your old comrade, y/n y/l/n. She now works for Homeland Security and will be your partner on this mission." Natasha's eyes widened, her pupils dilating to the maximum. "Y/n y/l/n? I thought she had quit her service."

"After her time in the military, she decided to pursue a career in the secret service," he explained quickly, getting back to the important topic. "She will be your main contact and will provide you with all the information you need."

She took a deep breath and finally nodded. They hadn't seen or heard from each other for years. Contact was lost shortly after she herself had quit the service and started a new career as a firefighter. "Okay. What do I have to do?"

ᕚ---ᕘ

Two weeks had passed since you and Natasha had gone undercover. You had integrated yourself into the structures of the terrorist cell, got used to your new identities and put your lives on the line every day. The fine balance between your roles as firefighter and Homeland Security agent was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain. But you both knew that any carelessness could blow your cover.

Inside the building, chaos reigned. Flames were blazing from the walls and the sound of crackling wood and collapsing structures filled the air. Natasha knelt behind a stack of boxes and observed the scene. She could feel the adrenaline flowing through her veins as she waited for the operation to begin.

"Are you alright, 'tash?" Your concerned voice came through the piece of technology in her ear, clear and precise. You were on the other side of the hall, monitoring the operation from a safe distance. "Yes, everything is fine," she whispered back and took a deep breath. "I'm ready."

The task was clear: infiltrate the group responsible for the arsons, gather information and prevent their next major attack. But that also meant that you were both in constant danger and your every move had to be carefully coordinated so as not to attract attention or worse.

Natasha forced herself to remain calm as she heard the hall door being pushed open. Several more figures entered, including her first target: a man named Victor Delgado, the right-hand man of the head of the terrorist unit.

"Guys, have you prepared everything?" Delgado asked in a sharp voice. He was tall, muscular, and exuded a menacing presence. "Yes, sir," a younger man answered nervously, probably a new follower, since you had never seen him before. "The fire will spread quickly, as planned. We made sure of that."

The fire chief pressed herself even deeper into the shadows, waiting for the signal from you. She knew you only had one chance to overpower Delgado and his men without anyone getting hurt, and to get him to talk at the headquarters.

"Now!" you whispered into her earpiece, and Natasha jumped out of her hiding place, her borrowed Homeland Security gun drawn. "Don't move!" she shouted loudly, aiming directly at Delgado. "Homeland Security!"

For a moment, time seemed to stand still for her, then more chaos broke out. Delgado reached for his own weapon, but you were faster. A precise shot from your hidden position hit him in the shoulder, and he fell to the ground. The other men also drew their weapons, but you were both prepared. A heavy exchange of fire broke out, and Natasha felt the wave of adrenaline hit her.

When everything went quiet again and the men were lying on the ground all around you, you stormed towards Delgado and overpowered him. "Get down on the ground! It's over for you."

While the two of you, with backup, arrested and secured the men, Natasha felt a rush of relief. But this calm was short-lived, she knew that this was only a small victory in a much bigger game.

Four hours later, Natasha was sitting in a safe house that Homeland Security had prepared for the two of you. The room was spartan but functional. She had sat down on the sofa, exhausted, and rubbed her eyes. But she couldn't go to sleep yet. She was waiting anxiously for you to come back and for news that she hoped you could squeeze out of Delgado.

When a key turned in the lock of the old door and the squeaky wood sprang open, she was suddenly wide awake again and stood on her feet, nervously walking towards you. "Have you found out anything?"

You nodded, also tired, and kicked your shoes off your feet. "I have a name: Thao Lord. He is the real mastermind behind the attacks. We have to catch him tomorrow night, otherwise the whole of Seattle will burn down."

Natasha felt the nervousness fading from her body. Finally you had a name, a goal. But the danger was far from over and a return to her old life was not yet done.

"Delgado was just a small cog in the machine. This Lord is far worse than we had imagined," you said, sitting down next to Natasha, that meanwhile haf sat back down. She leaned back and nodded as she sipped her wine glass. "Probably. But we took an important step today."

"You were great out there today. Like old times, huh?" you finally said after a moment of silence, looking at her with a soft smile. "I knew I had chosen the right one with you when we were looking for someone suitable for this mission."

Natasha felt the surprise overcoming her, her eyes widening. "You... chose me? I thought this was Carter's idea."

Another silence fell, heavy and full of unspoken words. "We should rest," you finally whispered and stood up. "Tomorrow will be a long day."

Natasha nodded silently and watched you go to your room. She sighed and leaned back again, her mind racing. Why were you still thinking about her after all these years? Why did you choose her when you could have chosen any other chief from all the fire departments in Seattle?"

ᕚ---ᕘ

The following night there was a tense silence as you and Natasha approached the spot where Thao Lord was supposed to meet Delgado. An abandoned industrial building on the outskirts of the city, similar to the one where you had confronted Delgado. This time, however, you knew it was all or nothing.

"Are you ready?" Natasha asked quietly, looking at you. You nodded, your eyes sparkling with determination as a smile spread across your lips. "I'm always ready, 'tash. You know that."

With a mischievous wink, you began to move silently through the shadows until you both reached the building. She hesitantly opened the heavy door, trying not to make a sound, and you entered the interior a few seconds later. There was an eerie silence inside, only interrupted by the occasional drip of water from the leaky pipes.

"Thao Lord must be here somewhere," you whispered, holding your weapon ready to fire. "We have to be careful, it's too confusing."

You made your way through the dark corridors, always on guard. Natasha could hear her heart pounding in her chest as she prepared for the unexpected. Finally, you reached a large room with a table in the middle, loaded with explosives and plans of the city.

Suddenly you heard footsteps and quickly ducked behind a wall as a man with graying hair and cold, calculating eyes approached the table - Thao Lord.

"Everything is ready," he said firmly to himself and laughed. "Tonight Seattle will go up in flames and destroy everything that needs to be destroyed."

Natasha felt her blood boiling. She had to stop him before he could put his plan into action. She exchanged a brief but determined look with you, then you both nodded at each other. It was time to act.

"Homeland Security! Hands up!" Natasha shouted, staying in cover and keeping her gun pointed at Lord. "Nothing is going to blow up here! The only thing that will happen is that you'll see the inside of a cell."

Lord laughed coldly and fired wildly. "You think you can stop me? You're just two women against an entire organization!"

But you and Natasha were not intimidated. You fought with all your strength and skill, and finally you managed to overpower Thao. He lay on the ground, his hands handcuffed, and she stepped closer to him. "You lost," she said in a firm voice. "Seattle is safe. Delgado ratted you out."

Thao Lord looked up with hate-filled eyes and a brief, cold shiver ran down her spine. "This isn't over yet." Natasha ignored his words and helped you get him to his feet before you both made your way to the headquarters.

The night passed quickly and the next morning you and Natasha were sitting in a small cafe, away from the hectic city. The case was closed, Lord and his men were behind bars, and the danger to Seattle had been averted. In the quiet moments after the storm, you could finally breathe a sigh of relief.

"I'm glad it's all over," said Natasha, taking a sip of her coffee. "It was a tough time that somehow reminded me a lot of the Marines and I'm honestly glad to be back with my team."

You nodded and looked her deep in the eyes. "Yes, it was. But I'm also glad that we got through it together. I couldn't have imagined a better partner for this case."

There was a moment of silence, and the fire chief could practically feel the depth of it. "Y/n, I want you to know how much what we have achieved together means to me," she said quietly and you smiled, gently running your finger along the rim of your coffee cup. "And not only that. I also realized how much you mean to me and how much I have missed you all these years."

"I feel the same way. You became my friend again so quickly. If not more... and that in such a short time even though the distance has separated us for so long."

Natasha felt a wave of joy as she took your hand and squeezed it tightly. "I want us to keep in touch. Let's see where this leads."

You nodded and squeezed her hand once too. "Yes, let's do that. Together." you said and in that moment you knew that you could get through anything together, like in your previous life. The danger was averted and a future full of possibilities and further collaborations lay ahead of you. You and Natasha had found each other not only as partners but also as friends, and nothing could separate you again.

[night-heron-writes]

The World of Spy x Family: Newston Castle

We all know that Spy x Family is set in pseudo Cold War Germany. Tatsuya Endo makes that very clear—the capital city of Ostania is Berlint, just one letter off from the actual capital of Germany. And the names of the divided countries also pay homage to that: Westalis and Ostania come from the German words for “west” and “east”, respectively. 

But it doesn’t stop there. Take the castle from Episode 5 (Chapter 6 of the Manga), for example. Endo could have left it unnamed, or just made up a name, but he decided to call it Newston Castle. That name is very decidedly reminiscent of Neuschwanstein Castle, and is in fact almost a direct translation.

Furthermore, the location of the castle is listed as a little ways outside Münk. Now, Münk is very similar to München, or what non-German speakers would know as Munich. Münk would also fit with the in-universe trend of altering place names just a little bit, like Hugaria being the in-universe equivalent of Hungary.  Neuschwanstein Castle is similarly located a little ways southwest of Munich. Starting to sound familiar? Lets look at the pictures.

Newston Castle:

Neuschwanstein Castle:

Clearly, the animation team took a few creative liberties (like moving the lake right up to the castle), but the influence is pretty damn clear. It’s the little details like this that make me appreciate the series even more.

The only snag in this theory is that during the cold war, Munich and Neuschwanstein Castle were in West Germany, which leaves us with two possibilities: 1) that in Spy x Famliy, the two nations are divided much more equally than in actual history, and 2) that they all went to Westalis for the castle sequence, and risked being caught at the border just to celebrate Anya’s acceptance into Eden.

Personally, I think the first theory is more likely, given that Endo has already taken a number of creative liberties, and that we’ve not head anything about Berlint being divided into East and West, like what happened to real-world Berlin during the Cold War. And Anya gives the Forger Family address as 128 Park Avenue, West Berlint. Unless, she means the western part of East Berlint, but I think that’s not as likely. However, we don’t yet have a full map of both countries, so both theories are still viable.

Let’s compare the map we do have with an actual map of East and West Germany.

Spy x Family Map:

Real-world Map:

So far, the maps look pretty similar, but all we have is the northernmost bit of the Spy x Family map. Who knows what the rest of it looks like? The border could continue straight down the middle, in which case Münk and Newston Castle would be firmly in Ostanian territory. Do you see Munich down in the far-right corner of the real-world map? No wonder the Forgers needed a plane to get there from Belin(t)!

[manapotionstudios]

DelaneyPost 01 (ManaPost 06): Fungeon -- Clever Wordplay!

Heyo! Y here for today’s Mana-welcome! Except it’s not the usual ManaPost… This is the first DelaneyPost! Ever! Yippee!!! Strap in for the long haul, this one’s a doozy.

Since you all haven’t seen anything about Delaney since the teaser, it would be nice to learn about the protagonist, yes?

THE Laney

Introducing Delaney! The protagonist of Delaney. Yup. This stoic, havoc-wreaking, hammer-wielding anarchist leads the venture deep into a cult’s mysterious manor responsible for the assimilation of everyone near and far to their twisted status quo. She’s slinging herself through every pile of flesh and bone, bashing through any wall in order to destroy this cult from the outside in!

Where did she come from?

Delaney actually stems from an interesting interaction with a close friend, Denise Tranglong, who had shared a character concept with us. Naturally, it was a very cool concept, and we immediately inquired for permission to use this character, and since you’re seeing this post now, she had granted said permission. Of course, we’ve taken a few creative liberties, but her core design and personality stays true to the original creator’s intentions.

Where did she go? Originally, we took the initial hiatus from Delaney due to a flood of new ideas and inspiration for Manaport! Since we try to keep a fluid and open mindset when it comes to what we want to work on, we tend to bounce around from time to time. This ensures persistent focus on getting at least something done each week, and it’s the reason why we can get these ManaPosts out every weekend!

Where did she come from, Cotton-Eye Joe?

Delaney’s origins in canon are unknown. She clearly has some hatred towards this cult, but it isn’t clear if this is a personal gripe. She’s not the most talkative, probably focusing on the task at hand. We’re worried to question her anyway — she’s quite heavy-handed when it comes to her trusty hammer.

Incredibly stretched subheadings aside, Gameplay! What’s it gonna be like to play the game?

The Fungeon

Delaney is a spin on the run-of-the-mill dungeon-crawler roguelike formula! That’s just it, you spin!

In order to navigate these endless rooms of clicking bones and armour, spin and fling delaney in ANY direction you choose! Get anywhere without the inconvenience of WALKING! Don’t you just HATE walking sometimes? This is the solution for you!

Of course, since this is also a hammer, you can bash anyone and anything with it. This has its own range of abilities that we plan to add, though not shown here. Rest assured that your screen will be filled with beautifully vibrant damage numbers and repeating sounds of the screams of the damned.

Violence aside, how does it all work?

NOT The Backrooms

Here be dragons! This section of the ManaPost is quite technical! We encourage you to read up on these concepts/algorithms if you’re interested. The reference used for a majority of this implementation can be found here

First, we generate a fixed number of rooms with random size within a circular area. Rooms that are larger than a set threshold, we label as “Hub Rooms,” or rooms where you’ll find most monsters.

Then, we run — not joking here — a Delaunay Triangulation algorithm on each Hub Room, creating a sort of graph that connects every Hub Room to each other.

Then, we use Kruskal’s Algorithm to find the Minimum Spanning Tree of the aforementioned triangulation graph.

Then, we add a few edges back from the Delaunay Triangulation. 

Lastly, generate the hallways connecting these rooms, and remove the rooms that aren't necessary (labeled in red,) and boom, fungeon!

This is a very simplified explanation of this generation algorithm, and again, if you would like a little more in depth “tutorial” once again, the reference we used for this system can be found here.

With the 🤓 out of the way, we finally have the makings of a decent gameplay loop! You can finally pause and exit the game! A Manapotion first :)

We don't have much else to show since we're still working out the kinks in this new system, but know that we're doing our best to make these DelaneyPosts as content-filled as possible, since it's a very simple game in contrast to Manaport.

To bring this DelaneyPost to a close,

Thank you very much for sticking with us this past month. We've made lots of great progress on our two games and we love to share these tidbits with you every weekend. We hope you've had a great pride month!

See you all next week!

C and Y

[nightmarefuele]

🌸 If you get this, answer with 3 random facts about yourself and send it to the last few blogs in your notifications, anonymously or not! Let's get to know the person behind the blog. 🌸

I've written four novels - the first took me three (THREE) years, which included getting bored/frustrated/or otherwise perfection-obsessed and then scrapping the entirety of whatever drafts I had written three (fucking T H R E E) times, to start completely from scratch. (I don't do that now lmao; the process looks more like 'get bored > get new/separate idea > galivant in the shiny ✨️new✨️ direction > end up with two finished novel drafts.' I'm currently in my galivanting phase 😃👍🏻)

I was tutored in piano for about seven years. Generally, learning an instrument entails (eventually) picking up on how to read music, but my brain decided to skip over that part. (I cannot for the life of me read notes beyond the center two octaves 😔) But sit me down with a song, a little time, and I'll learn it by ear. (I was also an archer for several years, and apparently proficient at it, but that’s only according to my instructors/parents, not myself, so that one felt less interesting for its own number 🤷🏻‍♀️)

I've had a piece of poetry published and displayed on the walls inside Pittsburgh city busses. (Later it was brought to my attention that some uh person decided to take creative liberties and make major edits to the piece without my consent, to make it more 'conventional.' We'll call them . . . Susan. Or Bob. Fuck you Susan/Bob.)

thank you dear friend, for sending this in <3

(P.S. a bonus in tags because it feels relevant here.)

[kurishiri]

06 . . . alfons main story

꒰ ִ ֺ ⊹ @ notice ⊹ ֺ ִ ꒱ this translation may not be 100% accurate or contain creative liberties due to characterization or narrative flow purposes. if you enjoy, please consider reblogging, but don’t repost these or claim these as your own!

— cw: alcohol consumption, drug usage, dub-con (will try to put in between dividers), awkwardly translated smut.

Together with Roger and Liam, we stepped into the pub.

Though it was the middle of the day, the interior was dimly lit, the smell of tobacco, alcohol, and perfumes hanging heavily in the air.

(But, I think with the way we look now, we fit right into this crowd.)

(I’d expect no less from an actor like Liam... he knows exactly which clothes to wear for any place.)

—— Flashback ——

Liam: Hey, we’ll out ourselves too easily if we just go in like this… so how about we dress up a bit?

—— End flashback ——

After that, Liam quickly coordinated our our hats and glasses,

and so, here we were now, slipping into the pub.

(Anyway, I need to keep an eye on Alfons... where is he...?)

I scanned my surroundings, and...

Lady in a night dress: Jeez, Al, I swear you never come around when we invite you, but then you show up at the most sudden times.

Man smoking tobacco: Hey, could you do that thing again? I wanna see someone real tough and strong.

Alfons: Now now, aren’t we a hasty bunch... I’ll have you all know this is only my first cup.

A: I must ask you to be patient enough to allow me some time to get at least a little tipsy.

(Found him...!)

There he was, with the arms of several ladies snaked around his body,

along with several men who were smoking something like tobacco, though I also couldn’t be sure, as they held some rolled paper that looked suspicious at best with their mouths as they smiled from the other side of the smoke.

Roger: Oh man, there he goes again today.

Liam: Looks like we snuck in right as his friends were gathering around him.

Seeing his ‘indulgent private life’ that I had imagined in the back of my mind play out right before my eyes was enough to render me a bit dizzy.

(So this kind of lifestyle is normal for him, I guess...)

I was certain the one night I had spent with him could only amount to a single percent of his breadth of experience, which was probably comparable to the number of stars in the sky.

(...Not that I really care about something like that though!)

I turned a blind eye to the twinge of pain in my chest that felt as though it had been pierced ever so slightly with the tip of a needle, as I turned back to Alfons.

While sitting at a table some ways away from him, I occasionally took a sip of the drink I ordered while stealing glances in his direction.

(Or rather...)

Kate: I guess none of this can really count as a weakness, so to speak.

Roger: Hm? Oh, yeah, guess so.

R: The fact that Al plays around like this isn’t news to anyone in the aristocratic society, so I heard.

Liam: And also, Lord Elbie’s the only reason why he’s still able to attend balls and other public events.

I closely observed Alfons, who was on a table some distance away, from behind my glasses.

(Ah... there it is again...)

(I get the feeling that Alfons is smiling, and yet he’s not at the same time… at least, I think.)

His smile suggested — superficially — that he was having fun, and yet at the same time it looked awfully cold.

I remembered that very feeling of unease from the time I was close by, face to face with him.

(Here he is, playing around to his heart’s content, and yet he is pulling a face like that...)

Kate: Is this really fun for you…?

Roger: Oh?

Roger, whose chin was resting on the palm of his hand, peered at me with interest in his eyes.

Roger: What, you’re worried for Al, lil lady?

Kate: I-it’s not as though I’m worried.

Vigorously shaking my head in response, I turned back to him to see Alfons, a smile still plastered on his face.

(But...)

Kate: I guess it’s just... I don’t know, sometimes I feel like he isn’t really here or something.

K: He told me he likes having fun, but then here it looks like he’s not having fun at all... and I couldn’t help but feel a bit curious about that.

(...And on top of that, that could possibly serve as a lead to find out his weakness.)

(Even while playing around, he does not feel it’s fun. All that to say——)

(The so-called ‘playing around’ Alfons does could serve as a type of distraction, taking his attention away from something else...)

If I thought of it like that, it would make sense.

(And also, what else... if not that, then while he may be a playboy of many years, maybe he has a single woman in his heart?)

(Maybe the reason he plays around would be to bury the loneliness filling his heart... at least, that’s what’s commonly told in stories.)

As I bounced ideas in my own head and covertly stole glances at him for a bit...

(Ah!)

I saw Alfons stand up with several people, taking them out through the back door.

(...Oh no, I’ll lose sight of them.)

Kate: Let’s follow them!

Roger: Ahh, wait, Kate, I really don’t think we should...

R: ...follow them, is what I would finish with if she wasn’t gone already.

Liam: Umm, will she be okay? At this rate she might get caught up in something naughty, you know?

Roger: Yeah, I hear you.

R: Guess I’ll chase after her in case after another cup of beer.

Liam: That’s pretty nice for someone like you.

Roger: Well, you just never know when something useful for research is gonna come out of it.

Roger then looked toward the door in the back of the pub.

Roger: ...You see, if there was one Curse where there could never be enough research on, it’d be his.

—— Kate’s POV ——

(I guess... this is the place...)

Going through a dim alleyway where sunlight could hardly make it through,

I followed the faint, flirtatious voices of men and women to a building that looked more like a ruin, before stepping inside.

As I ascended the steps made of brick with cracks everywhere to be seen, the voices also got louder...

(Is this the door...?)

When I pressed my ear against the door and made sure that voices were indeed coming from the other side, I turned the doorknob to the fullest.

Kate: ...!?

And when I opened it——

The scene unfolding before my eyes was a bed with a canopy attached to it and a light veil surrounding it.

That, and... several men and women whose bodies were entangled with one another.

(Wh...wha...)

That seemed to be all that was going on amid this room... and I didn’t know where to look.

Alfons: ...Hehe, following me aaall the way to such a place, such a naughty girl you are, aren’t you.

Kate: !?

Alfons emerged from behind the curtain, slipping his arms around my waist.

Kate: Wh—Alfons!

The moment I opened my mouth, though, a sickly saccharine scent along with what I guessed was either smoke or steam wafted up.

For a brief moment, I sucked in a deep breath, causing my vision to sway with dizziness.

(W-what in the... what is this... some kind of medicine...?)

Alfons: You could not be more painfully obvious in your tailing. Truly a hopeless little miss robin you are.

His voice seemed distant one moment and then close by the next, and in the end I couldn’t properly respond to him.

Lady in a lingerie: Ohh, Al, who’s that?

Long black-haired lady: My, she’s just adorable... say, would you like to join in on the fun?

Shirtless man: You must’ve been through some rough patches, right? We can forget about all of it here.

I was being pulled from either side of me, causing my body to sway left and right.

Alfons: ...is what they all said.

(Join in... on the fun...?)

My thoughts became more of a haze, and I couldn’t think clearly.

But, on the other hand, sensations alone seemed to become awfully elevated——

Kate: ah...

Alfons’ fingers made their way through the gap in my blouse, and the slightest movement of his fingers was enough for me to break out in goosebumps.

(The memories of last night... are engraved in my body...)

Kate: ah...p-please...stop...

Long black-haired lady: Hehe... what a green reaction... say, could I feel you as well?

Alfons: Now that just won’t do. You see, she’s a new favorite of mine.

Long black-haired lady: Ehh? That’s rare...

Even while listening in on this conversation, I couldn’t muster any strength in my arms or legs.

Alfons: It’s as though keeping your guard up never crosses your mind.

Alfons looked down at me leaning into his arms, his lips curved in an amused smile.

Those very hands that were around me traced the lines on my body before making their way between my legs, causing me to shiver on reflex.

Kate: a-ah...hyaa...? W-why am I...

(My body feels so hot... I feel I might go crazy...)

Alfons: Dare I say, I’m quite intimately familiar with every spot that makes you tick. Every one, that is.

A: After all, our relationship has become something more [1]... yes?

Alfons peered into me while smiling.

Maybe it was because of something I had inhaled, but I seemed to become more and more sensitive to the sensations on my body...

Kate: Mn, sto...ah, uhh... n-no...

Alfons: ...Aha, your lips say to ‘stop,’ and yet you’re quite wet here now.

A: Would it perhaps be safe to assume that when you were on my heels from the pub, you were anticipating this?

[1] ...And what if I was?

[2] I’m not sure.

[3] I wasn’t anticipating anything. (+4 / +4)

Kate: I wasn’t... anticipating... anything...

Alfons: Oh, is that so? Or is what I’m seeing before my eyes a mere facade...?

A: You see, the fragrance you inhaled is able to elevate a certain sensation to a certain extent——

A: So I reckon in your case, it’s simply spurring your obstinate nature, perhaps...?

A: ——How about I bring out what is truly in your heart?

(Huh?)

Suddenly, Alfons started looking around the room.

On the bed were empty cocktail glasses and earrings missing their pair,

along with corsets, garter belts, and neckties...

Alfons: Ahh, look at what we have here. This will do.

He picked up a fallen hand mirror, his arms withdrawing.

(What... is he...)

My head was still in the clouds, so I couldn’t grasp what he wanted to do, so I could only follow his movements with my eyes.

With a small laugh in my ear, he flipped the mirror over.

Kate: ——Wh, no...!

There reflected on the surface was my shameful self.

His fingers crawled beneath my wrinkled skirt, going beneath my underwear before inserting them into my wet spot.

Being shown myself as he was doing this hit me with so much confusion and embarrassment I wanted nothing more than to turn on my heel and run out of here.

Kate: N-noo...

Alfons: So you say, but see here, you feel really, really good right now, no?

The truth was——it was exactly as he said.

In fact, seeing myself being in a shameful mess seemed to play into the pleasure, lighting a flame in my body.

And that realization caused me to spiral into even more confusion.

Alfons: Now, how about you cease your efforts to search for something that does not exist at all, such as my weaknesses and whatnot. It is all futile at best.

A: Instead, give yourself in to pleasure, why don’t you?

Kate: ah, ah, ah...

Amid the laughter and coquettish flirtations that filled the room, my own voice mixed with wet sounds.

Eventually, I could no longer stand, and I collapsed——onto the large, canopied bed.

Alfons: See, you would like to feel even more pleasure, don’t you?

I looked at that plastered smile that masked his face.

The feeling of the sheets on my back, the breath close to my body, and the feeling of his hands slipping under the hem of my clothes...

(...Has Alfons always been doing these things on this bed?)

(Just how many times did he do this before... and with whom...?)

(Will I just become... an addition to that body count...?)

Kate: gh...

When I thought this, I pushed Alfons away, hard.

Alfons: Whoops.

Kate: ...I-I’m heading back——!!

When I got off the bed in haste, the hand mirror fell to the floor.

I heard the sound of the mirror shattering, but I couldn’t bear to pay it any mind.

Alfons: My, is that so? Do be careful on your way back then.

Alfons was still sprawled on the bed, an easygoing air about him.

And wanting to say something, I turned back toward him, just this once.

Alfons: ...Did you need anything else? Or perhaps you have some lingering desire to continue where we left off?

Kate: I...

K: I wanted to say that you better cut back on the liquor, and don’t stay up all night. Unless you want to destroy your body. That’s all!

I just blurted out what was on my mind, so they sounded more like a sharp parting remark...

(Urk...)

And starting to feel embarrassed, I turned and left the place, this time without turning back.

Alfons: ......... [surprised]

The door then closed behind Kate in a hasty motion.

Alfons: ...Pfft, ahahaha!

Alfons burst out into laughter, holding his stomach, paying no mind to anyone else around him.

Behind him, the others continued making out as always.

Alfons: Haa......... truly, what a fool you are.

—— Kate’s POV ——

My legs trembling, I bumped into this and that while making my way down the alleyway, when I felt someone’s arms reach out to support me.

Roger: Whoa. You okay there, Kate?

Kate: Haa... haa...!

(Tailing him proved fruitless...)

As I expected, Alfons was truly living a decadent life.

(The only thing I could get out of this was that this irrefutable truth was burned into my mind.)

(And once again, I fell into his trap and got caught up in pleasure...)

(I could not grasp a single weakness of his in the end.)

Liam: Your breathing is really uneven right now... are you okay?

Kate: Yes... I’m okay.... I won’t ever give up...

If I do, I’ll only end up being played all over again by him. ...And besides,

(Even after having gone through all this, I——)

I wanted to know the reason why, for all his smiling, he didn’t seem to be having fun... to the point it gnawed at my heart.

to be continued…

← prev next → his side

NOTES:

[1] Alfons says [ただならぬ関係] (tada naranu kankei) here, which I have translated as a relationship that has become something more. I think he is quoting something he had said from the previous chapter, where he was like “our relationship has become more than a one-night stand” to Kate. Another way to say this could be along the lines of “we share a special relationship,” thereby removing the become part, but I wanted to sort of emphasize the quoting part, so I directly extracted from the line in the other chapter.

masterlist🪞 ╱ ko-fi ☕️

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[hopeminteruwriter]

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[p-taryn-dactyl]

Game Night (1)?

a/n: hi! this is a pt2 for my story Burnt Toast and Vodka, hopefully this is wanted lol - i thought it would be fun to continue the dynamic. takes place maybe like two weeks after the events of the diner?? probably a little longer than BTaV so sorry about that; even worse title than the first part lol (aren't i creative); maybe will be two parts if anyone wants a continuation

requested: yes/no

taglist: @coolbeans32

word count: 1.6k

warnings: gif not mine; cursing; i have seen the statue of liberty a grand total of once and it wasn't on the NYC side so I am using media and my imagination to tell you what it's like; a lot of dialogue; really rushed; probably bad lmao

pairing(s): all platonic (for now); yelena x reader, kate bishop x reader, natasha romanoff x reader, bucky barnes x reader, sam wilson x reader, clint barton x reader

Apparently, Yelena was a morning person.

You, however were not.

How did you learn this wonderful piece of information? Well, on one fine morning you were startled out of your peaceful slumber by someone yelling your name and jumping on you.

"[Name]! Wake up, wake up." Yelena shook your shoulders as you groaned and hid your head under your pillow.

"Nooo," Yelena grabbed the pillow and threw it on the ground, boping your nose with her finger.

"You said you would take me to see the Statue of Liberty! And I want hot dogs-" Using all your strength, which sadly wasn't much this early in the morning, you pushed the excited assassin off your bed. It took you a few minutes to realize what you did. Hesitantly looking on the floor, you wanted to both laugh and run at the sight in front of you. Yelena looked like a kicked puppy- eyes wide and face scrunched into a pout. Slowly, she stood up, her expression shifting into an amused smirk. You started to laugh, inching towards the other side of your bed, putting your hands up in a surrendering position.

"Heh, Yelena, best friend of mine, let's not do anything rash-" She took a step forward and you were off. You sprang off your bed and rushed to the safety of your bathroom, the short distance seeming like miles. Trying out the fact you learned while watching National Geographic at 3 am, you tried to run in a zig-zag pattern all over your apartment, attempting to confuse the predator. This tactic does not work on Black Widows. In a matter of seconds, Yelena had tackled you to the ground, tickling your sides.

"Yel-Yelena stop! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" You laughed out as the blonde continued her antics.

"I want to go see the Statue of Liberty!"

"Orr we could have a movie day? Without all the crowds of tourists in matching familial t-shirts?" Yelena scoffed humorously.

“You know that song in Little Mermaid where she goes ‘I want to be where the people are?’”

“Yeah?”

“You’re like the opposite of that. You’re anti-Ariel.” It was your turn to look like a kicked puppy, glaring at Yelena until you threw your hands up.

"Fine, we'll go see the Statue!" Yelena smiled before brushing off her jacket and standing up, pulling you with her. As you started to make your way to your closet to change, you caught a glimpse out your window.

"Yelena?"

"Hm?"

"What time is it?" You turned towards the assassin, who paused mid-bite of an apple at your question. She cleared her throat and intensely studied the red fruit.

"Uh, I don't know-" she turned to you, eyes wide as she pointed the apple in your direction, "Have you heard the theory that time is just a construct-"

"Yelena." The blonde hung her head dramatically before murmuring a number.

"YOU WOKE ME UP AT SIX-"

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

After you had chased Yelena around your apartment, got dressed, made her buy you two large coffees and a bagel, and apologized to your downstairs neighbor for all the noise so early in the morning, the two of you were out to see the giant green lady with a shield.

On your way to the ferry, your phone buzzed a few times. Curious to see who had messaged you, as the only person you texted was currently playing peek-a-boo with a pigeon, you opened your phone.

unknown: hi, [name]. how was your bagel.

You rapidly hit Yelena's shoulder to get her attention, showing her your phone screen. Yelena just laughed before turning back to the bird, who was probably waiting for food.

"Oh, yeah, I gave Nat your number."

If you had food in your mouth you would've choked and died.

"YOU GAVE-" pausing to look around and lower your voice, "You gave the Black Widow my phone number? The very woman I spit freaking vodka all over a few weeks ago?" Yelena chuckled and looked over her shoulder at you.

"[name], she doesn't blame you. Don't worry about it! My sister is very nice. Also, she needed your number to give to the others for game night - which is tonight by the way." You were positive you had gotten whiplash just by listening to Yelena speak. Sighing, you hung your head, pocketing your phone.

"We should get in line now if you want to see the Statue and Ellis Island in a span of a few hou-"

"You don't want to do that." Yelena's cautious voice paused you.

"See..the..Statue?"

"No! Of course we are going to see the Statue, I meant leaving my sister on read." You hurriedly dragged your phone out of your pocket, sending a quick response to the Avenger. Yelena nodded, acting proud before hooking her arm with yours, dragging the two of you towards the ferry.

The hours passed, as you and Yelena walked around the towering woman, the Russian assassin rambling facts about the Statue off of a pamphlet she had snatched.

"Did you know that she is struck by lightning 600 times a year? Oh and that it was a gift from France but it came all disassembled? The Shield took over-"

After you had gone around the Statue twice, made a photographer cry, and visited Ellis Island, You and Yelena were back on the ferry. You leaned on the rails, watching as the sun started to set, the golden rays illuminating the horizon.

"Did you have fun today? I definitely did. Oh, what's your favorite candy?" You turned towards Yelena, who was wearing a foam Statue of Liberty crown and holding a pretzel out towards you. Taking the twisted goodness, you replied.

"Oh I definitely had fun. So much fun that the family in matching t-shirts didn't bother me. And maybe Sour Patch Kids? I don't really eat that much candy." Yelena nodded thoughtfully before sending a message on her phone. The ferry's intercom beeped, signally it's arrival back to the shore.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

One thing you didn't expect to see when you walked into your apartment was the Black Widow and Hawkeye sitting on your bed, watching the Office. The sight made you pause in your doorway, causing Yelena, who was behind you, to run straight into your back.

"[Name]?" You shakily pointed at the duo, Hawkeye raising his hand to wave at you without looking away from the screen.

"Hi I'm Clint." You nodded before being pushed. Yelena walked over to her sister and placed a Liberty crown on Natasha's head.

"[name] took me to see the Statue!" As Yelena, Natasha, and Clint discussed the day you and your best friend had, you remained in a state of shock.

"Holy shit, I have Avengers in my home."

"It's crazy right?" A voice behind you made you jump, spinning around to see Kate Bishop, face just barely visible from the giant collection of candy and popcorn bags piled in her hands, "I mean- that's freaking Hawkeye!"

"Kate? Wha- Oh let me help." You took a few pounds of snacks out of the archers hands, placing them on your island. Making eye contact with Yelena, you gestured wildly towards Kate, Nat, and Clint, confusion in your eyes.

"It is game night, [name]! you know, that fun pastime westerners do? I told you before we boarded the ferry and Clint Barton made a group chat so we could all communicate, though I have not been getting notifications-" Yelena gasped and glared at Hawkeye, who looked a bit sheepish. Yelena slapped the back of his head, "You did not make the group chat? Great now my best friend is going into a panic and it's your fault. Pridurok!"

Kate placed a hand on your shoulder, genuine concern in her eyes.

"Hey, if this is too much then we can go." You shook your head, setting your shoulders.

"No, no, it's all good. Besides, playing game with Avengers can't be too nerve racking-GAMES! Crap, Yelena, I don't have any games! They're all in storage somewhere-"

"I got you, don't worry," Another voice sounded from behind you, this time you slowly turned around, your mind going blank as you saw Sam Wilson - Captain America, standing in your doorway, arms full of board games, movies, and bottles of alcohol, "Games, videos, and booze, at your service."

"Hide the vodka!" Nat sounded out, making you turn and glare playfully at her. She stuck her tongue out at you while Yelena and Clint stifled their laughter. Your best friend clapped her hands together, Natasha and Clint turning off the TV to look at her. You and Kate sat next to each other on the bed, her knee brushing against yours. Sam arranged the snacks and drinks on the island before joining the little circle forming on your bed. Yelena was practically shaking from excitement, her arms slung around you and Natasha's shoulders.

"Now Barnes just needs to show up and-"

Sam laughed before raising a hand to paused the excited blonde.

"Buck got here hours ago." Nat and Clint looked at each other before turning towards Sam.

"No, we've been here for a while and-" Like on cue, the toilet from your bathroom flushed and the door opened, revealing the Winter Soldier - wrapped in a fuzzy My Little Pony blanket? The burrito of a feared assassin waved at you before coming to sit by Sam. You just stared, along with everyone else.

"You have a nice blanket collection." Was all he said before taking the box of Monopoly out of Sam's hands and placing it in the middle of the circle. You blinked a few times before laughing to yourself.

"So I guess this is my life now. Don't tell me - Tony Stark is hiding in my fridge."

"No, he's at the Spider-Kids graduation - they'll come next time though." Clint answered, setting up the game. Natasha smiled at you, handing you a game piece.

"Shall we play a game?"

[djarinsbeskar]

EXPLORATION ARC: PART 8 - LESSONS

A/N: Apologies for the delay! I struck a bit of writers block between these last two parts and there was a few weeks there where I was trying to rework them to read well. Thankfully, we've gotten there now! And while this and the next (final) Exploration Arc part were supposed to be one chapter, I decided to split them for better impact and (hopefully) enjoyment.

Please see the notes at the end for explanations of lore mentioned and any creative liberties I've taken with it.

Word Count: 11k

Pairing: Din Djarin/Fem!Reader

Rating: 18+ (NO Minors)

Warings: SMUT! Unprotected sex, mentions of anal play (blink and you'll miss it), language.

Summary: It’s mighty hard to distract yourself from your mysterious and alluring shipmate, so why bother?

AO3 | Stitches Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Okay. Even you could admit that this was a bit immature.

Mando sat on the other side of the makeshift table in the hold with his arms folded over his chest haughtily. Your eyes narrowed dangerously at the obvious challenge he exuded silently—arrogantly, grating your nerves with his confidence and making your fingers twitch where they sat dutifully on your lap.

The child sat happily in the blue crab carapace with a stray credit in a clawed hand, oversized robes puddled around where he sat as large eyes turned from Mando to you distractedly amidst the many items littering the table between you.

“One minute? Seriously?” you scoffed, a critical eye scanning the dismantled blaster laid out before you. A F-11D blaster rifle, he told you—as if you knew the difference between any of them in the first place. Your cool façade easily hid the silent curse you hissed internally as you examined the sheer number of components that made up the rifle. Some of the parts so bizarre and ridiculous looking, you would have thought he threw them in just to mess with you had you not watched him dismantle it so proficiently before your eyes.

It had started when he noticed how long it took you to reassemble your own blaster after cleaning it—the long hours spent in hyperspace driving you to complete even the most tedious of tasks. Granted, your struggle was a direct consequence of how infrequently you actually cleaned the weapon, and Mando had been stupefied as he – quite out of character – paused whatever he was doing to take a seat on a crate close by to watch you.

“How does someone who can extract venom with their bare hands not know how to assemble their blaster in less than a minute?” he had said, abject disbelief and vague horror evident as he leaned one forearm onto the table—fingers rapping irritably on the surface as you huffed. You weren’t a soldier; you were a medic for Maker’s sake. You knew how to shoot, and you knew how to fly—but your time was much better spent tending to people than weapons thank you very much.

“You’re telling me you can assemble every single one of your blasters in less than a minute?”

You threw back pettily, clicking the scope of your blaster back in place – finally – and checking the safety to ensure it was on. Realistically, you knew if anyone could succeed in such a feat, it would be an infamous bounty hunter who had been raised in a culture of warriors. But you wanted to be contrary, simply because you couldn’t assemble your own in that amount of time. You didn’t know anyone who could.

“I wouldn’t deserve this armor if I couldn’t,” he didn’t rise to the bait, pride puffing his chest as his shoulders rolled back in lazy dismissal—leaning back against the wall of the hold with legs spread arrogantly and—you couldn’t help it.

You snorted – “we’ll see” – and stood, the subtle tilt of his helmet in your direction to follow your form as you sauntered to his weapons chamber with the bolstered pretense of confidence you most certainly were not feeling.

Throwing open the doors, you were greeted by the intimidating arsenal. Racks and stands were filled with countless weapons, some you recognized, most you didn’t. You were far more comfortable dealing with the damage these things caused than the blasters themselves. You chewed your lip distractedly; you would take dealing with a blaster burn or an internally ruptured bullet casing any day. Fingers tapping idly on the doors you still held onto as ignorant eyes examined weapon after weapon, the heavy coal of his gaze burned warm and curious on you.

Finally settling on a rifle – black and white and infinitely complex looking – you gingerly removed it from its rack. You may not know a whole lot about weaponry, but you did know the devastation they caused—and therefore, knew to respect them. It was heavy. Much heavier than you thought it would be. It looked so much lighter when Mando so effortlessly pulled it from over his shoulder to load and aim or when he carried it for days on end while hunting. But it weighed frigid and unyielding in your arms as you brought it over to the warrior and set it on the table before him.

“Show me then,” you dared him with a glint of competitiveness shining in your eyes, lips quirking in playful anticipation as his visor turned from your face to the chosen piece.

He ran a hand over the length of it slowly, reacquainting himself with the weapon through the simple touch—greeting it, reaffirming its loyalty. It was a mesmerizing caress; one you might miss had you not been so attuned to his movements—and you were distinctly reminded that it was the man and his skill that made such a weapon dangerous.

“On one condition,” he countered, resting his elbow on the table after removing his hand, “you learn to assemble your own blaster in less than a minute.”

Stubborn, insufferable man—

Mando liked to get his own way. He was making your acquiescence an ultimatum to your challenge that suggested his claim wasn’t possible. Oh, he was too fucking smart, you thought with begrudging respect—the warrior backing you into a proverbial corner where a flare of attraction rippled up your spine at his strategy.

You could practically hear the smirk on his lips when the realization passed visible over your expression.

“Fine,” you agreed, conceding to his condition and not a minute later, he proved you dead wrong.

Your jaw slacked when he dismantled the rifle in a few moments, his hands moving dexterously over the weapon—the metal practically falling to pieces with the simple touch of his gloved, expert hands. You never thought you would relate to a blaster before, but the way that weapon – cold and solid in your hands – seemed to melt under him, was eerily similar to whenever he had you panting under his touch.

Mando didn’t just disassemble the rifle in a minute. No, he disassembled it and reassembled it with time to spare, placing it in the center of the table with a satisfied noise that was captured by his modulator, posture proud as he leaned back.

You gaped, blinking owlishly at the weapon before you fixed him with a glare,

“So, I guess I chose an easy one,”

You knew you were grasping at straws, but he didn’t have to prove you that wrong by completing twice the work in half the time. He snorted, a string of his native language rasping from the helmet before he deigned to give – what you assumed was – a translation, “You try then.”

Fuck.

You rolled your eyes—bluffing, a tug of clawed hands at your pants leg drawing your attention down to scoop up the little green bogwing who had decided to grace you with his presence and sat him comfortably on your lap—large green ears poking over the edge of the table that sat just low enough for him to barely see over.

“You said it was an easy one,” he continued, using your pitiful argument against you and leaned forward slightly on his forearm—his body language open and virile, daring you with rolling testosterone and a decisive tilt of his helmet on broad shoulders, “reassemble it in a minute, and I’ll give you a reward.”

“An orgasm?” you teased coyly, the chuckle of dark, heady laughter sending a thrill of arousal through you as he settled back in his seat languidly, turning a simple crate into a throne,

“Perhaps something else,”

“What something else?”

“Won’t matter if you don’t try.”

He had thrown the gauntlet now and call it a personal flaw—but even knowing you were hopeless at it, you were helpless to refuse such a blatant dare, picking it up with a curt nod. You couldn’t deny that hearing the rumble of “that’s my girl” lift from deep in the Mandalorian’s chest made even defeat an acceptable outcome, the stark pride he displayed stroking your ego and made you want to preen under it.

That was how you found yourself facing off against each other now with the child positioned between you like your own tiny little referee.

In a move of good sportsmanship, Mando had slowly dismantled the blaster—ridiculously slowly if you were being honest. Showing you each part he set down on the table in front of you, your eyes scanning the order, the placement—the movement of his hands and hoping it would be enough.

It wasn’t.

You failed three times.

One minute elapsed before you had even gotten part of the way done and every rasp of, “time,” made you growl in frustration.

“Oh well,” he sighed, not quite masking the amusement at having won the very rare prize of proving you wrong. He stood taller, looked refreshed and shinier in his beskar as he passed you by with a soft chuckle, his fingers spreading around the back of your neck and you lifted rebellious eyes marred with a petulant frown to the obsidian of his visor, “maybe next time you’ll win that reward.”

The swat you sent to his chest plate hurt your hand and your ego more than it affected him, but the husky laugh—warmed with an affection he couldn’t mask, soothed your willful temper, and had you dropping your eyes back to the disassembled rifle parts. He didn’t attempt to rebuild it himself. He knew you wouldn’t let him. His fingers slipped away from your skin, the Mandalorian continuing towards the ladder where he had been heading before you distracted him.

Eyeing the parts, your attention flickered back to the kid, chewing happily on his credit, and cooing excitedly when you caught his eye,

“Keep time for me, cutie—we got this.”

It might have taken hours, and countless pinches and nicks of metal catching the skin of your fingers from trying to work too fast—but eventually, you managed to get the assembly down to a fine art if you did say so yourself. You squealed excitedly, no one around but you and the child anyway—when you slotted the scope in place just as the stopwatch on your comm passed the minute mark.

“Beautiful!” you exclaimed happily, picking the child up to hold up in the air – much to his enjoyment – before you cuddled him close to your chest with a bubble of laughter, pressing a kiss to the top of his wrinkled head while he nuzzled his cheek into the top of your breast, “we did it, shorty!”

Your excitement was infectious, feeding into itself along with the soft chirps from your little assistant as his ears wiggled joyfully, little nose scrunched adorably that you simply had to kiss his head again. There was an innocent joy to the accomplishment, one that granted, started out of spite—but ended in a task that genuinely challenged you. One that ignited the same part of your brain that was so accustomed to triage, just in a different capacity—a fun one.

It was refreshing, and you were proud of yourself. It ignited a familiar hunger for more, to test yourself—you wanted to see how quickly you might be able to complete your own blaster now in comparison to hours earlier. The thought was only tempered by the growl of your stomach—the noise echoed in the gurgle of the child’s.

“Oh… after dinner then,” you chuckled, standing up with the child notched comfortably in your arm to make your way to the small galley. You were completely unaware of the warrior standing just over the ladder on the upper deck—curiosity at the laughter he heard prompting him to investigate. The soft humming as you worked, pulling out a pan to heat powdered bone broth—your happiness exuding in the popular Pamarthan song, lyric-less and casual stirred an airy lightness in his heart and he smiled, unknowing and small, thinking he would very much like to see you that happy always.

That night, you fell onto his chest with a cry—nails curling into the pillows of his pectorals as his hands held the soft flesh of your ass down onto him. Several short, exhaled moans left him as he spilled his seed snug against the nest of your womb, your thighs trembling from the vigorous exertion of riding him before he took over pounding into you from beneath.

Soft rasps of your name—of kitten… so good for me—into your neck where his mouth magnetized with a possessive, steadying hand to the back of your head had you lifting your hips finally with a whimper for his length to fall from inside you. The wet slap of his cock against his navel and the quivering gape of your cunt suddenly lamenting its loss was soothed with the lethargic, burning swipe of his tongue over your sweat stained collarbone.

His free hand pressed up along the arch of your spine, making you feel small with its size—his lips engulfing a taut nipple, breath hot and labored—devouring you with the shattered ecstasy of his desire, unbridled and constant. He would have taken you again already if his body was only able to catch up in time with his arousal, your own – cloud-soft and delicate – sparked with lightning infused caresses that could easily turn into a storm.

“Mm… nice reward—” you purred – proud as the tooka who caught the titterling when he returned to the hold and saw the reassembled weapon – and rocked your hips in slow circles over his groin, his hands heavy and flexing on your ass, that languid—satiated thrum of pleasure indulging your afterglow as you rolled off him.

You relaxed into the nook of his side after several long moments where you basked in the glow of his unrestrained affection, when his mind had yet to wake up from the high of his orgasm and his words fell in a mix of Basic and his native tongue. You loved it. Titbits of translation interspersed for you to piece together praise and non-sensical murmurs he licked onto any piece of your body he could get his mouth and hands onto.

The responsibilities and burdens fell from him – from both of you – in those moments, and you were addicted to it, to each other. Stronger than spice, it curled through your senses until all your nerves were humming pleasantly in response to his ministrations. Your eyes fluttered tiredly, cheek dropping to his shoulder and with a relieved sigh, his muscles sagged – ragdolled and boneless – unable to even brush away the damp locks of hair falling into his eyes.

Beyond your own pleasure, you were addicted to the relief you felt roll off him. He rasped something into the darkness, breathless and foreign—a reverent whisper of words you ached to know.

Sleep took a back seat to curiosity once more, a regular occurrence in your life.

“That language you speak,” you began, words muttered quietly into the small space between where you lay facing him on the thin mat that made up your bed. It was one of those rare, uniquely special moments when you could sense the solid wall of stoicism and taciturn crumble away before him.

Mando felt attainable in those moment.

He had an arm trapped beneath your body, embracing you loosely—keeping you in his arms despite his fatigue. His fingers idled along the dip of your spine, stepping over vertebrae, the sweep of his thumb painting wings to the bone. The air disturbed, his head lolling to the side to look in your direction, the bump of his nose to your forehead making you hum contentedly when he followed his noses’ path with a kiss.

“Mm?” he huffed against your skin.

Ah. Maybe he wasn’t in such a sharing humor then. But you endeavored nonetheless,

“What is it called. That language?”

“Mando’a, you mean?”

Intrigue and perplexity colored his tone—made it light, a refreshing lilt to the husky rasp. His curiosity had been piqued, and that was a rare thing indeed.

“Mandoa,” you repeated, your own accent struggling over the pronunciation. It sounded nothing like Basic, even less like Pamarthan and you were certain you butchered it given the rumble of noise that rose from the Mandalorian as a result. Okay. You were woman enough to admit—it sounded nothing like the way it fell from his lips, like the curl of spice of your tongue, lifting flavors and colors of taste you had never experienced before.

“Hm…” you pondered into the silence, “what language do you think in?”

“What sort of question is that?” he snorted dismissively.

“I’m curious,”

“There’s a surprise,”

“C’mon Mando—you said my reward wouldn’t be an orgasm,” you practically pouted, well aware he didn’t actually owe you anything since you failed the initial challenge earlier in the day.

“Basic and Mando’a mainly—” he conceded with a sigh, knowing you wouldn’t be satisfied until you had the answer to whatever had captured that brilliant mind of yours this time.

His fingers continued their lazy exploration down to the small of your back, the rough pads of his fingers circling your tailbone and making your eyelids heavy. It felt the very definition of luxury, despite being on the floor of a ship with little more than each other for softness and warmth. The decadent brush of his hand on your naked skin, the crackling heat of his chest beneath your palm, the indulgent press of lips to mouth and skin.

You might have been in the Palace on Naboo – the one Biran had told you so much about – and you wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference. Even with all the opulent extravagance and luxuries that would make an Outer Rim inhabitants mind spin.

He had turned his head back to the ceiling after answering you, the faint rumble of comfort vibrating under your hand as you stroked over his bare chest and down to where his free arm was draped over a naked abdomen. Over ridges of scars, the hardness of experience and softness of age, your fingers explored the landscape of his body and Naboo instantly paled in comparison. For all its famed beauty, you knew it would fall utterly short compared to him.

“Mandoa,” you tried again to a snort of derision from your less than enthusiastic lover, the noise daring you with a flare of competitive spirit to wrack your brain for more,

“What about that word you call him,” you recalled, a simmer of residual excitement filling your voice, rich—encompassing, the knowledge important to you in the way you were beginning to understand their significance to Mando.

“Mmh?”

“Adika, that word—what does it mean?” you clarified with a huff of impatience, eagerness dispelling fatigue from your gaze and sharpening your focus. He dropped his head to the side once more – the illusion of sight between you as he painted your features in his mind while your vision remained steeped in shadows defined by messy hair, a strong nose and sharp jaw. And lips… lips that felt full, expressive in their touch—his substitute for words.

A single exhale of a sigh, cavernous—deep, left those lips in the next moment,

“Not adika, kitten—ad’ika,” he hummed in amusement, the word rolling liquid smooth off his tongue. It ignited a shiver of firecrackers to run mercilessly down your spine at the attractive growl his voice always lowered into whenever he spoke Mando’a, primal familiarity that thickened his accent, emboldened his speech, “say it.”

You flushed, put on the spot.

Tongue wet across your lip; you felt his anticipation—his intrigue. His desire to hear you speak his language.

“Ad’ika,” you mimicked his pronunciation, a poor caricature of his fluency but the hand that had migrated from your spine to rest on the arch of your hip squeezed it,

“Good girl…” he purred, the slow grin on his face evident in his tone.

“What does it mean?” you asked to cover the flush on your cheeks, trying to ignore the flurry of butterflies in your stomach at being praised for such a thing. Bantha balls. But his praise affected you, and you should have been more conflicted by the power it held over you—but his words were potent, stronger than aged Port in a Storm and even more intoxicating.

It was a fruitless exercise anyway, to conceal his effect on you.

He had felt your walls clench and flutter around him in helpless bliss, his cock soaked in a flood of wetness whenever he spoke as he fucked you. Heard the keening whines against his neck when he rasped how well you took him and the whimpers for him not to stop. It was no secret between you what talking – him talking – did to you. The filth that fell from those usually reticent lips, how it captivated you. How you captivated him in turn with your reactions.

He didn’t respond immediately, content to mull over his answer—chew the translation, the meaning and whether or not he even wanted to tell you. He spoke rarely, and never without saying precisely what he meant. You had learned to wait, despite your impatience. When the pause stretched longer than you anticipated, and the steady rise of his chest remained consistent—you wondered if he had fallen asleep.

He hadn’t.

“Child. It means child,” he muttered huskily, the treacle thick undercurrent of his voice stalling your fingers trailing absentmindedly along his sternum, finding the tail end of a short scar that stretched up towards his collarbone.

“A child, or your child?”

Silence.

A fiery lick of danger heightened your instincts, a primordial reaction to the sudden stiffness of the man in your bed. You knew you were toeing a line rarely touched let alone crossed, and the immediate tension in the corded muscles of the arm that held you proved it.

As though in tune with that base instinct, came another—stranger spike of instinct you had never encountered before. A sharp thrill settling low at your navel—to mention his child in any capacity where you were naked in bed with him, his cum slowly trickling out of you. The frisson of awareness that rippled through you caught you off guard—but you didn’t have time to regret the circumstances or abysmal timing thankfully as he answered,

“Both.”

It was the tremor of hesitancy when he spoke however, that told you which definition he used when calling the child ad’ika and it plucked at a part of you long since dormant, a fragile recollection of familial love you could recognize in him. You smiled a little, idle fingers dancing down over flat nipples and along the ticklish side of his ribcage, thinking.

“When he learns to talk… what will he call you?”

Whatever sensitivity you worried about before was nothing to the way he marbled beneath you now—as rigid and unmoving as his armor that lay close by, vacant of its master. Every muscle freezing as though cast in carbonite and it was only your knowledge that he was a living, breathing being that stopped you believing he was a statue.

Breath held, you lifted your fingers to graze against the sharp line of his jaw, soothing—gentling, “Just the word, Mando… nothing more,” you whispered with a languid kiss pressed to the tight muscle at his traps, letting your lips linger on pleasure stained skin when you felt him suck in a breath.

“Buir,” he rasped.

“Buir--?” you mimicked once more, lifting your head from its resting place, focused on getting it right. The shaky exhale he couldn’t silence, that tension vibrating from his muscles that felt more at home in the middle of a battle than in bed with you—all pointed to a deeper meaning than what he might try to convince you of.

Father.

He didn’t need to translate that one. You knew.

He swallowed thickly—throat sandpaper dry, and you felt him shake his head,

“Listen to the beginning, kitten—buir,” he emphasized, bringing his free hand up where it lay draped across his stomach to cup your jaw, thumb brushing beneath your kiss-swollen bottom lip. They parted under his caress, his voice a soft growl when he spoke—closer to you now, close enough to feel the last vestiges of his breath disturb the air, “don’t think too hard, and try again… buir.”

You frowned. The roll of vowels was deep, water-logged—rumbling as he repeated it, your lips following the movement silently before trying again, “Buir?”

The growl of satisfaction you were rewarded with was made sweeter by the press of his wide palm into your lower back, bringing you flush against his side—not a sliver of gauze thin enough to fit between you when he rasped against your parted lips, “Again.”

“Buir…”

The word flowed easier this time, your tongue adjusting to the pronunciation as you breathed it against his mouth. He grunted his approval, hand forming around the back of your neck to bring your mouth to his finally in a lingering open mouth kiss. Mewl captured by his lips, his tongue coaxed yours to play with just the right amount of restrained intensity that had your body humming for more. Your mind, however, was more curiously tickled by the idea of a continued lesson,

“Tell me more…” you purred against his lips, heated and inquisitive, the synapses of your brain flaring with an intoxicating cocktail of curiosity and arousal. He shivered under your touch when you cupped his cheek, the rasp of his stubble prickling your palm while you held him in place to convince him with a peck to his lips, “I want to know more…”

“Mm… insatiable woman,”

The familiar chide sounded more like praise falling from his lips as he dragged artistic fingers down the canvas of your neck – decorated in his marks, unseen but known – to your shoulder. He followed a clear path down your arm slowly, the callouses on his hand making small shivers tighten soft skin to goosebumps.

“Irud,” he enunciated, fingers curling around your arm, showing you the translation without needing to be explicit. He knew you had brains to burn, liked to test them—liked to see you show off that sharpness.

Your eyes grew dark, your own smaller hand finding the girth of a bicep to press your fingers into—chewing your lip at the strength humming just beneath the skin, and scraped your nails lightly down to his elbow,

“Irud…” you repeated to a satisfied noise and a nudge of his nose to yours, a whispered “good girl,” muffled by your skin. You tried to repress the shiver. The smirk you felt form against your jaw let you know you failed.

Skilled fingers followed the direction of your arm, dancing over the back of your hand where it lay resting on his shoulder. He lifted it, your own hand engulfed in the size of his as he turned to press his mouth to your scar,

“Gaan,” he sighed the word like a healing balm, your hand turning—his lips grazing to the back of your hand so your fingers could glance down his palm with a softly muttered repetition. That same large hand cupped your cheek to kiss you again, the temptation to resist non-existent as you both lay entangled in the belly of the ship that groaned and buzzed with age and flight.

You laughed quietly when his fingers brushed over the ticklish point just below your breast before the sound caught. His hand pressed flat against your stomach, low and intimate—fingers spread wide across the expanse. It was primal. It was possessive. It made a tightness coil low in your stomach right below his hand. Fuck, you wondered if he could feel it. It remained where it was for a beat, the muscles in his own body tensing before he muttered roughly,

“Epan.”

Instinct made you drop your hand to cover his, a gentle pressure on your stomach making your lips part where his own rose to meet them, “Say it, kitten…” his voice was strained, thick like the gradually hardening length curved up towards his stomach.

“E-epan,” you repeated as his hand pulled from under yours, a slightly quicker—jerky drag up your torso, his breathing heavier. Or was that yours? This lesson was fast becoming a challenge, your mind struggling to retain the sparse few words he had taught you when his hands made your most trusted weapon – your mind – short circuit and fog with arousal and a deep throb of emotion that clawed up your throat.

“Haalas…”

He cupped the weight of one of your breasts in hand, engulfing it in his palm and no doubt feeling immediately how your nipples hardened to peaks beneath it. Loathe to part from the soft flesh, he eventually spread his fingers to the valley between them, pressing into your sternum lightly. Your own hand mindlessly followed—finding the wide, warm expanse of his chest with a sigh of “haalas…”

He remained where he was, the strong flat of his palm pressed against your chest—the rapid thump thump thump of your heart betraying your feelings for him. Your own fingers escaped up his collarbone to his neck with the tremble of an exhale—a startled fawn in the brush.

Mando caught your hand as it moved, and something shifted. You couldn’t be sure of what it was, but the air was suddenly charged. Static, weighted with an electric heat as he pushed himself up onto his elbow to hover over you. Pulling your hand up the rest of the distance, he stalled before cupping your hand over his cheek once more, a grazed kiss to the heel as it met his skin.

“Din,” he whispered quietly.

Your thumb brushed aimlessly over the arch of his cheekbone, eyes tracing uselessly over the darkened shadow that was the only means to distinguish where he was against the backdrop of inky blackness in the hold—constructing the features your fingers touched in your mind.

“Din?”

That fell from your tongue easier, lips curling into a smile at pronouncing at least one of them correctly. You liked it. It sounded… different, at least to the other words of Mando’a he had taught you. It didn’t have the flare or growl or spice of the others. It was… earthy, and yet—wind chimes in a sea breeze—both light and heavy, a paradox of a word. The duality of the sound tickled your interest that you had to say it again,

“Din…”

He shuddered, a full-bodied, soul deep shiver that escaped in a sharp exhale as your thumb brushed over the swell of his bottom lip—his nose turning down into your wrist, and you could hear the dry swallow that forced its way down his throat.

“What does it mean?” you asked for not the first time tonight, the flutter of lashes against your fingers when his eyes fell shut prompting you to speak. The overwhelming presence of him crowding in over you was offset by the heated open mouth kisses he left along your wrist. Your pulse stammered and jumped under his actions and a ripple of affection you struggled to hide in recent weeks reared in you and threatened to spill over.

“Me…” he whispered finally, lifting his head from your wrist to drop his nose into your cheek, “Din Djarin… means me.”

Few things in life ever took you by surprise, and even less rendered you speechless. A strength as well as a flaw for a mind that rarely stopped racing. But yours emptied in that moment. Emptied of everything except the tunnel view focus it had on a single fact, a single truth that meant more to you than you could have ever anticipated as it choked you with an emotion too terrifying to name, every part of you filling with sunlight and warmth amidst the frigid darkness.

The Mandalorian told you his name.

His real name.

A name given to him by a mother, maybe a father too. When life hadn’t yet crushed the innocence of youth that you realized even he must have experienced at one time—when the cruelty of the galaxy hadn’t scarred him with reproval and mistrust for the armor he wore and the Creed he followed.

A name you felt in the runic scriptures he painted on your skin with his mouth and body since the first moment he touched you. They suddenly translated before your eyes, the non-sensical tracing of his tongue in archaic lettering to form a single brand of his name on your body.

Din.

It sounded familiar… it sounded right.

“Din Djarin,” you whispered, the roll of consonants lifting from your tongue smoothly, as though you had spoken it all your life. As the last syllable dripped honey sweet from your tongue, there was suddenly no other name you could imagine him having. Din Djarin. You repeated it again, the shuddering nod you felt from him as his hair brushed your forehead hitched your breath as he cupped your jaw possessively,

“Again…” Mando – Din – rasped hotly, breath mingling and quickening in the adrenaline fueled haze of hearing his name spoken by you. Finally—relief filled him, an ache that had been tormenting him since that first moment he heard you moan Mando from outside the fresher months ago, healed. His real name…

“Din…” you smiled around the name, and he heard it. His hearing pricked as much as the goosebumps on his skin at your breathy sigh of a name he hadn’t willingly offered in decades at-- your fingers spearing up through a mop of shaggy waves, “kiss me, Din Djarin.”

He was a goner. He never dealt in absolutes, but if there was one truth he could ever be convinced of, it was that; he never stood a chance.

His groan was lost in your mouth, a frantic tug of your fingers in his hair to feel him against you. You lost yourself in the hungry curl of his tongue around yours, sucking it into his mouth—the lap of it against your teeth and the way he sank his own into your bottom lip. You found yourself feverishly whispering his name with every break of your lips, a hurried, desperate “Din—” more important than air, to catch up on the weeks, the months of crying out for him, of falling apart under him.

Your fingers clawed down the back of his neck as he kissed you as though he had seconds left to live, desperate to leave part of himself inside you to remember him by always. As if you could ever forget him. As if you could ever be without him…

The realization made you whimper wetly into his mouth, a tremor of fear at the implication of your feelings ricocheting in the hollowest parts of your being, making it whole again. You buried it in the plunder of your tongue in his mouth when he coaxed it in. The hand that wasn’t supporting his weight from crushing you tangled in your hair at the back of your head to keep your mouth on his,

“Never… never stop saying it, kitten—please,” he moaned quietly, the desperate tone of need—a need you had never heard from a man so singularly capable, independent, and self-sufficient. But he needed you, you had something he could never give himself. An acknowledgement, a recognition of his very existence—a desire for him, for Din Djarin. It took you off guard, but you nodded—whispers of “never… never—Din,” mouthed against his parted lips that broke away from yours just enough to speak.

“S-sirbur ner gai, mesh’la—”

The Mando’a slipped from his lips and coated you in hot wax, searing—enticing, awakening nerves you never knew could experience pleasure as he rolled you onto your front. . You panted—propping yourself on your elbows, the delirious weight of his body hovering above you. He braced his arms either side of yours after pulling your hair away from one side of your neck – “so beautiful, ner baar’ur” – so he could graze his teeth over the smattering of marks he left hours and days earlier,

“Wh—what… what do you call me in Mando’a, Din?” you mewled, the urge to hear him speak Mando’a more, to hear that intimacy rasped in unknown words across your skin while you panted his name like a devout response to the prayers that sank to the very core of you, branding you as his.

“So many things, kitten—”

He held his body over you, feeling the hum of power in his arms as they tensed either side of you and the heat that radiated from him. The press of solid thighs settled between the cradle of yours, trapped them open—his lips moving down between your shoulder blades and the heavy, blunt head of his cock nudged between your cheeks. Frissons of arousal spiked lethargically through you; your thighs aching to clench together for friction prevented by the strength of his own when he dropped one hand down to stroke his cock between your cheeks.

“Atin,” he growled, scraping his teeth down the winged arch of your shoulder blade.

You gasped, head falling forward between your shoulders where you held yourself up when the weeping tip ran over your tight, untouched rear entrance—the warrior stalling his movements to let his length hang heavy against it, rocking his hips slowly to your quiet whimpers at the sudden ripple of pleasurable awareness—a hazy mixture of confusion and anticipation before he led himself down to your dripping pussy. You almost wanted to tell him to go back, to take you there too.

That thought vanished the moment he slid into you—swollen and already full of his previous release that soaked his cock anew and dripped from you at the intrusion. You keened, your body welcoming him back into you eagerly despite the tightness of the position and your muscles trembled at the throb of him pulsing hard and thick against sensitive walls.

“Mand—Din…” you whimpered, the thrill of his name making your walls clench impossibly tighter, his gasp muffled against your shoulder where you were arched up under him, “s-so big…” and he pushed in deeper, flush against your ass as he filled you completely with a harsh curse,

“Mirdala,” he continued, pulling out of you halfway and sinking back into you hard, splitting your walls around thick veins and solid inches that grazed over nerve endings that blossomed heady spores of pleasure that misted in your mind. It begged you to push back up against him, to meet his thrusts—but the cage of his body, the iron weight of him he kept mostly off you restricted your movement, trapped you under him and made arousal gush around him at the thought. Every rasp of Mando’a  into your ear made your quiver, your clit rubbing mercilessly on the mat under you as you were pushed up with every slow, hard thrust of his cock.

Mesh’la…” he whispered; teeth bared against your ear as rough moans followed.

You turned your head to seek his lips with a whisper of his name—the warrior helpless to refuse you, deny you anything now that you spoke his name so reverently, so desperately. Whispered into his mouth like it was the only word you needed for the rest of your life, a cacophony of meaning etched deep in his mind—into his very soul, making him wonder why all this time—he wanted to erase ‘Din Djarin’, when it sounded like that on your tongue.

“Fuck, baby—” he slammed his hips down onto you, wedging pleasure deep into you with every wet slap of skin on skin and your hand shot out to brace on the closest crate to stop from being completely pushed off the mat – like that, kitten? Yeah? – the grip of his free hand under your jaw keeping you arched back against him, those husky pants into your mouth while damp locks of hair brushed your forehead, “take me so well, fuck—made… made for me—”

You mewled your agreement, a garbled babble of yes yours… yours --  as he released your jaw to spread one of your cheeks wide to let him pound into you faster, harder—losing himself in the tightness of your cunt and pliant body—those incoherent demands for more – harder, Din—please… - and with a purposeful angle down of his hips, he slammed against that devastating spot inside you repeatedly, trapping you with his body from squirming at the sensitivity while you sobbed into the mat.

One large hand, coiled power and devastating strength struck cobra fast to pin your wrists to the mat above your head—both your wrists claimed by the span of his palm, leverage for him to ruin you—to split your walls around him so brutally, his would be the only cock able to satisfy you. Your cheek leaned against the warrior-rough skin of his bicep – irud – you remembered deliriously, strings of moans and matchstick fire spasms of sensitivity wracking you in cries against his skin.

“C’mon, kitten—take it,” he growled, lowering his face to your neck as his thrusts shortened to rapid snaps, hardly leaving your soaked core before he was burying himself back inside you. Rutting into you ferociously, the intensity punched sounds from your throat and snarls from his. Cresting—your orgasm approached quietly, the friction of the mat rub rub rubbing against your swollen clit and the brutal force of his cock blindsided you to the edge you tumbled off suddenly.

Your orgasm took him by surprise—if the choked moan and stutter in his pace that he failed to mask was anything to go by, back bowing over you with the sudden clench—the flood of wetness and snap of pleasure that hit him. His hips slowed, forcing his way through spasming contractions as you cried his name,

“Din!”

You babbled it deliriously, cut off with a sob when his hand tangled in your hair—pulling your head back, back bent deliciously under him, pliant to his wishes,

“Again,” he snarled ferally, voice thin and strained, close, close, so close—your bodies slick with sweat and overheated from the rapid pump of hormones and bliss through your veins that had you begging for him, “sirbur, kitten.”

“Din, fuck—it’s so good…” you whimpered, his thrusts becoming more erratic with every breach of his length through that soaked channel. His slick chest brushed your back, tightening his hold to a bruise on your wrists and prompting you to lean back enough to glance your lips across his jaw, “cum for me, Din-- please.”

He whimpered and released your wrists to anchor into your hip as he stalled. A quiet, rough sound when he filled you, pumping into you with short violent bursts to bloat you with the sheer amount of cum that pushed out of you in a steady trickle around his cock. His muscles shook, forehead dropped to your shoulder as his pelvis jerked up against your ass, the last trickle of release leaving him, air suddenly silent from the wet slaps and obscene squelching—your soft praise and those healing fingers that soothed more than just his physical injuries reaching back to card through his hair.

“Din,” you gentled, the shiver you felt under your fingers melting your heart.

How long had it been?

He shifted enough to ease out the heft of his softening cock from you with a grunt. He was an insatiable lover, leaving you sore and chafed, but it was an addictive ache—one that made you whimper as he left your quivering pussy, slick walls still flexing fluidly to keep him – keep his seed – inside you. A thick string of your combined release dragged between your thighs, leaving you both messy in each other.

“My perfect girl…” he whispered into the crook of your neck when you dropped your cheek back onto the mat, massive body still shielding you as he fought to regain his breath. Your eyes fell to half-mast as you preened, holding him to the welcome hearth of your pulse, nails scraping lazily against his scalp as he tongued against the ruthlessness of his passion—easing the divine throb and ache and stain of his body on yours.

His softening cock passed wetly between your cheeks, making you both acutely aware of the mess—a hot kiss pressed under your jaw, and you released your hold on his hair, locks passing liquid smooth through your fingers as he pulled away to get cleaned up.

A good thing too. Your mind was still playing catch up as your chest heaved. He always left your mind klicks away from where you floated in bliss, the man having a single driven goal of leaving you sated no matter when he bedded you. If it was all night or a quick fuck in the cockpit—you were always left stumbling and dizzy from his fixation on your pleasure.

It wasn’t the first time you thought yourself lucky.

You whimpered as you turned over heavily, dead weight onto your side for your eyes to follow the sound of him walking towards the fresher. You loved the sound of his footsteps, it made ghostly shadows solidify in the darkness, made him all the more real. A fact you wouldn’t need to worry about when he opened the fresher and turned the light on before the door had fully closed after him.

Your heart stalled, tripping over itself in your chest.

It was for less than a second, but the door latching closed before you could even slam your eyes shut.

Harsh light outlined the back of his body before it disappeared behind the shutting door. Rich, tawny skin stretched tight over solid thighs and an attractive ass you hadn’t seen before—scars and sculptors cut defined his back and narrow hips, broad shoulders winged and intimidating.

Your heart hammered guiltily, why didn’t he put it on?

If even for a moment—you caught a glimpse of the mop of waves that curled over the back of his neck, mused and messy from your hands. He had hair that said he had just been fucked. He must have been as out of it as you were, because Mando – Din – never turned the light on before the door hard sealed shut, nearly always pulled his helmet on to be safe. But not this time.

What… what was he thinking?

You thanked the Maker silently you only saw his back, and you reasoned it was gone in the blink of an eye— and when the fresher door whirred open once more, it had already been plunged into darkness, the Mandalorian quietly making his way back to lean back on his hip by your side without a word of acknowledgement regarding that near slip up—his nose finding your damp temple with a rasp of Mando’a muttered into your ear,

“Ner mesh’a kitten…”

He swept the cloth between your thighs, a hollow gasp as it brushed through swollen folds and his rumble of comfort was accompanied by a graze of his mouth over yours, his moustache and sparse beard sanding over your cheek. You sighed his name, lost in the sound of your breathing when you caressed his cheek, the warrior docile and almost vulnerably sweet as he turned his lips to kiss your palm,

“Mm—wanted to hear you say that for months,” he admitted, fatigue slurring his words slightly after he settled in behind you—cloth disposed by the side of the mat.

“Months?” you whispered breathlessly, taken by surprise despite your own tiredness and the constant replay of his back in your mind you were unable to stop if you tried.

“Mmh,” he confirmed with a grunt, pulling you back against his chest—his nose hidden in the tangles of your hair you would no doubt be cursing in the fresher tomorrow—the scent of your shampoo surrounding him, lulling him.

“Why now?” you asked, your fingers folding over the back of his hand that draped over your ribcage, his fingers spreading to lace with yours loosely. He was silent – asleep you believed – and you had accepted you weren’t going to get an answer as his breathing steadied behind you. His thumb rubbing absent circles beneath the swell of your breasts tempted you towards sleep as well, your lids dropping closed while nestling back against the wall of his chest comfortably.

But as you drifted off, mind wandering into the land of nod—his lips parted against your hair, and perhaps it was a dream—or perhaps it was real. Maybe you would remember when you awoke a few hours later, or maybe it would be just another secret the Razor Crest would keep hidden in aged metal and wiring, but in whispered tones—softer than you had ever heard him, he murmured,

“Because I want you to know me…”

Information was the last thing Din was expecting when he woke up an hour after you fell asleep wrapped in his arms. Not used to spending long stretches of time asleep, he often found himself simply resting and relishing the feel of you. The scent of your hair, the softness of your skin—that delicate heat that balanced the inferno of his own body. He spent hours a night like this, enjoying you-- awake or asleep.

The time he spent in bed with you was cut short that day, however, a few hours later—when the flash of the commlink in his vambrace beeped. A message. Seldom few knew Din as more than a fearsome shadow to beware of if there was a bounty on your head, and even less had means of contacting him.

The Guild.

Loathe to part from you, his task was made even harder with the soft, sleepy noise you made as you were disturbed—his arm slipping from under your head and a grumble of his name – Mando? – had you nuzzling deeper under the thin blanket he dragged up your body, your exhausted form settling back to sleep without an answer.

A wry grin tugged at his lip. He couldn’t expect you to get used to a new name immediately, even as he longed to hear you say it again.

The yellow light flickered again from his vambrace, the warrior grunting as tired muscles complained at him for sitting up to grab his helmet, the welcome weight settling comfortably back on his shoulders, and he chanced a glance back at you now that he was able to see. He shouldn’t have. A gentle innocence settled over you in sleep. He was conflicted over whether he wanted to curl back around you or wake you on his tongue so he could have you again. The bitter reality was that he could do neither.

He dragged the pants of his flight suit back on, the rest of his armor following suit. He could don it in his sleep, it was a routine he considered to be an extent on the functions his body needed to survive. Breathing, swallowing—clipping his armor in place, he needed it all.

With a single code for the Razor Crest typed into the central controls of his comm, he directed the message up to the cockpit to be received. Apart from not wanting to disturb your rest, it was likely his vambrace wouldn’t have the technological range to accept a message this far away from the source – if it was coming form Nevarro – and he would need to engage the ships long range satellite capacity to listen to it.

With a last glance at you curled up on a mat that suddenly seemed too vast without him there beside you, he left you to silently make his way through the hold and up the ladder into the cockpit. Had he known what he was about to receive, he would have stayed in bed with you longer, if only to prolong the wait before the inevitable hit.

Hours later, Din replayed the message again.

“Got a lead for you, call me back when you get this.”

His stomach churned nauseously, a bottomless sinkhole that dragged more and more of himself – silt and stone – into it with every word that echoed from the holographic figure standing in a halo of blue and white stemming from the old holo-projector that somehow still worked. That sudden… awareness of an emptiness—a hollowness prompted a panicked clench in his stomach and his mind to go into overdrive; find what was missing, was it important—could he survive without it, how could he fix it.

He replayed the message again instead.

“Got a lead for you, call me back when you get this.”

The transparent miniature of Karga lifted a hand from a slightly rotund middle in friendly greeting, the intel he was eager to share a misguided attempt to rebuild bridges that had collapsed between the two in the past. Little did the agent know, that the gesture sent the Mandalorian into a greater sense of turmoil, a crack of recollection shattering that disillusioned idea Din somehow found himself believing in—that life would continue the way it had been for the last nine months forever.

This lead—like all the others he had followed, might very well be the one to bring that life to an end.

A lead on his ad’ika’s people. A solution.

Din clicked his tongue resentfully—revulsion sneering docile lips. He was startled by the visceral rejection of his mind to the term. Not a solution.

The kid… his ad’ika wasn’t a problem requiring a solution. This was… an option.

A complication, his instincts hissed, the rock that sat heavy in his stomach becoming denser, larger—protective flames engulfing it and making it painfully hot. He had gotten used to worry. It had been his near constant companion since rescuing his ad’ika, but it was joined now by an intense roar of rejection that buckled the foundation of his resolve with frightening ease.

It confused him. Had he not been spending the last nine months – since the Armorer provided him with some information – chasing down leads on the sorcerers already? Following every tenuous connection to the Jedi he happened across? Risked his life for information in exchange for services or credits that always ended up being more trouble than it was worth?

Din tried to find them. He did. But still – even if he would never admit it out loud – in the deepest part of himself, he could accept that he approached news of those leads with increasingly less ardor, following them less frequently, and instead distracting himself with his ad’ika’s gentle chirps as he sat in his arms and your soft eyes whenever you caught him in such a position.

But… this was what he wanted. He had to remind himself every time he obtained any information, had to go the motions again—the logic and reasoning that were becoming harder to justify. This was exactly what he had been hoping for. Ever since he had taken the kid off Arvala-7, his life – his simple life – had been completely disrupted. His covert scattered, his ship in ruins half the time, his life nearly lost more often than he was comfortable admitting and his shoulders aching with the weight of responsibility he felt to do right by his foundling.

Shoulders that were more often than not soothed by firm but gentle hands that stroked over bare skin each night as he found himself burying that frustration, confusion and conflict inside of you.

He tried to remember what it was he had been hoping for again, what he wanted when he set out with such purpose to find the people who a fifty year old baby belonged with. His mind badgered him relentlessly as he leaned his elbows forward onto his knees, shoulders hunched over – tense and suddenly feeling his age – as the shimmering lights of hyperspace danced across the metal of the cockpit, across the frozen impassivity of his helmet.

He had wanted to get back to the way things were before.

Din replayed the message again.

“Got a lead for you, call me back when you get this.”

The way things were before… supporting the covert, protecting the foundlings, upholding the Creed. Din frowned, the heavy line of his brow lowering over tired dark eyes from beneath his helmet, the hard lines of his triceps tight and uncomfortable.

What else? He challenged himself, what else was there before?

Little chirps and soft lips on his—no. No—that wasn’t there before.

Mischievous claws getting into hard to reach places and expert fingers carding through his hair—no. Not that either.

He lifted a weary hand to rub at the tension he could feel coiling at the base of his neck—travelling up in the tell-tale sign of an oncoming headache, a futile effort to relieve the inevitable pain.

Apart from the scarce, coincidental run ins he had with you in previous years, neither you nor the child had been part of Din’s ‘before’, he acknowledged bitterly, a scoff of self-deprecation and cynicism puffing sharp and ugly against the lip of his helmet. Any family either of you had—would despise him. His ad’ika’s for keeping him from them, dragging his feet in reuniting them and yours… yours—he snorted. Yours would hate him for doing filthy things to their daughter, their sister—their niece or cousin, as he wanted night after night. Makers Helmet, he didn’t even know if you had a family.

Din groaned; his helmet buried in the cradle of his hands—that was an entirely different headache altogether.

He replayed the message again.

“Got a lead for you, call me back when you get this.”

Memories of a giant mudhorn and a bloody thirsty Trandoshan played in front of his eyes when his lids closed, and he was helpless to stop the case his mind made against him. A purge trooper caught in the fire of his own flamethrower, the choked gasp of a friend as his ad’ika mistook a game for a threat. Who was Din – a wayward, decommissioned Mandalorian, whose life achievements amassed to the armor he wore and the ship he flew – to think he could raise a foundling with untold powers? Powers he couldn’t fathom, that stretched farther and deeper than anything the bounty hunter had ever anticipated existing in the known galaxy.

He couldn’t raise him.

If he couldn’t raise him in accordance with the Creed… then the kid couldn’t stay with him.

The realization, the truth of the matter made him feel ill, the collapse of walled glass he thought was made of stronger stuff but was as paper thin and fragile as the colorful glass art blown into shapes of animals and flowers; beautiful, useless and so easily destroyed.

There was a list longer than Din’s kill count of reasons why the kid was better off with his own kind no matter what the sentimental part of him might say. A part that had served him better dormant and unobtrusive. But it was the fact that not one of those reasons was illogical that really wounded the Mandalorian, a twist of the knife in the weakest point of his armor. Not one reason could be dismissed as unnecessary or an over-exaggeration.

He hated it.

It only served to reinforce the argument to fulfil his oath to his clan, to his foundling; reunite him with the Jedi.

“What will he call you when he learns to speak?”

Your voice from hours before – like fresh air whispering past his ears – rose in his mind. Din had blatantly ignored the position he had in the child’s life for months. A caretaker—a clan leader, but never a father. Never a buir. Saying that title… like telling you his name—it felt like bringing it into existence, making it a reality.

The kid’s buir existed because you acknowledged it so easily as fact. Din Djarin existed because you knew him, said his name—compelled him to test that possibility, that urge to know more-- flicking that light switch on a moment sooner than normal… He wasn’t sure he was ready to face either of their existence after they both suddenly materialized overnight.

Not overnight, the insidious side of his brain that liked to contradict and challenge him growled, you’ve always been his buir, and she’s always known Din Djarin.

And there it was.

The fear of being something to someone…  to multiple someone’s, of being known—that scared the shit out of Din.

And yet, along the way, that’s exactly what Din had grown accustomed to in life. A life that still involved the danger of hunting criminals for the Guild, only now—he had a warm bed – well, a makeshift one – and a beautiful woman waiting for him when he returned. A mischievous little menace who watched him with such rapt awe, Din ached to be the person he saw reflected in those fathomless, wide eyes. A life where he wasn’t cauterizing knife wounds and slapping bacta on blaster burns. Where reprimanding words were countered with concerned, intelligent eyes and expert hands that relieved him of pains he never knew he was suffering so needlessly from.

When company replaced solitude, and the growing understanding that in place of lifeless beskar, and useless credits—Din finally had something worth protecting.

It made the fear that had struck him on Dantooine, strike all the harder now; if the child was gone, would you soon follow?

This was always meant to be temporary.

Din never made plans. Nothing beyond his next hunt—getting from the covert to the bounty to the drop location and back. He had been living his life with you and the kid in the exact same way, day to day—enjoying your company and your bed, your smiles, and your body as if this delicate little bubble all three of you fled the galaxy to maintain, could be sustained indefinitely.

It couldn’t.

All at once, Din knew a plan was exactly what he needed. A plan to reunite his ad’ika with his kind and you… he drew a blank. Would you return to Pamarthe? To another planet that would sap your energy and your talents in the useless pursuit of humanitarianism? To sacrifice yourself for the health of others? Hadn’t you done that enough in that fucking rebellion—

Din snarled, a feral slam of his fist into the arm of the pilot’s char—the creak of metal and leather complaining under the force of his aggression. It was your choice to go or stay, he respected you enough to know your mind was your own, and you never did anything against your will. At least in that he could be reassured.

It felt like the very bones of the Razor Crest were turning to dust around him, a bleak carcass if you both left it. The sanctuary it once offered – the formidable walls that kept him safe and secure and separate from the assaults of the outside world – became a haven, a home. Those walls of durasteel he used to protect himself, became invaluable for the protection they could offer his foundling, offer you—the clan he unwittingly became leader of; the clan he suddenly found grown to three instead of two.

The Razor Crest wasn’t the only thing that would feel like a carcass without the two of you…

What was a clan of one?

Nothing.

A clan of one was didn’t exist.

He tried to reassure himself futilely, the decades he had spent alone—how he proved his buir wrong; that the long loth-wolf could survive without the pack. He could do it again, survive. And yet, Din was made desperately aware that survival might not be enough anymore. Life. Longing. A future worth thinking about instead of merely existing from one day-cycle to the next.

Could he really go back to that isolation after having tasted a feeling he thought he had left to burn with whatever remained of Aq Vetina years before?

Din replayed the message again.

“Got a lead for you, call me back when you get this.”

This was all meant to be temporary, the logic of his former self whispered. This was a job.

His resolve solidified. A job. He always finished the job. And the job was getting his founding back with his people, back where he belonged—where he would at least have the chance to thrive, to live beyond the walls of the Razor Crest after decades spent in hiding from the Empire. The kid deserved that, and Din couldn’t be selfish anymore.

He couldn’t be selfish with either of you.

Erasing the message, he numbly typed in the memorized code into the holoprojector on the dashboard, a thick swallow and stiff fingers belying his hope that Karga might miss the call.

He didn’t.

The link was established with a boom of the agent’s voice, holographic arms outstretched in welcome and a smile. That familiar nausea roiled in his stomach.

“Mando! That was quick.”

Too quick.

Notes:

Mando'a Translation:

Ad'ika - son, child

Buir - parent, father

Irud - arm

Gaan - hand

Epan - stomach

Haalas - chest

Sirbur ner gai, mesh’la - say my name, beautiful

Ner baar’ur - my medic

Atin - stubborn

Mirdala - clever, intelligent

Mesh'la - beautiful

Sirbur - speak

Ner mesh'la kitten - my beautiful kitten

Port in a Storm - an extremely strong, potent fortified wine from Pamarthe. It hasa reputation for taking even the strongest of drinkers to their knees. Native Pamarthans can drink this easily, sometimes even before flying and sip it like it's no more than a fruit juice. Non-natives compared the experience of drinking the beverage "to consuming exploding fireworks, then a fireball that expanded like a star, and eventually settled on a supernova".

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[randomposterofstuff]

A Tale of Swords and Crowns

Rating: M

Summary: When a group of rebellious knights and soldiers threatens the Realm’s peace, the Lord Commander of the Crown’s Grand Army takes a host of loyal soldiers to bring justice to the outlaws. Meanwhile, the Heir to the Iron Throne meets with the reigning monarch and one of the royal advisors.

OR

The Game-of-Thrones/House-of-the-Dragon-inspired RivaMika fic that no one asked for.

---

Author's Note: Hi, all! So, as mentioned in a previous post, I've been working on a Rivamika AU that's based on GOT/HOTD. It took me a while to write my ideas out, but I finally did it! Haha.

For the purposes of transparency, I took a lot of creative liberties here. After all, this is a fanfic. Hahaha. At any rate, I hope that this story still gives off a decent GOT/HOTD vibe. I also hope that you guys will like it!

This story is on Ao3! Here's the link:

But if you guys prefer reading here on Tumblr, then the story's just below!

Tagging: @onigiri-dorkk Hi, friend! I saw your comment on the post which showed a sneak-peek of the fic. So, I thought of tagging you. Hehe.

Sheep bleat as they are ushered by shepherds down the wide dirt path which serves as their village's main road. On either side of the said road are rows of wooden-and-stone cottages, and families can be seen having breakfast inside their homes through the open windows of their homes.

Also walking down the same road are men and women with baskets in hand, carrying varieties of produce and vegetables grown at the small farms on the village's western perimeter. As the men and women walk, a small group of children run by them, laughing and chasing one another.

“Bet you can’t catch me!”

“Oh, I’m goin’ to get you!”

The adults pause momentarily to tell the children to be careful.

“Be careful!” one woman yells, adjusting her hold on her basket. “You might get hurt!”

One man, whose carrying basket is secured to his back by leather shoulder straps, also calls out:

“Watch out for incoming horses or flocks!”

Save for well-meaning warnings, life in the small village goes on quietly and without much fuss. Shepherds tend to their flocks, farmers to their lands, tradesmen to their shops, and mothers to their children.

The children eventually find their way to the humble archway, which serves as the entry point of their village. The first four children turn around, wanting to continue their game without leaving the village. The last child, a young boy of six years, moves to follow them but stops in his tracks when he sees something approaching in the distance.

The young boy squints his eyes, trying to see what is coming to their village. He sees men on horses, and his eyes widen in amazement when he sees that they are a big group. He wonders if they are wandering travelers. And when he sees that some of them are carrying banners, he starts wondering if they are an entertainment fair.

“Micah!”

The young boy turns to his right and sees his father coming toward him.

“What are you doing here standing in the middle of the road?” the man, looking to be around 30 years, asks.

“I think there’s a fair coming to the village, father!” young Micah exclaims with a smile. “Look!” he excitedly points to the ever-approaching group of men on horses. “There must be a hundred men coming!”

His father looks in the direction he's pointing, and sure enough, he sees a large group on horseback.

“That’s a huge number of people. And it looks like there are more than just a hundred,” he comments. “Seems like too many people for a fair.”

Squinting his eyes, the father tries to make out the colors of their banners, thinking that he might recognize the sigil of a noble House.

But as the men and their banners come closer, he realizes the banner does not belong to any noble House. His eyes widen in alarm when he sees the image on the banners: a broken castle in flames. A bead of sweat forms on his temple when he spots the red-haired man at the very front of the group.

“That ain’t no fair!” He exclaims before quickly grabbing his son. Young Micah barely has any time to react as his father hoists him on his shoulder and starts running down the road like a madman.

“Father! What’s wrong?!” Micah asks, clearly confused.

“Everyone run!” his father hollers, ignoring his son’s question. “Ser Floch and the Kingswood Brotherhood are coming! Ser Floch and the Kingswood Brotherhood are coming!”

At his exclamations, people begin panicking and screaming. Tradesmen cease their laboring to grab weapons, mothers fearfully shout for their children, and families hastily exit their homes and load whatever they can on their small horse-ridden carts.

One man gets on his horse and gallops down the main village road, urgently ringing a bell in one hand and screaming a warning to every household he rides past: “The Kingswood Brotherhood is coming to raid us! The Brotherhood is coming to raid us!”

---

A quarter-mile outside the village, 200 men on horseback ride toward it. Despite the unified formation of the group, the men wear no uniform. Instead, they are dressed in different colors and are wearing different kinds of armor and chainmail. As they get closer, they unsheathe swords, unholster war hammers, and prepare torches to be lit later.

At the head of the marching formation is a young man with distinctive red hair, dressed in black chainmail and dark armor. As they get closer, they start hearing fearful screams and cries.

“Take this village!” the red-haired man screams, raising his long sword. The men pass beneath the village’s archway, and the screaming and crying become louder. “Burn their farms! Steal their wares and coins! Kill their cattle! Strike down any man who gets in your way!”

“Yes, Ser Floch!”

The group storms the village, and the ground shakes as their horses collectively rampage down the streets.

Upon the orders of their Ser Floch, the Brotherhood begins its pillaging. Cottages and shops are looted for coins, wares, and anything of value. Granaries and farms are burned to the ground, while sheep and other cattle are slaughtered. Any bold men who try to fight back or defend their properties are stricken down instantly and mercilessly.

The inhabitants are thrown into an even greater panic as they flee towards the exit at the other end of the town. As the Brotherhood lays waste to their village, they run and ride as fast as they can, not daring to look back.

---

“Long live the Brotherhood!”

“Huzzah!”

The rowdy cheers ring in the open air as the Kingswood Brotherhood rides across open fields., Fresh from a successful raid, the men laugh and cheer, feeling emboldened and powerful. Their sacks jiggle with their stolen bounties as their horses traverse the lands beyond the recently-sacked village.

“Cheers, my brothers!” Floch hollers from his position at the head of their formation. “Cheers to yet another successful mission! Together, we will save this kingdom! The smallfolk and the Realm may not understand us now. But once our goal has been realized, history will know us as heroes!”

The men behind him roar in approval.

“Long live, Ser Floch!”

“Huzzah!”

They cheer and roar as they ride onwards, looking for their next conquest. The rowdy laughs and merry-making continue as they move toward a large, sloping hill.

And just as they reach the very bottom of the hill, they suddenly feel a rumbling from behind the hill itself, and their merry-making slowly fades.

“Halt!” Floch yells, yanking the reins of his horse to command it to a stop. Behind him, his men follow suit, and dozens of horses neigh forcefully at the abrupt halting.

The men then feel the rumbling move from behind the hill to its very top. A sense of foreboding bleeds into the air as it becomes stronger, and the boisterous, jovial mood is now completely gone.

Soon, another group on horseback appears on top of the hill and rides down toward the Brotherhood, causing the ground to shake with the marching of their mighty steeds.

Unlike the non-uniformed thieves, the group from atop are all dressed in uniform gray steel armor and have numbers of 300. This group's right and left flanks carry banners – all banners are dark-blue, with the image of three intersecting swords enclosed in a circle.

At the head of this group's vanguard is a dark-haired man with razor-sharp steel-blue eyes. The dark-grey sash across his armored torso distinguishes him from the rest of his soldiers.

"Surrender at once! In the name of the Crown!" the vanguard leader demands, deep voice imperious with absolute authority.

At the bottom of the hill, Floch grits his teeth in anger at the sight of the incoming forces.

However, the rest of the Brotherhood men exchange panicked yells as they watch the incoming forces ride toward them.

“That’s Ser Levi Ackerman!”

“The Realm’s Strongest Warrior?!”

“And that’s House Azumabito’s sigil! Those are men from the Crown’s Grand Army!”

“We should flee!”

“No, we should surrender! We might be spared that way!”

Fearful and rattled wailing spreads like fire amongst the Brotherhood, filling Floch’s ears. Exclamations about surrendering and pleading for mercy continue until he has finally had enough.

“WE WILL NOT SURRENDER!”

The Brotherhood men instantly go quiet at their leader’s angered exclamation.

All their eyes land on Floch as he instantly steers his horse to face them, his features set with fierce determination.

“Now is not the time to falter!” Floch yells. “We are the Kingswood Brotherhood, and we do not cower before danger!”

Even with the impending battle just behind them, the Brotherhood leader remains steady and unyielding as he faces his men.

“We’ve already come this far! To lose heart now would render all our sacrifices for naught!” Floch yells, eyes igniting with furious uproar. “Remember, we are the true vanguards of the Realm! Not the false knights who fly the Unworthy Monarch’s banner! And if we yield to them, we lose any right to call ourselves men!”

His men, who were previously unsettled by the sudden appearance of the soldiers, steadily become less wary, their leader’s words having touched their pride.

“We came together with the purpose of freeing the Realm from the Unworthy Monarch! And to surrender to the Unworthy’s forces would be going against everything we stand for! Better that we stand our ground with honor than to lay down our arms to them! If we yield, then we are nothing but spineless cowards!”

The Brotherhood men still look uneasy. Yet, they become more resolved, finding strength in their leader's conviction.

Floch then unsheathes his sword and raises it in the air with a mighty battle cry.

“Are you with me, brothers?!”

The men follow suit and grip their weapons.

“Yes, Ser Floch!”

“To battle then!”

---

As he and his soldiers continue riding down the hill, Levi observes the brotherhood of outlaws speak amongst themselves. From his viewpoint, the band of thieves stays completely still, not making any move to flee – an indication that they might surrender quietly.

However, the red-haired man leading them suddenly screeches that they will not surrender. Levi then watches their leader speak to the rest of the group. When the redhead raises his sword and screeches a battle cry, the thieves follow suit, also letting out ferocious battle cries and unsheathing their weapons.

Whatever the brat knight said must’ve worked.

Moments later, the outlaws begin marching onward, meeting them head-on with raised swords and war hammers.

“They’re not going to surrender!” Levi calls out to his soldiers. “So, we’re riding to battle! Archers! Nock your arrows!”

The mounted archers riding at the left and right flanks of the throng of soldiers grab arrows and draw their bowstrings.

“Loose!”

At his command, they unleash a volley of arrows into the sky and onto the outlaws charging at them.

“Get out of range!” Floch yells to his men, already yanking on the reins of his horse as he looks at the rain of arrows.

The Brotherhood riders scream as they scatter, breaking their unified formation to avoid getting hit. However, several men are still struck by arrowheads and fall from their horses.

“Archers! Halt!” Levi bellows. At his order, the archers instantly lower their bows.

“Their ranks have been scattered!” Levi announces. “All soldiers prepare for battle! Engage with discretion! Don’t you dare get killed by these bastards!”

“Yes, Lord Commander!”

The soldiers behind him instantly charge forward on their horses, swords raised and letting out battle cries.

As he charges into the fray, Levi sees 6 outlaws riding directly toward him, swords and spears in hand. Levi takes his own bow from his saddle and reaches for the arrows from his side quiver. With immense speed, he draws and shoots arrow after arrow, with each pointed tip piercing through the throats of each outlaw.

Sliding his bow onto his back, Levi draws his sword from his hip as he swerves around the now-riderless horses. With one hand on his horse’s reins, he charges toward a Brotherhood outlaw who drew out his own blade. The outlaw raises his arm, poised to strike. But before he can bring his blade down, Levi steers his horse to the right at the last minute and rapidly swings his sword, seamlessly hacking his enemy’s arm.

As the now one-armed soldier screams in horror, Levi rides onward and swings his sword again, slicing the throat of another incoming enemy. Some blood from the fatal gash land on Levi’s armor as he thrusts his sword through the chest of yet another Brotherhood brigand before quickly pulling it out to swing at another foe.

As the battle rages on, battle screams are roared, steel clashes against steel, and blood is spilled.

---

“We finally tracked down the Brotherhood and defeated them for good. They won’t be terrorizing anyone anymore.”  

“Aye. We finally did it after months of following their traces all over the Crownlands.”

The voices sound distant and muffled as they register in Floch’s ears. A moment later, he also hears the faint sound of armor clinking and boots thumping against the ground.

“I still don’t know how they managed to evade us all this time. More than half a year passed since we left King’s Landing to start this military campaign against them.”

“Ser Floch used to be an army captain, remember? He’s good at evasion tactics.”

As the sounds and voices become louder, Floch blearily opens his eyes, rousing himself from unconsciousness. He shakes his head slightly as he gathers his bearings. Still feeling groggy, he realizes he's slumped against a wooden pole. He then tries to lift his hands, only to find that his wrists have been cuffed together behind his back. The short chain linking the metal cuffs is connected to a longer chain wrapped around the wooden pole.

“He’s awake,” he hears one voice say. “Go and tell the Lord Commander.”

Lifting his head, Floch sees that he's in a makeshift holding cell made of thin wooden beams. His head throbs with a persistent ache as light filters through the beams. The throbbing pain dulls his presence of mind, and he also finds that he can't remember what happened to him. Incoherent thoughts swirl in his head as he tries to process his situation. A few seconds later, he sees two figures dressed in steel armor enter the open doorway of the cell.

“Ser Floch. You’re awake,” the first figure greets with a grim but otherwise expressionless voice. Still dazed, Floch manages to register the man’s appearance – tall, slim with nape-length light brown hair and a growing beard.

"In case you're wondering how you ended up here, you were unhorsed in the middle of combat and fell unconscious," he explains as he and his companion work on unfastening the long chain linking his metal cuffs to the wooden pole. "We found it dishonorable to slay you while you lay sleeping. So, we placed you in this holding cell to wait until you awoke. But now that you've woken, you'll face sentencing and execution for your crimes."

Floch barely has any time to process what he just heard before the two armored soldiers grab him by the arms and roughly haul him up to his feet, his wrists still bound.

When they step out of the holding cell, Floch sees they're in the middle of camp – dark grey tents are propped up all around, and soldiers unload supplies and weapons from carts.

Still in a state of shocked confusion, Floch’s eyes spot the banners flying on top of the tents. A moment passes before the sight triggers a sudden rush of memories in Floch’s mind.

He recalls furiously rousing his brothers to take up arms and go to battle. He then recalls leading the charge against the incoming forces and quickly ordering them to get out of range when a hail of arrows rained on them.

Lost in his own recollections, he barely hears the japes and jeers of the crowd that had gathered around him.

“Prisoner to the execution block!”

“Death to the traitor!”

“Down with Floch the Menace!”

The flood of flashbacks ends with a memory of him swinging his sword at an armored soldier before being struck in the stomach with a hammer. The very last things he witnessed before losing consciousness were seeing and hearing his brothers scream as they fought.

“My brothers!” Floch sputters, snapping back to reality.

In his new-found state of alertness, the red-haired knight turns his head wildly, as if hoping that he’d see any of his brothers-in-arms amongst the crowd.

Turning to his right, he gets a good look at the soldier holding his right arm captive in a vice-like grip. His eyes widen in incredulity when he sees that the soldier is a young woman with dark-brown hair tied into a ponytail.

“What is a woman doing here wearing armor?!” Floch bellows. “Are you trying to insult me?! A camp of soldiers is no place for a woman! Unhand me at once!” 

Floch thrashes and attempts to yank his arms free. However, his captors hold fast and continue to drag him to the executioner block.

“You are correct that I am a woman, Ser,” the woman soldier states as she and her comrade tighten their hold on the prisoner.

“But I am also a knight. I am Ser Sasha of House Braus,” she explains, introducing herself. “And my companion to the left is Ser Jean of House Kirstein,” the rogue knight's thrashing has slowed their pace, but they still move onward. "Under the new royal decree, women are now allowed equal opportunity to serve in the Grand Army and to earn knighthood. And I’ve earned the right to both through proving my valor and martial skill!”

"Preposterous! I do not recognize this new decree!" Floch yells, his features becoming distorted with fury. "It is ridiculous and goes against tradition! There are reasons why only men go to battle while women stay at home with the children! But the Unworthy Monarch pays no heed to these reasons because she is a woman herself!"

The crowd of soldiers jeers in response to his outburst.

“The Queen is a good ruler! And women can be just as capable warriors as men if not even more!” another female soldier hollers from within the crowd. “The Crown Princess herself is hailed as being worth a hundred warriors for her feats as a commander of both the Vale’s and the North’s regional forces!”

“Aye! All of it is true!” another soldier, this time male, exclaims in concurrence. “The Good Queen is just as good as the late Good King! And speaking of the Princess, you and your Brotherhood could’ve used someone like her during the earlier battle, Floch!”

The surrounding crowd laughs uproariously, and Floch can only see seethe – too enraged to retort.

The knight known as 'Floch the Menace' recalls that, before he deserted his post as a captain of the Crown's Grand Army, only men were allowed to serve as soldiers. However, each constituent kingdom has its own rules for its own regional forces. In particular, the Vale and the North allow both men and women to serve – something that the rogue knight always found uncouth and ridiculous.

---

The armored soldiers have gathered around a clearing some yards from the encampment. In the center of the clearing is Floch, who had been brought down to his knees in front of a wooden stump. On either side of him are Ser Sasha Braus and Ser Jean Kirstein, who keep him kneeling with strong grips on his shoulders.

“Commander on the floor!” comes a loud voice.

Save for Sers Sasha and Jean, the soldiers thump their fists against their breastplates as Ser Levi walks toward the executioner’s block.

“Make way for Ser Levi of House Ackerman of the North!” the announcer, a tall soldier with emerald green eyes and short brown hair, proclaims as he walks beside the knight in question. “Prince-consort to the Crown Princess, Heir to Winterfell, Lord Commander of the Grand Army of the Crown, and the Realm’s Strongest Warrior!”

The rhythmic thumping continues as Levi makes his way to the executioner stump. A man of 30 years with raven-dark hair, cutting steel-blue eyes, and an ever-calm expression on his pale and angular face, Ser Levi Ackerman exudes an aura of quiet confidence. His fitted steel armor, which is decorated with a velvet grey sash that signifies his high rank, and his sheathed steel blade at his hip, all serve to bolster his presence with an undeniable air of authority.

Levi stops a foot away from the stump, looking down on the rogue knight kneeling on its other side. The Lord Commander then raises a hand in the air. The moment he closes it to a fist, the rhythmic thumping stops, and all the soldiers go quiet.

The Brotherhood leader grits his teeth and glares at the Lord Commander impertinently. Ser Levi merely stares back coolly.

“Ser Floch of House Forrester,” Levi announces the name of the rogue knight, his voice ringing loud, clear, and even. “You are charged with violating the laws of the Realm and the laws of men. You are charged with the crimes of treason, rebellion, murder, theft, plunder, and arson.

“What say you in your defense?”

Eyes burning with unadulterated rage, Floch’s face twists into an ugly sneer.

“This is what I say to you and your fucking Queen!”

Tilting his head up, Floch makes a show of spitting at the Lord Commander’s feet. The spittle lands a mere inch away from Levi’s boots.

"If anyone deserves to be sentenced for my crimes, it should be the Unworthy Monarch!" Floch screeches. "Had she heeded the Kingswood Brotherhood's demand to abdicate the throne, then none of the pillages or killings would have occurred! She is the true traitor to the people!"

The rogue knight then turns his hateful stare toward the crowd of soldiers. “She could’ve stopped us by surrendering the throne, but she didn’t!” he yells, voice laced with pure venom. “Don’t you fucking cunts ever deny that! My brothers and I only proved that a woman cannot protect the people of the Realm! Any leader who cannot protect their people is unworthy! You fucks are defending an unworthy monarch!”

Levi is unmoved by the impassioned accusations.

“For someone who was once renowned as a skillful tactician, you embarrass yourself with such awful logic," he remarks wryly. "You chose to kill and destroy on your own free will, yet you blame another for your actions. Any decent Maester would deem that you’ve regressed into a half-wit.”

"Furthermore, lest you forget, the lords of Westeros had already deemed the Queen worthy when they confirmed her position as the late King's heir during the Great Council of Harrenhal two springs ago. They decided that the King’s only child, who learned all she knows at his knee, was more worthy than an unknown distant male relation who never set foot in court,” Levi states, remaining calm in the face of the rogue knight's heated provocations.

“And I will not hesitate to remind you, Ser Floch,” Levi adds, steel-blue eyes piercing through the Brotherhood leader, “that your own lord father was one of those lords.”

The Lord Commander remembers how the typically empty halls of the monstrosity of a castle were filled to the brim by over one thousand people. Lords of both great and vassal Houses attended with their families, household knights, and servants. The decaying ruins were cleaned and decorated for the occasion wherein all the lords would vote on who would rule them next after the old King.

In an unprecedented historical moment, the Lords Paramount and Lords Vassal elected the then-Crown Princess, Keiko Azumabito, as the Heir to the Iron Throne. The Crown Princess eventually sat on the Iron Throne as the first Queen of the Realm a mere month after the Great Council when her father passed.

“Huzzah for the Queen!” one soldier proclaims proudly and vigorously in response to Levi’s statements.

“Huzzah!” the rest of the forces echo.

The Lord Commander’s words and the cheering of the soldiers only serve to heighten Floch’s fury, and the rogue knight’s face becomes as red as his hair.

“My father and the other lords were fools!” he bellows, growling with undisguised loathing.

"Only kings have ever brought peace and prosperity to the Realm! The Conqueror from Valyria who united our previously war-torn lands was a man. And from him, a long line of intelligent kings came! All of whom maintained peace and stability in the Realm ever since!” Floch screeches.

“Putting a woman on the throne breaks this line of Kings, and therefore, it will break the unprecedented era of prosperity! Mark my words; the Realm will fall under her rule! All seven kingdoms will burn to ashes!”

The Brotherhood leader’s screams ring through the open clearing, startling nearby birds into taking flight into the sky.

Face still red with anger, Floch heaves heavily, winded from furiously screeching his views and accusations.

Levi looks at the rogue knight for a moment. He wonders how a promising knight who faithfully served the Realm for years could have fallen so deeply into disgrace.

The Lord Commander then raises his eyes to the two soldiers who had been holding the traitor down by the shoulders. Once Ser Sasha and Ser Jean meet his gaze, Levi nods down to the stump.

The two knights push the prisoner down onto the stump, with his head hanging over the edge.

Levi then walks over to the right side of the stump and unsheathes his sword. He points the blade to the ground and grips the handle with both hands before he speaks:

"Ser Floch of House Forrester, for the crimes of theft, plunder, and arson, you are hereby stripped of your titles and declared as a false knight. And for the crimes of treason, rebellion, and murder, you are hereby sentenced to death," the Lord Commander states, deep voice reverberating in the clearing.

“In the name of Keiko of House Azumabito, the first of her name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Lady Regnant of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. I, Levi of House Ackerman of the North, Lord Commander of the Grand Army of the Crown, hereby pass these sentences.”

Levi then raises his sword in the air. Sunlight catches in the steel blade as he swings it down and cuts cleanly through the false knight's neck.

Floch’s head falls and rolls on the grass, features still twisted with rage.

“Down with the traitor!” one soldier exclaims.

“Down with the traitor!”

The rest of the forces holler and cheer, celebrating the end of the menace who led the terrorizing of innocent villagers.

"Jean, Sasha," Levi calls out to the two knights amidst the cheering. "Store Floch's remains away. Afterward, go to the nearest sept and ask for some Silent Sisters to return to camp with you. Once they've preserved his remains, take 15 soldiers and escort the Sisters and the remains to King's Landing. Forrester's head needs to go on a spike at the Traitor's Walk as soon as possible. The rest of the military host and I will depart in a few days."

“Understood, Lord Commander,” Jean and Sasha reply before preparing to collect the headless body and the severed head.

“Eren,” Levi calls out the green-eyed knight who heralded his arrival.

Eren instantly approaches and stands at attention. “Yes, Lord Commander?”

“Clean my sword,” Levi says, handing over the bloodied blade. “And once you’re done, prepare a raven. I’m sending word to my wife.”

Eren takes the sword and bows. “Understood, Ser.”

---

- A fortnight later -

In a sprawling, bustling city leagues away, three figures spar against one another under a roofed courtyard.

“Hragh!”

Wood beats against wood as two knights wearing gilded armor and white cloaks swing their training swords against their opponent. Their cloaks flutter behind them as they attempt to land hits, only for their common opponent to parry them at every turn with expert swings of her twin training swords.

The lady's short ponytail of dark hair, which is sticking out from beneath her helmet, flutters behind her nape as she continues to strike back, with the force of her strikes steadily causing her opponents to move backward. She twirls herself as she parries, her movements swift, quick, and graceful. If she wore a dress instead of a plain tunic, dark pants, and breastplate armor, the common bystander would assume she was dancing instead of fighting.

The three move across the smooth marble floor of a wide and open courtyard facing the calm waters of the nearby bay. Tall, wide pillars support the thick granite roof providing shade to the training combatants. The grounds beside the courtyard are lush with blooming flower bushes and well-trimmed grass.

One knight attempts to strike low, swinging his wooden blade at chest level. Seeing an opening, their lady opponent strikes his helmeted head. He groans in pain as he crashes onto the ground. As his sword clatters from his hand, the lady sets her dual swords onto the last knight standing.

“Hnng!" the remaining knight grunts as he raises and tilts his lone sword to defend himself. He can only keep up with the lady's quick pace for a short moment before she disarms him and sends him tumbling down on his back.

With one last fluid twirl, the lady stops and holds her twin swords aloft by her sides. She then turns to two nearby squires – young boys around the ages of 13 who had been spectating. The eyes of the boys are widened in wonder.

“Come,” she beckons them to her.

The squires snap out of their stupor and approach, bowing when they are standing in front of her. When they upright their torsos, the lady hands them her training swords, helmet, and breastplate armor.

“Kindly take these to the armory for me,” she says, voice as gentle as her smile.

“Right away, Princess,” they say in unison, bowing again before departing.

She watches the two boys leave before turning to her defeated adversaries.

“My good Sers,” she addresses the knights with a slight smile, “I hope I did not seriously damage you.”

"You did not, Princess," the most-recently vanquished knight replies as he sits upright. "Although, I fear Ser Gelgar and I will be sporting bruises for a week.”

“Ser Mike is correct, Princess Mikasa,” Ser Gelgar, the first one to have been beaten, comments as he removes his helmet to cradle the side of his brown-haired head. "Though, I think I will grow a bump instead of a bruise."

Princess Mikasa laughs lightly as she approaches her sparring partners.

“Arise, good Sers,” she says, offering a hand to Ser Mike first. The knight smiles as he accepts the proffered hand. Once Ser Mike stands upright, she goes to Ser Gelgar and likewise helps him rise to his feet.

Dressed in simple training garb, no one would have suspected that Mikasa, who is 28 years of age, was a woman, much less the Crown Princess. However, her manners and poise give away her noble upbringing.

“Two men of the Queensguard defeated by a single warrior. I fear for her Grace's safety," a deep voice remarks, slightly amused.

Turning to the pathway leading to the courtyard, Mikasa sees another knight wearing gilded armor and a white cloak. With his helmet resting in the crook of his arm, his head of blonde hair shines under the sunlight.

“Lord Commander!” the two knights greet the newcomer as they stand at attention.

“Ser Erwin,” Mikasa greets with a smile. “How much of our sparring session did you see?”

Tall with sea-blue eyes and a stately appearance, Ser Erwin Smith is the image of a storybook hero with the skills to complement his looks. A renowned battle strategist with proven valor and skill, the second son of the noble House Smith of the Vale was given the white cloak 10 years ago, at the age of 25, for his service during the Greyjoy Rebellion. When the previous Lord Commander passed away 3 years ago, he was elevated to the position, with his gift for strategy making him the best candidate for the post.

Ser Erwin stands a foot away from the Princess and bows deferentially before replying.

“Just enough to see you soundly defeating my Queensguard brothers, Princess," Erwin responds with a slight smile. "I admit it is a blessing that the only one in the Realm who can match your prowess is the Prince-consort, or else the Queensguard would need more than seven members.”

"For my mother's sake, I quite agree," Mikasa states, sounding amused. "However, I think that you did not come here to spectate. And speaking of the Prince-consort, have you come to tell me that Levi has finally returned? It has been days since we received word that they annihilated the Brotherhood.”

She asks the question in a jesting tone, but the sentiment behind it is genuine. Mikasa has not seen her husband for more than half a year since he left King’s Landing to lead the military campaign against the notorious outlaw group. Although he’s sent her letters, she still longs for his company every night.

“I’m afraid not, Princess,” Erwin says, a knowing gleam entering his blue eyes. 

“I see,” Mikasa says, a feeling of disappointment settling in. “So, why have you come here?”

“I was ordered by Her Grace to inform you to meet her in her personal study in an hour,” the Queensguard Lord Commander states.

Mikasa raises a brow in surprise. “Did she say why? If I recall correctly, I do not have any meetings to attend today.”

"Her Grace said that she is meeting the Grand Maester today and that she would like for you to join the meeting," Erwin replies.

Mikasa briefly wonders what her mother wishes to discuss with her and the Grand Maester. But then she realizes that she’ll find out soon enough.

“Very well, then,” Mikasa says before turning to the other Queensguard men.

“Ser Mike, Ser Gelgar. Thank you for training with me today,” the Princess states with a cordial nod.

The two knights bow at the waist in response.

“It was our pleasure, Princess.”

---

Warm afternoon sunlight enters through arched open windows as Mikasa walks down the corridor leading to her mother’s study. When she turns a corner, she straightens the wrist cuffs of her long dark-gray dress, having changed out of her training garb earlier. If the meeting was just between her and her mother, she would not have bothered to change. Within the close circle of her family, there was an understanding that they could be lax about appearances when it was just them.

But in keeping with the rules of decorum, she always makes it a point to appear properly dressed when meeting with any of her mother’s advisors.

She eventually reaches the far end of the corridor where a Queensguard knight guards the double-door entrance of her mother’s study. The knight bows when she approaches before opening the door for her.

Saying a quick 'thank you' to the knight, she enters the study and sees her mother writing letters at her desk. The older woman looks up and smiles when she sees her daughter.

“Hello, my dear,” Queen Keiko greets, placing her quill down and rising from her desk.

“Mother,” Mikasa greets back with a smile as she walks toward her.

When her mother walks around the desk, Mikasa observes her state of dress. Even though she is the monarch of the entire Realm, Queen Keiko Azumabito dresses modestly. Her dark-blue dress is made of fine silk and fabric, but is cut and styled simply. Her long dark hair is also tied into a neat, simple bun without any elaborate hair pieces. The only noticeable adornment is the silver pendant around her neck, which has three intersecting blades enclosed in a circle – her House sigil, engraved on it.

The two women kiss each other on the cheek when they reach.

"Come, let's sit," Queen Keiko says, gesturing to the sitting area at the right corner of the study. Cups of wine and some biscuits have been placed on the table. "I've already called for the Grand Maester, and they should be here soon."

“What are we meeting the Grand Maester for?” Mikasa asks as they walk to the table. “Are you feeling sick with something? If so, shouldn’t Father also be here?”

Keiko laughs lightly. "I'm not sick, my dear," she says as she and her daughter take a seat. "And your father is overseeing the preparations for our trip to the High Sept later. So, he's busy at the moment. As for why we are meeting with the Grand Maester, you'll know soon enough."

The moment the Queen says the words, the doors of the study open. A second later, the Grand Maester enters.

“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” they bow to the Queen. “And to you as well, Princess,” they say as they turn and bow to Mikasa.

“Good afternoon, Grand Maester Hange,” the Queen greets. “Come and join us.”

Grand Maester Hange’s heavy, long, multi-linked chain rattles audibly when they straighten themselves upward. With a smile, they walk toward the sitting area, with the bottom end of their simple dark robe swishing across the floor.

With her eyes on the Grand Maester, Mikasa muses that she is still amazed by their youth even though she had already met them a long time ago. The previous Grand Maester who served on her late grandfather's Small Council was a wise, learned, but nearly ancient old man. In contrast, Grand Maester Hange is young, with dark brown hair tied into a ponytail. They look less than 40 years old – much younger than her mother, who is  more than 50. The Princess can only wonder just how intelligent and brilliant they are to have been chosen by the Citadel as Grand Maester at such a young age.

“I was told that you were about to leave for a stroll in the city when I asked for you to come here,” Keiko says when the Grand Maester sits in the chair across from her. “I do apologize for that, but I have a matter I wish to address immediately.”

“It’s no problem, Your Grace,” Hange says with a smile, “I am at your service after all!”

They then look at the treats laid out on the table. "May I?" they ask, eyeing some cream-colored biscuits.

“Please do,” Keiko says with a sweeping gesture of her hand.

With a delighted grin, the Grand Maester grabs a biscuit and munches on it. The Queen also takes one and starts chewing at a more moderate pace.

"Grand Maester, if I may ask," Mikasa says, tone curious. "What were you planning to do in the city? I always hear that you spend a lot of time mingling with the citizenry in your free time. Do you have close friends in the city?"

Ever since the Grand Maester came to court, there have been reports of them being spotted in the streets of King’s Landing. They’ve been seen speaking with workers, asking merchants about their wares, and even offering medical aid to sick people on the streets.

Hange drinks from their cup of wine before responding.

"I'm not really close with anyone in particular, Princess. I just enjoy spending time with people," they reply, smiling. "And as for what I was planning to do in the city, I was going to visit a local sept to teach children and workers how to read. I offer my services to anyone interested, and I found that a fair number are!" they state with an animated gleam in their eyes. "I give lessons as often as I can."

Mikasa’s eyes widen in mild surprise before a small smile forms on her lips. “I see. It’s very kind of you to spend your spare time educating others,” she says before reaching for her own cup to take a drink.

“Thank you, Princess. I find it rather fulfilling!” the Grand Maester says enthusiastically. “And to be honest, I also learn many things from the people. I also get to hear a lot of interesting stories!”

“You seem very enthusiastic about teaching and learning, Grand Maester,” the Queen remarks, smiling. “That’s very commendable. And very fitting considering your position.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Hange beams widely, cheeks a bit flushed from the praises. Their grin lingers for a second longer before their expression becomes a bit soberer.

“However, I believe that you did not call me here to discuss my activities in the city,” the Grand Maester says, their tone knowing. “So, with what matter can I be of assistance?”

The Queen’s smile turns bashful. “You are correct on that score, Grand Maester.”

Hange and Mikasa look at the Queen with rapt eyes, both of them wondering what important matter the monarch wishes to discuss.

The Queen drinks from her cup of wine before speaking. When she lowers her cup, Mikasa sees that her smile has faded.

“As you know, when we convened with the rest of the Small Council a fortnight ago, the Princess relayed word that the Prince-consort and the host of soldiers he took with him have finally tracked down the Kingswood Brotherhood and vanquished them,” Keiko states, expression becoming more serious. “And that their leader, Ser Floch Forrester, had already been executed for his crimes against the Crown and the Realm. The false knight’s embalmed remains were also delivered to us by Silent Sisters two days after the meeting, and I had already ordered that his head be put on a spike at the Traitor’s Walk.”

The previously pleasant and amiable atmosphere becomes solemn at the shift in topic, and the Queen's expression turns more grim and pensive. The Princess and Grand Maester sit straighter, sensing that a vital discussion is afoot.

“And you are both also aware that when I first heard of the Brotherhood’s demand for me to abdicate as Queen more than half a year ago, I seriously considered it,” the Queen says. “While the throne was mine by both birthright and by vote of the lords of the Realm, I did not want innocent people to needlessly suffer because of me. The Brotherhood demanded my abdication in exchange for sparing defenseless villages from harm. So, at the time, surrendering my crown seemed like the right thing to do."

“But the Small Council advised me that to do so would do more harm than good,” Keiko remarks, a contemplative gleam in her eyes, “and that it would cause great instability in the Realm by stirring political strife.”

“In particular, I was counseled that abdicating due to pressure from a mere band of outlaws would have resulted in a disastrous fallout. I would have been viewed as a weak leader by everyone, even by my staunchest advocates. The lords of the Realm would have withdrawn their support for both me and my House. And the most logical consequence following that would have been a civil war for the throne, which would have resulted in massive causalities."

As the Queen continues to speak, her features become even more drawn, to the point of being forlorn.

"I was faced with two choices: to spare innocent smallfolk from the threat of a band of outlaws or to spare the entire Realm from the horrors of war. Neither choice was desirable. Yet, I still had to pick. So, I chose the lesser of the two evils – I remained on the throne and let the Brotherhood continue pillaging until the Crown's forces put a stop to them," the Queen says with a quiet, resigned tone. "I heeded the advice of the council because it was wise. But that doesn't change the fact that there were still people who suffered because of my choice."

From her seat, Mikasa notices that the gleam in her mother's eyes has become more melancholic. The Princess feels a pang in her chest, knowing that her mother still feels guilty even though her choice was the most practical one under the circumstances.

“The fault was with the Brotherhood, Mother,” Mikasa says, voice certain and confident. “It was never with you. You were not the one who set fire to their farms. Nor were you the one who stole from them, slaughtered their livestock, or killed them. You did not command them to do any of these atrocities, either. Under the laws of the Realm, and truthfully, even under the laws of basic sense, you are in no way responsible.”

“The Princess is correct, Your Grace,” Grand Maester Hange states firmly in agreement. "And if I may say so," they add, tone becoming gentler, "you should not be so harsh with yourself. The situation itself was unfair, and you had to make the least damaging choice."

Their statements prompt a smile on Keiko’s face. Even so, it’s still a sad one.

“I appreciate both of your kind words,” the Queen says. “Yet, the fact remains that my refusal to abdicate was the reason for the continued attacks. As Queen, it is my burden to accept and live with the consequences of my actions, no matter how I wish they never happened.”

"In the same vein, it is also my responsibility to make things right when I can," Keiko says resolutely.

“Floch Forrester’s crimes are not the sins of his father or his House. Even so, his crimes still destroyed the lives of innocent people. On this, it was agreed that it would not be just to seize all of House Forrester’s lands and fortunes since only one of its members is responsible. So, as a compromise, Lord Forrester was ordered to answer for his son’s deeds by surrendering all of the incomes derived from his lands and estates during this current year to make reparations to the affected smallfolk.

“And you both know that during our last Small Council meeting, I likewise decreed that a portion of the Royal Treasury funds shall be allocated to help with the reparations,” the Queen continues to elaborate. “While House Forrester’s annual income is already a handsome sum, I feel that the victims of the Brotherhood deserve to receive compensation from the Crown itself, considering that their suffering is a consequence of my decision. I cannot undo what has already been done. But I can help them rebuild."

“However, the day after the meeting, I started thinking that mere reparations aren’t enough – that financial aid is only the first step. I feel that there’s more that I can do. But I do not know what,” the Queen admits quietly.

She then directs her attention to the Grand Maester. “This is why I’ve called you here, Grand Maester Hange.”

Hange immediately straightens their posture as the Queen regards them intently.

“I admit that this kind of matter should be discussed with the entire Small Council present. However, the rest of them had already left King’s Landing to attend to official businesses,” Keiko says with a wry smile. “But I can no longer leave this concern unaddressed. And in truth, the presence of my other advisors would have probably been superfluous because I think you are the only one who can give me a good answer.”

The Grand Maester’s eyes widen in surprise. “I am, Your Grace?”

“Yes,” the Queen nods firmly. “Out of everyone on the council, you are the one who has spent the most time with smallfolk. You said it yourself: you have listened to them, taught them, and learned from them. I daresay that you understand their perspectives best.”

“So, I ask you… if you were in the place of the victims of the Brotherhood,” Keiko begins to say, voice turning soft, “Beyond mere financial aid, what else can I, as the Queen, do to make things right?”

The Queen's tone and expression are earnest, making it clear that the question is genuine. Her desire to do more is as plain as day, and Mikasa feels her admiration for her mother grow. Her grandfather was a dutiful king who did right by his people, but this is the first time the Princess has seen a monarch go out of their way to do more than what is required by duty.

Mikasa shifts her eyes to Hange and sees a look of wonderment on the Grand Maester’s face.

"That's an excellent question, Your Grace. And personally, I find it touching," Hange says, smiling with a sparkling gleam in their eyes, “And I do have an answer for you: emotional reparations.”

The Queen and the Princess exchange visibly confused looks, not understanding the Grand Maester’s answer.

“’Emotional reparations’?” Keiko asks, brows raised. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I,” Mikasa admits.

Hange chuckles lightly. “I will explain, Your Grace.”

“During the Small Council meeting, the Master of Coin said that he needs information from the affected villagers to determine allocations of coins for specific needs,” Hange begins to elaborate. "Concerning this, the Hand of the Queen said that he will send envoys to the villagers to collect such information. This is a practical measure, Your Grace. However, it also feels rather impersonal because the people are not interacting with you directly."

“On this, I suggest that instead of having the envoys collect information, Your Grace ought to make a royal progress to visit the villagers,” the Grand Maester explains with a gentle smile. "Now that the Brotherhood is no longer a threat, you can now venture the Crownlands without fear. And according to reports from both our Master of Whisperers and the Prince-consort, only farms and granaries were put to torch. Other infrastructures in the raided villages are still mostly intact. So, with a royal retinue of guards, courtiers, and servants, you can hold townhall meetings in the villages. This way, the villagers can tell you their needs directly. You will also have the opportunity to express your compassion for what they have suffered. In addition, you can also bring with you food and supplies that will help sustain them while the official reparations are still being arranged.”

Both Mikasa and her mother listen attentively as they follow the Grand Maester’s line of logic, with each statement making more and more sense.

“Based on my observations and experiences, people appreciate it when they are listened to. It makes them feel respected and that they matter. They also appreciate it when someone shows them kindness after the hardships they endured – doing so gives them hope that better days are coming!” the Grand Maester speaks animatedly, the gentle kindness in their voice mixed with enthusiasm.

“These things are particularly important because the Brotherhood’s victims would have felt traumatized, vulnerable, and helpless after being attacked. So, being heard by Your Grace personally will make them see and feel that you truly care about their needs and that their well-being is important to you. It will give them a sense of comfort, knowing that the Queen is there for them and with them. And hearing you express compassion will make them feel a sense of connection with you, Your Grace. And all of these things will do wonders for their morale and emotional healing. Hence the term ‘emotional reparations’.”

At that, the Grand Maester concludes their proposal with a quiet look of assuredness, confident in the advantages of their suggestions.

Mikasa remains quiet as she ponders over the suggestion. She never would have thought of it herself, but she definitely sees the intangible benefit it can provide to the smallfolk. The Princess then shifts her eyes to her mother. The Queen’s eyes seem to shine, as if she had been enlightened. A smile slowly forms across her lips, banishing the previously dreary expression that marred her features.

“Yes…” Keiko says quietly. “That is exactly the kind of answer I was looking for," she says, smiling widely. "Thank you, Grand Maester."

Hange beams at the positive response. “You’re welcome, Your Grace!”

---

The rest of the meeting goes smoothly as they speak about other related concerns. In particular, Mikasa expresses her support for the idea but raises security concerns. The Princess states that because they anticipate meeting large numbers of villagers, the Queensguard should be supplemented by a host of household knights and a host of Grand Army soldiers in case anyone tries to instigate violence.

“I understand that the purpose of the royal progress is to express our compassion and to personally hear their concerns,” the Princess states. “But given the extent of the damage caused by the Brotherhood, we must anticipate that some, if not all, of the affected villagers will feel some resentment because of their losses. And where there is resentment, there is always a chance that violence might occur. Therefore, we must also be cautious while being open.”

Both the Queen and the Grand Maester nod their heads in understanding.

“That is prudent, Princess,” Keiko says, smiling. “The King-consort and I will make arrangements with Ser Erwin and the Prince-consort.”

The Queen then turns to Hange.

“Well, that is all I wish to discuss with you today, Grand Maester. Thank you for your counsel. It is truly appreciated,” Keiko states, her tone earnest.

Hange beams widely. “I’m glad to have been of service, Your Grace.”

With that, the Grand Maester rises and bows to the two royals before heading for the door.

When the door closes, the Queen turns to the Princess.

“I understand that by calling you here, I interrupted you in the middle of your training regimen,” Keiko states. “With all your studies and our Small Council meetings, you don’t get to train as much as you used to. So, I know how much you value your designated training days.”

“On that score, I do apologize for interrupting you, my dear,” she says as she reaches for her daughter’s hand. “But I thought that you could learn something valuable from our meeting with the Grand Maester.”

Mikasa smiles as she gently grips her mother’s hand.

“It’s all right, Mother,” she says quietly. “I had actually just finished my training for the day when you called for me. And even if I hadn’t, I would not have minded being called to this meeting. I understand that as your Heir, I need to be well-versed in governance and politics. And I found Grand Maester Hange’s counsel to be very insightful. So, I’m actually very glad for this particular meeting.” Mikasa says, her smile widening. “And truth be told, I learn more from participating in and listening to actual discussions as compared to reading about the successes of our ancestors.”

The Queen chuckles lightly and regards the Princess with a proud look.

"I am pleased to know that you are taking your responsibilities as Heir seriously," Keiko says before kissing her daughter's forehead.

Just then, the doors to the study open again. When the two women turn their heads, they both smile at the newcomer.

“Hello, husband,” Keiko greets warmly.

“There are my two favorite ladies,” King Mikhail says, smiling as he sets his eyes on the Queen and Princess.

As he enters the room's threshold, sunlight from the open windows catches in his short dark-blonde hair, making it look brighter and shinier. He stops when he's a foot away from the sitting area table.

“I just saw the Grand Maester on my way here,” Mikhail comments. “I hope that your meeting with them was fruitful.”

"It was. I finally found the answer that has been eluding me these past few days,” Keiko responds with a smile. “So, are you here to collect me so that we can begin our trip to the Great Sept?”

“I am,” Mikhail states, placing a hand on the hilt of his longsword. “The Queensguard and City Watch retinues are ready, and so is the carriage. We are ready to embark if you are.”

The Queen chuckles lightly. “As always, my sworn protector never fails to make things easy for me.”

Mikasa lets out a small laugh.

"I swear, Father," the Princess begins to say with an amused twinkle in her eyes. "You are likely the first-ever royal consort in history who is also the monarch's sworn sword and shield. There is nothing wrong with it. But we have to admit that it is not very typical."

As Mikasa notes her father's state of dress, she muses that he does not look like a typical king either. Instead of wearing robes and fur coats, he wears a knee-length dark leather coat tied with a brown leather belt at the waist. On the lapel of his coat is a silver emblem depicting a shield with the letter 'A' emblazoned on its left side and a white falcon in flight on the right – the sigil of House Ackerman of the Vale. The coat's upper half is closed while the bottom half is open, revealing dark trousers and a pair of polished knee-length leather boots. The round collar of his silver chainmail also juts out from above the pointed collar of his coat. A sheathed longsword is also attached to his right hip.

King Mikhail is still dressed finely. Yet, his manner of dress allows him to be ready for combat at a moment’s notice – fitting for the two positions he holds.

The King laughs at his daughter's remark. "I made a vow to always protect your Mother when I married her, my dear. And what better way to do that than to pledge my numerous years of combat experience to her safety and protection?"

Mikasa raises her hands in mock defeat. "Fair enough," she jests.

“I’m just glad that your late grandfather didn’t raise your father to the Kingsguard when we were younger,” Keiko interjects with an amused smile. “With how skilled your father is, a part of me was worried that our courtship would’ve been cut short.”

"Well, I'm thankful that never occurred," Mikhail states, amused. "But I'm afraid we mustn't keep the High Septon waiting, my Queen. We did agree on meeting him before sundown.”

“Quite right,” Keiko nods. When she pushes her chair back, her husband offers a hand to help her stand. Mikasa also rises from her seat.

“Well, daughter, we will be departing for the Great Sept shortly,” the Queen says, turning to the Princess. “Ser Erwin and two other Queensguard knights will remain here should you require anything from them. We trust that you can keep yourself entertained and occupied during our absence?” she asks with a teasing look.

Mikasa smiles. “Of course, Mother.”

---

After bidding her parents farewell, Mikasa watches the royal carriage and the retinue of knights and soldiers depart beyond the gates of the Red Keep. Once guards begin to close the gate, Mikasa turns back to the castle’s entrance.

The Princess walks through the vast hallways of the Keep, nodding politely at servants who bow to her as she passes by them. She then reaches the wing of the castle where the Great Library is located, intent on reading some books before supper in a few hours.

She is just about to turn a corner when she hears someone call out to her.

“Princess, wait a moment.”

Halting in her tracks, Mikasa turns around and sees Ser Erwin approaching her.

“Ser Erwin,” she greets as the knight bows to her. “Is something wrong?”

"Nothing is wrong, Princess," Erwin states as he uprights himself. "I am here to inform you that the Prince-consort has returned, and he wishes to see you," he says with a slight smile.

Completely surprised, Mikasa’s eyes widen. The Lord Commander says it so plainly and without any preamble that it takes her a moment to process the news. Earlier in the afternoon, she asked about her husband, and now, she’s hearing that he has returned to her. It seems somewhat strange and surreal.

When the shock dissolves, a broad smile breaks across her face.

"That is wonderful!" Mikasa states gleefully. "When did he arrive? Was it when I was speaking with my mother and the Grand Maester?" she asks, imagining that he probably arrived about an hour ago and must have entered through a side gate on horseback. Mikasa thinks he's likely still in travel clothes and is resting somewhere, probably in the gardens.

Erwin’s slight smile widens at her queries. “He arrived earlier this morning, just before daybreak.”

Mikasa’s glee is briefly dampened by great confusion, and she is unsure if the Lord Commander is joking or not.

“Ser Erwin… are you joking?” she asks, scrutinizing the knight’s slight smile.

“I am not, Princess.”

Mikasa’s brows rise, her confusion increasing. A moment later, her eyes narrow.

“If that is the case,” the Princess begins tentatively, a tinge of suspicion and mild annoyance in her voice, “then why did you not inform me sooner? And why has he made his presence known only now? Is my husband up to something?”

The blonde knight’s expression turns bashful and apologetic at her interrogation.

“I apologize for not telling you sooner, Princess,” Erwin says sincerely, looking a bit wary at the irritated gleam in the Princess’s eyes. “But the Prince-consort arrived very early before you or Their Graces awoke. And he instructed everyone – all the servants and all the knights, not to announce his presence just yet. He had some servants prepare a spare bedchamber for him since he did not want to wake you so early. He said he wanted to finish the written reports on the recently concluded military campaign against the Brotherhood before greeting you and Their Graces. In his own words, he ‘did not want a shit ton of unfinished paperwork hanging over his head’ when he reunites with you.”

Mikasa’s eyes remain narrowed for a second longer before she suddenly laughs.

“That definitely sounds like my husband,” she quips, lips twitching. Her irritation instantly vanishes as she now understands the secrecy surrounding his arrival. Levi has always been meticulous and never does anything half-assed. He always makes sure to finish one task before moving on to the next.

"So, now that he's made his presence known, this means that he's already done with his reports, correct? Where is he right now?"

---

A lone man sits at the very front of the room, where the Iron Throne sits on a raised dais.

Levi taps a finger on one of the smooth metal blades of the throne's armrest, carefully minding the placement of his arm to avoid slicing himself on any jutting spikes.

Once he's satisfied that he won't accidentally cut himself, his eyes wander around the throne room. Sunlight enters in beams through the arched windows on either side of the hall, casting a bright strip of light in the middle of the room.

At this time of day, the throne room would be filled with chatter amongst courtiers. But the Queen had decided not to hold court today due to prior engagements. Hence, the large hall is empty and its farthest corners, including the front where he sits, are dim since the candelabras and braziers are unlit.

One of the grand double doors of the throne room opens, and Levi shifts his eyes forward. In the doorway, he sees two figures.

From her spot at the entrance, Mikasa makes an amused sound when she sees him sitting idly on the Iron Throne. The metal braziers on either side of the throne are unlit, allowing dark shadows to fall upon it. Even so, the gleam in his steel-blue eyes is still clearly visible.

“You were right, Ser Erwin,” Mikasa comments while keeping her eyes on the man on the throne. “No one would’ve expected him to be here.”

“The Prince-consort did not want to be found by anyone except you, Princess,” Erwin replies. “Hence, he chose the throne room.”

Quickly shifting his gaze between the Princess and Prince-consort, the knight sees that the two have locked their eyes on each other. Erwin quietly muses that it is somewhat incredible, considering the distance between the doorway and the throne.

“Thank you for escorting me here, Ser Erwin. That will be all,” Mikasa says, entering the doorway.

“Very well, Princess,” the knight says, excusing himself and moving to close the door.

Once the door is completely shut, the pair are left alone together. For a long moment, they just simply stare at each from their respective places. The longer they hold each other’s gazes, the more the air around them intensifies.

“So, the valiant hero has returned,” Mikasa says in a coquettish voice, breaking the quiet. “And apparently, he has claimed the throne for himself,” she adds teasingly.

“I’m not claiming it. I’m just borrowing it,” Levi says airily. “I wanted to wait someplace quiet while you and your mother had your meeting.”

Mikasa raises a brow. “And you couldn’t wait anywhere else other than the throne room?” she asks, stepping forward.

Even though she has longed to see him for months, Mikasa saunters toward him slowly. She thinks that if she waited for hours before being made aware of his arrival, then her husband could wait for a few more moments before he could hold her.

“The throne room is quiet when court is not being held,” Levi reasons. “It’s also spacious. Quite a good place to rest after traveling and pouring over papers.”

Mikasa laughs lightly. “Fair enough, I suppose.”

Levi watches his wife languidly walk toward the throne. She moves gracefully, shoulders poised and head held high. The light streaming in from the throne room’s arched windows shines on her, casting her in a brilliant glow and making her fair skin even fairer.

Levi thinks she looks just as glorious as she did on their wedding day.

He and his wife hold each other’s gazes as she continues moving forward. In the quiet of the room, her footsteps tap audibly against the stone flooring.

“For your service to the Crown, you are definitely entitled to rest in a quiet place,” Mikasa states in concession. “Although, there are many in court who would say that what you’re doing right now is treason,” she playfully warns.

Levi scoffs lightly.

“Tch. I’m just sitting. There’s nothing treasonous about it,” he drawls, crossing one leg over the other to support his point. "Treason is the Brotherhood's business. Rather, it was their business before my military host and I crushed them for good.”

Mikasa makes an amused sound at the comment. Even so, an earnest smile forms on her lips amidst the playfulness on her features.

“Yes, we received news of the success of your military campaign a fortnight ago. My mother and the Small Council were overjoyed. And the Realm owes you and your soldiers a great debt,” she says, her tone becoming sincere with the last statement.

“The campaign was only a success because of the collective efforts of all, that is true,” Levi says, accepting the compliment modestly. “Although…”

He props his chin on one hand as he watches his wife intently, "I still would have preferred it if the Council allowed you to come with me," he says quietly. "The battle against those bastards would've ended much more quickly if you had been there. You're not the 'Woman Worth a Hundred Warriors' for nothing."

Mikasa laughs lightly, her amusement returning.

She halts when she's halfway to the raised dais where the throne sits. The only thing separating them now are several yards of stone flooring and the steps leading to the throne.

“Perhaps, but you still managed without me,” she counters. She folds her hands behind her back as she smirks at him. “Besides, the ‘Realm’s Strongest Warrior’ was more than enough to lead the soldiers to victory.”

Levi smirks back at her.

“Well, the ‘Realm’s Strongest’”, he counters, uncrossing his leg and standing up, “wanted his wife with him.”

At that, Levi begins walking down the steps of the dais to make his way to her. When he steps out from the shadows and into the sunlight, Mikasa fully beholds his presence. Even when he's not anticipating battle, her husband always keeps his longsword at his right hip. The sword is attached to a leather belt tied around his waist and over his silver-clasped, dark knee-length overcoat. On the right breast of his coat is a sigil woven with white threading depicting an image of a shield with the letter 'A' on the left side and a direwolf head on the right – the sigil of House Ackerman of the North.

As Mikasa’s eyes flit to the sigil, she briefly recalls her childhood septa teaching her that her husband’s House and her father’s House have not been connected by blood for centuries.

She shifts her eyes back to his when he gets off the last step of the raised dais.

“You are one of the strongest fighters in the entire Realm,” Levi states as he walks toward her. “And you and I have always been stronger together than apart.”

“But those aren’t the only reasons why I wanted you with me,” he says, voice becoming softer as he gets closer to her. When he finally reaches her, he raises a hand to hold her cheek.

“I missed you, Mikasa,” Levi tells her before moving forward to kiss her. Mikasa leans into his touch as she gladly meets him halfway.

All teasing and playfulness dissolve when their lips meet, and their arms wrap tightly around each other as they kiss heatedly. For a long moment, no words or banter are exchanged, with the pair expressing how much they longed for each other through fervent brushes of lips and frantic swipes of their tongues.

After a long while, Levi trails his lips from Mikasa’s mouth down to her chin and eventually down to her neck. He nuzzles her neck as he plants hot kisses on the column of her throat and nibbles the soft skin there.

Mikasa giggles as she closes her eyes, enjoying the touches she’s missed so much. She lets him linger on her neck as she lightly strokes the back of his head.

But when Levi moves down and starts mouthing at her exposed collarbone, that is when she gently takes hold of his chin.

“Behave yourself, husband,” Mikasa chides lightly, face flushed red. With her hand on his chin, she nudges his face back to hers. “As much I’m enjoying this, I’d rather not desecrate the throne room,” she says, moving her hand to the side of his face.

"Pity," Levi murmurs, shifting his head to press a kiss on her palm. "I would've fucked you all over this room if you'd let me."

Mikasa laughs heartily. She’s missed everything about him, including his dirty mouth.

“I missed you too, Levi,” she says quietly, voice brimming with affection. She braces her hands on his shoulders as she presses her forehead against his. “I am so glad you’ve finally returned to me after such a long time.”

Levi sees the unmistakable fondness in her stormy gray eyes and feels himself soften inside. He’s yearned for her warmth after months of being apart.

“I’m sorry I took long,” he whispers, pulling her closer to him. “Forrester and his merry band of traitors made us chase them all over the Crownlands for months. The bastards were good at hiding and evading.”

A frown mars Mikasa’s face at the mention of the traitorous leader of the Kingswood Brotherhood. “So, I’ve heard.”

The Princess remembers the Small Council meetings during the months which preceded the Brotherhood's defeat. The progress of the military campaign against the traitorous outlaws was always the first order of business. And everyone on the council would always feel disappointed whenever they received reports that the Brotherhood somehow disappeared after yet another raid on a village.

At the time, Mikasa wondered how a skilled tactician and a once-promising knight such as Floch Forrester could stoop so low as to use his intelligence for sinister purposes.

As she recalls her past ruminations on the rogue knight, her eyes fall on the hilt of Levi’s sword.

“Did you use this very sword to execute Floch Forrester?” she asks, reaching down to grip the handle.

Levi follows the direction of her gaze. “I did.”

Mikasa hums contemplatively. She wonders how Forrester had acted when he was faced with the sword.

“What were his last words?” she asks, knowing that her husband always gave criminals an opportunity to speak during their sentencings.

Levi observes the pensive gaze in her eyes as she continues to look at his sword.

"Just a load of hateful and nonsensical shit about how your mother is going to ruin the realm just because she's a woman," he answers honestly, knowing that his wife can handle the truth. "He even had the audacity to say that it was your mother's fault that he and his Brotherhood attacked those villages."

The look in Mikasa's eyes hardens, and the curves of her mouth draw downward.

“So, he expressed no regret or remorse…” she says, her voice lowering with disgust. “Hearing that makes me wish that I executed him myself.”

Mikasa grasps the sword handle more tightly, and she envisages herself standing in front of Floch Forrester. For a moment, she can hear him right now, spewing scornful accusations toward her mother and casting all the blame for his own actions onto the faultless monarch. She also hears him cursing her personally, hatefully proclaiming that if the Realm survives under her mother’s reign, then it will fall when she becomes Queen.

Mikasa's knuckles turn white as she grips the handle with even more force. She imagines quickly unsheathing it and swiftly silencing Forrester's maddened ramblings with a single slice through his neck.

Levi sees the righteous fury in Mikasa's eyes; her revulsion and contempt for the Forrester bastard brew the storm in her dark-gray orbs.

"Yet another reason why you should have been allowed to partake in the campaign," Levi says, covering her hand on his sword with one of his own. "It would've been poetic, the woman-hating rogue being executed by the woman-warrior who will be Queen one day."

Levi glides his fingers over the back of his wife’s hand, stroking her skin gently.

"Bards all over would have written songs about it. About how the Warrior Princess slew the half-witted fool who thought that a cock is required to rule. They'd sing about her fierceness… and beauty," he says, using his other hand to caress her cheek.

The fury on Mikasa's features gradually relents at Levi's words, and she eventually loosens her grip on the sword handle.

“It truly would have been a great song,” she comments, smiling wryly as she shifts her eyes back to her husband. “Alas, it was not meant to be by the counsel of the Council.”

Mikasa actually wanted to join the campaign to personally fight the detractors who opposed her mother. However, her parents and the Small Council advised against it, saying that she shouldn't place herself in unnecessary danger since she is the only Heir to the throne. They also further argued that Levi and the host of soldiers he selected for the campaign are more than sufficient to deal with the outlaws. Therefore, her participation is not necessary.

“It was still a wasted opportunity,” Levi states. “You are oh so magnificent in battle. I still remember the time you single-handedly took down seven hill tribesmen while we went hunting in the forests near Runestone. You looked as if you were dancing,” he says, a tinge of nostalgia in his voice. “I’ve heard tales about your feats as the regional commander of the Vale, but seeing you in combat for the first time was truly an experience.”

Mikasa lets out a short laugh.

"Ah, yes. It was a fortnight after you and your uncle came to the Eyrie to arrange our betrothal," she says, smiling fondly. "We traveled to Runestone for a hunting trip with Lord Royce and some other nobles. When we separated from the main group, we encountered the hill tribesmen. I took on seven of them while you took on the other nine. You were quite a sight yourself. I'd never seen anyone swing a sword as quickly as you."

Levi smirks at the memory. He recalls the band of hill tribesmen charging at him and his then-betrothed with their crude weapons. The poor bastards actually thought that they could win.

“That was the first time we fought together,” he states, coaxing her hand to let go of his sword handle. When she does, he entangles their fingers together. “And we continued fighting together long after we married and took residence in Winterfell. So, I found it rather odd marching off to battle without you.”

Mikasa smiles a bit ruefully at that. Before her mother's ascension as Queen, she and Levi had resided in Winterfell. After their wedding, she ceded command over the Vale's regional forces to another warrior so she could move to the North with her husband. While there, they acted as commanders of the North's regional forces and were active in patrolling the lands to maintain the peace there. But when her mother became the new ruler of the Realm, the pair moved to King's Landing, where Levi was made Lord Commander of the Grand Army and Mikasa started taking a more active role in politics as the new Heir.

"I agree that I am definitely useful on the battlefield," she says. "But the Council and my parents were right. I need to be more careful now that I am Heir. And being Heir also means spending more time in council meetings than battles."

Levi hums in acknowledgment.

“I know, and I don’t disagree,” he says, bringing her hand up to his lips. “It’s just that fighting isn’t the same without you.”

He kisses her knuckles, and Mikasa smiles as her cheeks turn red.

“I share your sentiments, husband,” she tells him, caressing one side of his face. “But I think we’ve spent enough time talking about Forrester and politics. I’d rather enjoy having you back without anything unpleasant dampening the joyous occasion.”

Levi huffs amusedly.

“Fair enough,” he says, putting the discussion to a close. “So, I heard that Their Graces have departed for the Great Sept. I’ll make myself known to them when they return. Shall I escort you to your next activity?”

Mikasa shakes her head with a smile.

“I actually don’t have any official activities today,” she explains. “Today’s meeting with the Grand Maester was unplanned.”

An idea then crosses her mind, and her smile turns playful as she tilts her head. "This means I'm free to do as I please today."

The energy in the air changes with the shift in the discussion, and Levi watches as his wife's hands trail down to his chest. His interest is immediately piqued when she subtly starts sliding her palms upward and downward.

“Very well,” Levi says lowly, wrapping his arms around her waist. “So, what does my Princess wish to do today?”

His fingers trace random shapes on the small of her back, and Mikasa moves even closer to him.

“Your Princess…” Mikasa’s voice drops to a whisper, “wishes to properly reunite with her Prince-consort.”

---

Mikasa’s hair fans out behind her as Levi unties her ponytail. His calloused fingers then dance on her back as he deftly unfastens the strings of her dress.

In seconds, the back of her dress opens, and Mikasa sighs when the warm summer air hits her bare skin.

“I’ve nearly forgotten just how fast you can undo my dress strings,” she comments with a breathless laugh.

The Prince and Princess are now in the privacy of their bedchambers. After their conversation in the throne room, the pair reencountered Ser Erwin and instructed him that they were not to be disturbed for the rest of the day. Afterward, the couple strode down the corridors arm-in-arm, their pace hastened.

"I was tempted to rip your dress off you altogether," Levi whispers in her ear, sending shivers down her spine. "But then I recalled you telling me that I've ruined enough of your dresses and that I should spare the royal seamstresses any additional labor."

Levi kisses the nape of her neck as he slowly slides the dress off her shoulders and down her arms. The satin fabric smoothly glides across her skin, and Mikasa leans back against her husband as he continues undressing her.

Levi then grips her hips and yanks the bottom half of the dress down. The dress, still whole, pools down her ankles, leaving her completely bare before him. His calloused hands slide up and down her sides before moving to her toned stomach. He trails his palms over the firm muscles there, and Mikasa moans lightly.

“I see that you’ve kept up with your training, my dear,” he whispers, grazing the firm divots of her abdominals. His cock twitches when he feels her muscles flex under his touch. “Your body feels as glorious as I remember.”

“Of course,” Mikasa giggles, her face turning red. “I may be the Heir, but I am still a warrior. And one never knows when they’ll face combat.”

Levi feels his chest purr with pride. Hearing his wife speak with such certainty and confidence never fails to rouse him.

“Well said,” he chuckles lowly.

He drags his lips across her shoulders as his hands rise to her chest, cupping her ample bosom. He kneads her breasts and tweaks her teats, causing Mikasa to whimper and press further back into him.

“Oh, Levi,” she mewls.

Levi says nothing, preferring to let his actions speak for him. With one hand still massaging her breasts, his other one slides down the valley between the mounds, going further down until it reaches the apex between her strong thighs. His fingertips graze her outer lips, and Mikasa shivers with anticipation.

“Levi…” Mikasa whimpers, arching her back and yearning to be touched.

Levi briefly considers teasing her but decides they've both been deprived of each other for far too long. So, he delves into her warm core, sliding one finger inside and pressing his thumb against her clit. He pumps the single digit inside her while his thumb rubs her sensitized pearl in circles.

"Ah!" Mikasa jolts in his arms at the double stimulation. Her eyes close, and her mouth hangs open in a wordlessly cry as he stirs and builds up her pleasure.

Levi buries his face in the crook of her neck, feeling the vibrations from her throat as she vocalizes her pleasure through shameless moans and groans. He curls and twists his fingers, causing her sheath to tighten and drench his digits.

“Fuck. You’re even wetter than the Riverlands.”

Mikasa's face turns even redder at his filthy remark. Levi pulls her even closer to him, and she feels his stiffness pressing against her backside. Opening her eyes, she notices their reflections in the mirror on the other side of the room. She sees herself naked, arching and writhing against her husband, who still remains clothed and whose breeches have begun housing a bulge.

Oh, that won’t do.

She swiftly grabs his hands and pushes them away. Before Levi can ask if something is wrong, Mikasa quickly turns around and silences any potential question with a searing kiss.

“It’s rather unjust that I’m the only one naked, husband,” she whispers against his lips before her hands move to the leather belt around his coat.

She unties the belt quickly and casts it to the ground. There's an audible clang as the attached sword scatters on the floor, but neither pay it any mind. Mikasa then makes quick work of the clasps, deftly undoing them in seconds. Once it's completely open, she shrugs it off his shoulders. She then grabs the bottom of his tunic and pulls it upwards. They break their kiss long enough to pull it over Levi's head.

When the tunic falls to the ground, their lips reconnect, and Levi wraps his arms around Mikasa's waist while her hands roam over his front, palming his firm abdominals. She then gently trails her hands to his broad chest, rubbing the hard muscles.

“Your journeys have made you even stronger than I remember,” she purrs, ducking her head to nip at his jawline.

Her excitement builds as she drags her palms over and across his upper torso, feeling the toned definition of his pectorals and the contours of his deltoids. She marvels at just how well-built her husband is.

Levi groans appreciatively. He’s missed her heated but delicate touches, and he closes his eyes to savor their sensations. Her hands move to his back, her palms tantalizingly sliding down the muscles there before gliding around his waist and landing on the front of his crotch.

Levi’s cock twitches again when Mikasa’s fingers tug at the drawstrings. Soon, the waistline of his breeches loosens, and his wife yanks them down his legs. Levi then steps out of them easily, having already taken off his boots earlier. When his fully erect cock springs out, Mikasa grasps it and thumbs his tip, causing him to groan loudly.

“Fuck… Mikasa," he hisses, his hips instinctively jutting forward when she starts pumping him.

Still nibbling at his jawline, Mikasa tightens her grip on him as she continues pumping, earning her an even louder ‘fuck’ from her husband.

She then trails her lips from his jaw to his ear. “Would you like me to kneel, my Prince?” she asks, tone teasing and velvety.

Levi breathes in deeply as his cock gets even harder at the offer. Yet, as tempting as it is, he has something else in mind.

“That’s a generous offer, but…” he says, voice low and raspy as he grabs the wrist of her hand pumping him, “I’d rather have you in bed.”

Mikasa shivers delightedly. “Take me to bed, then.”

Levi presses their lips together and moves his hands to her ass, cupping them firmly and crushing her to him. Their sexes brush together, and they both groan before Mikasa slides her shoes off her feet and coils her powerful legs around his waist. Levi then quickly strides to the grand four-poster bed at the far end of the room.

Once they’re at the foot of the bed, Levi bends down and places Mikasa on the mattress. With their lips still pressed together, Mikasa uncoils her legs from around his waist before she starts sliding herself across the bed. Levi crawls over her as she does so, moving along with her and planting kisses on her neck.

When they reach the top end of the bed, Mikasa places her head on one of the many pillows and lies down properly. She grabs Levi's head to pull him to her for a proper kiss, to which he gladly obliges. Levi then uses a knee to gently nudge her thighs apart, and Mikasa readily spreads them apart for him.

Levi settles himself in between her legs and positions himself before her entrance. His spine tingles with anticipation when he feels the warmth emanating from her core.

“Are you ready for me?” Levi whispers against her lips, breaking their kiss.

His hot breath fans her face, and Mikasa feels her heart race when their eyes meet.

“Yes,” she answers, wrapping her legs around his waist again.

At her go-ahead, Levi presses into her. They hold each other’s gazes as their connection deepens, not once looking away.

When he's fully sheathed inside her, Mikasa releases an exhilarated gasp while Levi hisses in pleasure. The time and distance apart created an ache inside both of them, and reconnecting instantly soothed it.

They meet again for another heated kiss, and Levi reaches for one of her hands and pins it beside her head, entangling their fingers together. Mikasa hums into his mouth and slides her free hand to the back of his neck, bringing them even closer.

After brushing their lips and tongues together for a few moments, Levi starts to rock against her, still fully sheathed inside her. Their kiss breaks when Mikasa whimpers and gasps as she starts moving against him from beneath.

They match each other’s tempo, eventually finding a rhythm that satisfies them both. Levi groans when he feels his cock shift and brush against her inner walls with every synchronized roll of their hips.

“Feels good to be reunited at last,” Levi purrs, smirking.

Mikasa laughs breathily in between her gasps of pleasure.

“Welcome home, my love,” she smirks back at him.

They continue rocking together, rolling and grinding their hips against each other. Soon, their current pace isn’t enough anymore, and the bed starts to creak when their movements become more frantic.

"Mikasa…" Levi grunts out, feeling sparks in his groin. "You have no idea how much I missed this…."

With one last roll of his hips, Levi draws back before plunging inside his wife. He growls at the delicious friction and buries his face in the crook of her neck before pulling back and thrusting in again.

Mikasa moans loudly at the sensation of her husband thrusting in and out of her, and she squeezes their joined hands as he sets a gratifying pace.

“Ooohhh…” Mikasa’s eyes close shut as more pleasant shockwaves rock her core. When she matches her hips to his new rhythm, Levi groans loudly against her neck.

Beads of sweat start forming on their backs, and their gasps, moans, and the sound of their skins slapping fill the large, ornate bedchamber. With each thrust, they draw out more and more pleasure from each other.

But soon, they start craving for even more.

“More… faster!” Mikasa gasps out, shifting her head and whispering hotly into his ear, “Show me how much you missed me, Levi.”

Her vocalized need for more unleashes a fresh surge of lust in Levi. Gladly obliging, he increases the pace of his thrusts. His hips slam against hers, and the bed starts rocking against the wall behind it.

Mikasa’s moans increase in volume, and she clutches their joined hands more tightly.

“Oh, Levi! Ah!” she whimpers. “Levi! Oh! My Levi!”

Still thrusting, Levi lifts his head from the crook of her neck. Peering down at this wife, he sees her cheeks flushed with heat and her dainty mouth opened in pleasure as she chants his name.

Mikasa peers up at him, and her cheeks become more heated when she sees the nearly feral look in his eyes.

“Can you… feel… how much… I… missed you… now, Mikasa?” Levi asks, his words staggering in between his rapid thrusts.

“Yes…” Mikasa answers, throwing her head back as her pleasure continues to mount. “Yes… yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!”

Beyond the silk curtains covering the room's large windows, the afternoon sun streams pleasantly on the castle grounds, servants and knights go about their daily tasks, and small birds chirp amongst the treetops near the gardens. Yet, the Prince and Princess pay no mind to the world beyond, being too lost in each other.

---

The setting sun colors the grounds yellow and orange as the guards stationed at the Red Keep’s gates man the watch towers and patrol the surrounding walls.

One guard standing watch scans the horizon for any incoming horses and carriages. For a while, he sees nothing but the dirt path and the grassy fields adjacent to it. A moment later, he sees men in golden cloaks followed by an ornate carriage riding towards them.

“Royal carriage in the distance!” the guard shouts. “Their Graces are arriving!”

“Open the gates!” another guard commands.

The iron-wrought gates of the Red Keep creak noisily as the guards on duty crank the levers to raise them open. Within the courtyard, guards, knights, and servants form orderly lines in preparation to greet the Queen and King.

Just as the gates are raised completely, the sound of horses clopping and neighing becomes more audible as a retinue of golden cloaks on horseback ride through. Following them are four Queensguards, their white cloaks billowing in the wind as they guide their horses to slow down upon entering the castle grounds.

The host of knights and soldiers then guide their steeds to line up at either side of the pathway as the royal carriage enters, followed by yet another retinue of golden cloaks. When the last horseman enters, the iron gates creak again as they are lowered to a close.

The knights and soldiers lower themselves from their horses when the carriage comes to a halt. The carriage driver then steps down to open the carriage door.

Still holding the door open, the driver bows deferentially when King Mikhail steps out first. Once the King alights, he offers his arm to Queen Keiko.

“Thank you, dear,” Keiko smiles as she takes her husband’s arm.

Once the Queen steps out of the carriage, she loops her arms through the King's and faces forward. As soon as she does, everyone present bends their knee in greeting.

“Everyone rise,” the Queen announces with a small smile.

At her order, all persons rise to their feet but keep their heads bowed as the royal pair walk arm-in-arm toward the steps leading to the Red Keep’s main entrance.

At the very foot of the steps are Lord Commander Ser Erwin Smith and the other two Queensguards who were instructed to remain at the castle. The three knights bow at the waist when the royals reach them.

“Welcome back, Your Graces,” Ser Erwin greets as he and his Queensguard brothers straighten themselves.

"Thank you, Ser Erwin," Keiko replies with a smile. She then turns to the group of knights, guards, and servants still standing behind them. "Thank you, everyone. You are now dismissed so that you may tend to your tasks and duties."

The crowd bows and curtsies in response before dispersing. The servants make their way to the servants’ entrances, the guards return to their posts, the gold cloaks get on their horses before riding to their barracks, and the four other Queensguards make their way to the King and Queen and flank their sides.

“So, I trust that everything was well during our absence?” the Queen asks, turning back to the Lord Commander.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Erwin replies with a nod.

“Good,” Keiko states with a smile. “Now, let’s go inside, shall we?”

Erwin and the other two Queensguards with him instantly move to the sides to make way for the Queen and King. Mikhail offers his arm again, and after Keiko takes it, they walk up the stairs. The Queensguard retinue follows after them, with Erwin at the very front.

"Has anyone notified the Princess of our arrival?" Keiko asks as they walk through the grand doors of the main entrance. "Where is she?"

“The Princess is with the Prince-consort, Your Grace,” Erwin replies from his place behind them.

The King and Queen pause in their tracks at the news, and the Queensguard likewise halts. The royal pair turn to the knights with visibly surprised looks.

“Levi has already returned?” King Mikhail asks, eyes widened in astonishment. “When did he arrive?”

“Just today, Your Grace,” Erwin answers. “The Prince-consort met with the Princess not long after Your Graces departed for the Great Sept.”

The Lord Commander elects not to tell the King and Queen the entire story of the Prince’s arrival, thinking that the Prince and Princess will likely tell them the tale sooner or later.

"Well, this is good news!" the King exclaims. "Although I wish he had sent a raven informing us about his expected arrival date."

"That would have been preferable, but what matters is that our son-by-law has come home safely," the Queen states with a smile. "We must prepare a grand dinner in his honor! This is the least we can do for him until we arrange an official ceremony to celebrate him and the soldiers who were part of the campaign!

“Ser Gelgar,” Keiko turns to one of the Queensguards. “Kindly instruct the head chef to prepare his finest dishes! We want to make sure that the Prince-consort is well-fed.”

Ser Gelgar stands at attention, pressing his arms to his sides. “At once, Your Grace,” he says before bowing and departing for the kitchens.

“Ser Erwin,” the Queen turns back to the Lord Commander. “Kindly escort the Princess and the Prince to my private study. The King and I would like to speak with them.”

Erwin hesitates for a moment, not replying immediately.

The King notices and raises a brow. “What is the matter, Ser Erwin?”

The blonde knight clears his throat before responding. “I apologize, Your Graces. But the Prince and Princess have… retired to their bedchambers. They also gave specific instructions not to be disturbed until supper time.”

The hidden meaning behind the Lord Commander’s words is clear to all present.

Hilarity flits across the faces of the Queensguards, but they all school their faces to look neutral, not wanting to cause offense. Meanwhile, the King and Queen exchange a visibly knowing and amused look.

“Well, I suppose they were eager to see each other after months apart,” Mikhail quips, lips twitching. “Perhaps it would be best not to interrupt their reunion.”

“Quite right,” Keiko remarks, slightly smiling. “In addition, this reunion might lead to continuing the family line. So, let’s let them be.”

---

End Note:

So, there you have it! I know that it's pretty long, but that's the direction my writing went. Haha.

Some notes:

1. Yeah, I know that Floch is a woman-hater here. Hahaha. I was inspired to make him the villain because he was one of the biggest enemies to the 104th gang in the final leg of the AOT storyline. And as for him being a woman-hater, I took inspiration from HOTD, where the general populace preferred Kings over Queens.

2. The situation in this fanfic is the opposite of the situation in HOTD. Haha. In this fic, the Queen is generally accepted even though there are a number of people who do not want a woman for a monarch.

3. For all those who are following my other story 'Soldiers by Choice', I'm still working on future content. I will update as soon as possible!

Thanks for taking the time to read this fic! This is actually my first-ever AU where the characters from one story/series live lives in the universe and setting of a different story/series. I hope that the AOT characters are still recognizable in this GOT-verse fic. Hehehe.

What do you guys think? Let me know your thoughts! Comments, reviews, and critiques are most welcome and would be very much appreciated!

[bookstantrash]

A/N: Next week uni exams start and I won’t be able to write for a while, so I did my best to finish this chapter on time before I go MIA for some time.

You can check here Pemberley’s Lake, Hooked on You and Smells like petrichor and paper, part one, two and three of my Nessian Pride and Prejudice AU.

The sound of music

Cassian could not sleep. His mind kept coming back to the greenhouse.

To Nesta and her lavender and vanilla scent and how lovely she looked amidst the flowers.

He would not lie to himself and say he did not let his lips linger a little bit longer than necessary on her temple.

Or that he had not felt some resemblance of male pride on seeing her wearing his jacket.

That he had not imagined her wearing it after they had come back home from a ball or one of Gywn’s operas.

That he had not imagined Nesta tucked close to his side, his arms around her and a smile on his face as he heard her talk about her day.

His imagination, it seemed, was his worst enemy.

“You are delusional Cassian” he mumbled to himself “Delusional”

Sighing, he touched the pressed daisy chain again. He had taken it out of his drawer and left it in front of him as he worked on some papers regarding his properties, thinking the numbers, reports of complaints or requests would help tire him out enough to make sleep come.

Cassian had no such luck. He worked until the entire pile had been properly looked through, and even three glasses of his strongest brandy could not make his thoughts of Nesta go away.

Nesta, who was currently sleeping in one of Pemberley’s guest rooms after much freeting from Mrs.Potts and her friends about catching a cold. Cassian had made sure to have her room properly warmed and a glass of hot chocolate delivered to her first thing after they arrived from the greenhouse.

Her friends had been delighted to spend the night, and he had almost asked them to forego the inn completely and just stay at Pemberley for the rest of the month. But he did not want to mess their schedule and ruin their trip. He knew that Gwyn was on a short vacation, as were Emerie and Balthazar, and Nesta could not stay away from her younger sister, Elain, for too long, given that they had no male relative to look after their household and wellbeing in the meantime.

Maybe a trip to the kitchens would help him. A midnight snack was bound to make his sleep come soon, and he was sure he had heard one the maids saying that Chef Ramsay had baked chocolate cookies.

Safely putting the bookmark back in his drawer, Cassian only bothered to throw a robe on before quietly making his way down the hallways. He was not worried about being shirtless, given that most of the house was for certain sleeping.

Deciding to take the long way to the kitchen in hopes of tiring himself, he was surprised to pass by the library and see light coming from underneath the doors. Thinking that maybe someone had forgotten to check the place in their rounds, Cassian opened the oak doors to find the candle light. He could not risk a fire happening in the library out of all places.

He followed the faint glow until he found himself with a most surprising — but very welcome — sight.

Nesta was currently curled up on his favourite chair reading a book in nothing but a thin nightgown and he momentarily forgot to be annoyed at her for not covering herself after being caught in the rain if only because by the way she was seated he had a privileged view of her bare legs.

Cassian knew he should announce his presence, his conscience yelling at him how improper and scandalous it was to see her in such a private moment. But he let himself stare at her for another minute, commiting to mind every single detail, from the way the ribbons in her nightgown accentuated her waist — he recalled how small it had seemed when they had danced at Feyre’s ball, his hand spanning nearly halfway across — to how the white colour made her eyes look more grey than blue in the candlelight.

“Fancy seeing you here” Cassian said in greeting, clearing his throat.

Nesta nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard him, quickly scrambling to straighten herself up when she realised she was not alone.

“I am sorry, you had said I could come whenever I wanted and I—”

"Could not sleep?” he asked, and Nesta only nodded.

Oh dear Mother, she wanted to crawl into a hole on the ground and disappear. Why was it that she was always finding herself in embarrassing situations when it came to Cassian?

It was true she could not sleep, her mind replaying her evening with Cassian, from the moment she stepped on the library to when he kissed her temple in the greenhouse.

She had tossed and turned in her bed for hours, her creative mind conjuring images of a future with him.

Of long strolls in the garden and picnics by the lake.

Of hours spent reading quietly side by side in the library.

Of running her hands in his silky hair, coming up with new ways to style it.

Of Cassian’s coat around her shoulders and her head on his as they came back from a late evening of dancing or parties with their friends.

Why could she not stop thinking about him? Why had he not left her mind since they had first met each other and why did her heart skip a beat whenever he was nearby?

She looked at him, flushing all over when she noticed that he would have been completely naked from the waist up were it not for a robe, which had loosened up a bit, revealing a bit of his naked chest.

For Cauldron’ sake, did he not own a shirt?

“What are you reading?” he inquired, and she quickly averted her gaze from his chest.

Little did she know he was also trying very hard to not stare at her bare shoulders or her chest, cursing once again whoever had gifted her such nightgown.

He could bet his fortune it had been Emerie, recognizing the modice’s preference of off shoulders designs.

“Oh, it’s a romance” Nesta felt her ears getting even hotter “By Sellyn Drake. You have a rather large collection here. Some are even first editions”

“She was a dear friend of Pemberley’s previous Lady” Cassian said, motioning for her to take a seat as he told her the story “The Lord sponsored her, both because he saw how her writing brought joy to his wife and also Lady Drake’s talent.”

“She soon became extremely famous and still kept sending the previous Lord her books even after his wife passed away” Cassian smiled faintly “He sold Pemberley and moved, but I kept the library as it was, just adding my own books here. Lady Drake comes once a while to visit and get inspiration for new novels, although she says she is to retire soon.”

“Y-you know her?” Nesta’s voice had gotten an uncharacteristic high pitch “You know Sellyn Drake personally?!”

“She is a very annoying old lady” Cassian said rolling his eyes “Always asking me if I will not take a wife so she will have someone more interesting to discuss her books with whenever she visits.”

“I cannot believe you are friends with one of my favourite authors” Nesta said in disbelief.

“But I would not have pegged you for a romance reader” she added, arching an eyebrow.

“I could not very well leave those books here to gather dust, could I?” he answered, squirming on his seat.

“Tell me, did the scary General Commander of the British Armies shed a tear in any of them?” her voice had a teasing tone and Cassian was almost left speechless by that fact alone.

Nesta inclined her body in his direction, apparently having forgotten she was not wearing modest attire at all and that Cassian was desperately trying to keep his eyes on her face instead of her chest.

“I promise not to tell anyone if you did”

And then Nesta Archeron gave a little sideway smile that made Cassian lose his breath.

He did not know what he had done that made her take such liberties with him, but he for sure was not going to complain.

“I did not cry” he finally managed to answer, angling his body in her direction and smirking when he saw a faint blush adorning her cheeks “But I will not be heartless and say it did not move me a little.”

They were close once again. So close Nesta could see that his eyes had little green speckles on them and that the brown looked like molten chocolate.

They were eyes one could drown and all she wanted to do was to indeed drown on them.

“Next time Lady Drake plans on coming to Pemberley I will make sure to invite you too” Cassian said softly, straightening himself “It is quite late. I will accompany you to your room.”

As if on cue, Nesta yawned, quickly covering her mouth with her hand.

“I only have one chapter left” she tried to argue, suppressing another yawn.

“Such a headstrong lady you are” he smiled and took the candlelight “The book will still be here tomorrow.”

Nesta followed him begrudgingly, twisting her nose in annoyance even though she was yet again holding back another yawn. Cassian thought she looked like a tiny angry kitten, laughing internally.

They walked back to her room in a comfortable silence, and sooner than he would have liked they had arrived.

“Well, then, here we are. Delivered safe and sound”

“Thank you, your grace” Nesta opened the door but did not get inside, as if she too did not want to part with him.

“Have a goodnight of sleep, my lady” he said, dropping a kiss on her hand before he could dwell too long on it.

“Goodnight, your grace” she breathlessly answered, finally getting inside and leaving Cassian standing outside her door.

Needless to say, both fell asleep quickly after that.

~•~

“For Cauldron’ sake are you incapable of sending prior notice of your arrival? And it is way too early to be drinking wine Morrigan, even for you”

Cassian had arrived to have breakfast and found Rhysand’s cousin casually seated at table, twirling her glass of wine at nine in the morning.

“I came here straight from Vivian’s. It was a long journey and I needed the wine. Besides, I am family! I knew you were going to like my surprise visit” Mor blinked at him.

“Always a pleasure to see you” Cassian answered, sitting beside her and promptly dumping a large portion of bacon and eggs on his plate “I take you introduced yourself to my other guests?”

“Of course” she snorted, making Georgiana laugh “Except for Miss Carynthian and Sir Oristian, that is. It seems they went into town early to see something in relation to their business.”

As if on cue, the dining room doors were open and Balthazar and Emerie walked in.

Emerie had opted to wear trousers today — Cassian thought it was to not be belittled by some stupid mercants and show with just who they were dealing with — and a white shirt with long sleeves with a forest green vest. Her curly brown hair was down and she had a gleam in her eyes that told him her business transaction had been a success.

She really was a sight to behold but it still startled him when Mor spat out her wine.

Mor never wasted wine.

“Sorry for our late arrival, Balthazar was being a weakling” Emerie said, sitting in front of a very much flustered Morrigan.

“I was not. You are the one who never lets the other have the upper hand” Balthazar pointed out.

“Please, you know that piece of silk was not worth that much!” she spread jam in a piece of toast, waving the knife in a rather aggressive manner.

“Maybe, but if you keep that up you will gather more enemies than business partners”

“Good thing I have you as my bodyguard” she batted her eyelashes innocently, making Balthazar roll his eyes.

“You are Miss Carynthian. The Miss Carynthian?” Mor asked in awe, her coughing fit finally over.

“The one and only. I take you know my shop?” Emerie asked with a smile.

“I absolutely adore your designs!” Mor gushed, and they fell in a very excited talk about gowns and fashion trends.

“Did you have a goodnight of sleep?” Cassian whispered to Nesta, who was seated beside him.

“I did, thank you for your concern, your grace” she answered, grabbing a chocolate cookie “I hope you also had a pleasant sleep?”

“The best sleep I had in years” he winked at her, that sideway smile of hers appearing again.

“Lady Nesta, my brother has told me how brilliantly your dancing  is” Georgiana butted in, and Cassian resisted the urge to throttle her.

His younger sister was lucky there were other people present or he would do just that.

“He is too kind, my dancing is not that memorable” Nesta said, a bit embarrassed.

“But my brother never lies!” Georgiana exclaimed, receiving a glare from Cassian “He told me how the whole ballroom stopped to watch you as you danced.”

“Oh, thank you for the compliment your grace”

“It was nothing but the truth” Cassian assured her, sending daggers at Georgiana, who was sweetly seated by his other side as if she had not just told Nesta how infatuated with her he was.

“I wish I had your talent” Georgie sighed “I am really shy at balls and never really want to dance even if I am asked to. I usually throw my dancing card in the trash in fear someone will write their name there.”

“But I love to watch my brothers running from the scary mammas” she added with a devilish grin, failing in a brotherly bickering with Cassian.

Nesta felt her heart break over Georgiana’s fear of dancing. Apart from reading, dancing was one of the few things that brought Nesta joy. It made her feel alive, the music allowing her to get lost on the moment and forget the pressures high society placed upon her.

Dancing made Nesta feel empowered, in control of her own destiny.

Georgiana deserved to feel like that too.

And that is why when Emerie, Gwyn and Mor went shopping together while the gentlemen went horse riding, Nesta proposed that she teach Georgiana how to dance.

“Are you sure of it?” Georgiana asked nervously, glancing around the music room as if someone was going to appear out of nowhere and laugh at her poor performance.

“Rest assured. You will be dancing flawlessly at the end of the day” Nesta gave her a reassuring smile “I am going to take the male role, so please place your hand on my shoulder.”

Georgiana did as instructed, and soon they were dancing.

“You just need to have fun and relax” Nesta said, making Georgiana twirl “Even if you do not know the steps but act like you do nobody will blink. Dancing is not something that is supposed to be suffocating, but to free you.”

“You mean like this?” the young girl asked, and did a step completely opposite of what was expected in a waltz that made Nesta laugh and follow her.

In no time they were not dancing the waltz but just messing around, their laughs and delighted screams filling the room. They were having so much fun that they were oblivious to Cassian watching them from the door.

The gentlemen had returned to Pemberley and decided to move to the game room, their initial amiable horse riding outing transformed into a racing competition whose draw made Balthazar and Azriel — who revealed themselves to be extremely competitive — propose a rematch in a billiard game.

Cassian soon grew tired of watching them betting who would win, deciding to fetch a book to help distract himself. He was called to the music room by the sound of loud laughs, his heart threatening to burst when he saw Nesta and his sister having so much fun.

“When are we to expect a proposal, my lord?” Mrs. Potts said to him, having stopped to welcome him back when she noticed just who he was watching.

“I have no idea what you are talking about” he answered, a soft smile on his face as Nesta dipped Georgiana, making her laugh even louder.

“It is clear as day to all of us how much that lovely lady means to you” the old headmaid replied “I have never seen you happier since she arrived here.”

“I assure you, there is nothing going on between us.”

“Do not let your fears stop you from being happy” Mrs.Potts motherly said, noticing his bitter tone “You more than anyone deserve to be happy and feel loved. And I noticed how she looks at you, I do not know why you cannot see it.”

“Such busybody staff that I have” was all he said, Mrs.Potts smiling and leaving him alone to continue his watch.

But it appeared their talking had warned them of his presence.

“Brother! Were you spying on us?”

“Far from it Georgie. I thought nobody was home but your laughs made me want to investigate” he stepped inside, closing the door behind him “Balthazar and Az are so competitive they were giving me a headache”

“Nesta was teaching me how to dance” Georgiana said, a bright smile on her face.

“I saw it. She is a great teacher” Cassian said, and Nesta had to look away lest he saw how much happy his words had made her.

“I have a great idea!! Why don’t I play music in the pianoforte and you two dance? That way it would be much easier to see how to dance properly”

Nesta panicked at Georgiana’s words. Last time she had danced with Cassian it had been out of spite for his comment. She would not deny that she had found him a pleasant partner or that she had had fun dancing with him, but Nesta doubted he would want to dance with her again.

However, little did she know Cassian could not have been happier than the moment his sister suggested such a thing.

“That is a wonderful idea Georgie” he said to his sister, all the while planning to write to Rhysand concerning an increase in Georgiana’s dowry.

He had already forgiven her words earlier at breakfast.

Didn’t she say she wanted a new horse? He could arrange for one to be delivered first thing in the morning tomorrow.

Georgiana clapped her hands in excitement, leaving them standing in front of each other as she sat by the piano.

“You are not dancing!” she called out, her fingers moving expertly on the piano keys.

Cassian cleared his throat, offering his hand.

“May I have this dance?”

Nesta accepted his hand, placing her other on his shoulder.

“You may”

They fell in that pleasant and calming atmosphere as Georgiana played, Cassian leading her effortlessly, but she felt he was cautious, even a little stiff.

“I do not bite, your grace”  Nesta said, daring to tease him “You do not have to be afraid.”

“I would not mind if you did” he said back without thinking, his eyes widening as he realised he had said that out loud.

“I beg your pardon. I did not mean—” Cassian made to release her hand and step away but Nesta gripped his shoulder harder, stopping him.

“Do not tell me the great General Commander is left without a strategy when it comes to some defenceless lady” Nesta appeared to be nonchalant on the outside, but inside she was apprehensive.

What if she had gone too far? What if he did not see her as a friend? What if he was bothered by her teasing?

But to her relief he gave her that smirk of his that made her blood boil, stepping closer to her, their chests touching.

“For you, I have no strategies.”

And they really began to dance.

The music was still there. Georgiana played beautifully and on another occasion Nesta would have wanted nothing more than to just sit and listen all day to her playing.

But the music was no longer the most beautiful thing in existence.

Nesta got lost on him as they danced, the music a faraway background sound.

She got lost on his bright smile and noticed he had dimples.

She got lost on the way he moved with her, a body made for brutality which now moved with grace, keeping up with her.

She got so lost on his warm eyes — more green than brown at the moment —  that she felt herself moving even closer, her breath mingling with his.

“Cassian—” his name left her lips without her consent, and she almost froze when she noticed she had not used his title.

Cassian did not care, his smile only getting brighter.

“You may call me informally. We are friends, are we not Nesta?” he said quietly.

“Yes, we are.” she answered, her body tingling all over at the way he said her name, as if it was a prayer to the Mother.

Georgiana — having taken notice of the rather romantic mood — started a new song as soon as the other finished, neither of the pair paying her no mind.

Next morning, Cassian gave her a new horse, the fastest and most sought out in the market. No one had the barest ideia how he managed to get hold of it so fast, or why he was gifting it to Georgiana.

Neither explained the reason, just shaking on it as if it was a business transaction.

•

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[akampana]

Considering the art I’m working on right now… I feel this line fits as a canon alternative to it! Sooo

10. “You are anything but fine right now.” — Saber x diarmuid in some sort of reality where they remember the grail war and meet again under different masters! (Before fgo universe stuff) Saber can be saying this to Dia as he battles his conflicting feelings over everything that transpired, and maybe he even doesn’t know that saber didn’t betray him ??? Or we can have dia comforting saber over the matter as he finally understands what happens and she’s still guilty over it?? Or something else you’re incredibly imaginative mind can come up with???

-jumps up and down- eeeek I love your work, and love reading your prompts !!!

Hi, @jelliedfox! :)

Thank you for the ask! I took some creative liberties with your request a bit, I hope you don't mind. Hope you like it!

Set in a subsequent Grail War in another timeline. Before the events of FGO. Seven Masters, each commanding a faction of Seven Servants of the same Class.

Words: 2,555

-----

They were down to three. Including Master, that meant that their original numbers had just been halved. Waver Velvet—er, Lord-El-Melloi II’s prediction had come true. The so-called strongest class, Saber, would be hunted down like wild game the minute this hellish ritual began until they were no longer a threat.

“Sétanta!” Diarmuid yelled, jerking his head toward their lanky Master. As if they’d been working together his whole life, the Child of Light understood instinctively, sheathing Cruaidin and scooping Waver up like he weighed nothing. Diarmuid read some regret in the boy’s red eyes as he retreated. Of course he did. The poor Celt was going to miss the best part.

Several arrows clanged off Móralltach’s glistening surface as its wielder painted a crescent with its blade. His weapon seemed happy, basking in the glowing gold light rising from the earth. He couldn’t say he felt the same.

Diarmuid dropped to the ground, dodging another volley of deadly projectiles, then took off in the direction of his...comrade. Yes, he supposed that’s what she was to him now.

The knight flitted through the battlefield with the agility of a hummingbird, too quick for even the most esteemed marksmen to shoot down with their arrows. Every so often, he’d turn to swipe at a poisoned projectile aimed at his back, his strikes aided by the light of the holy blade the King of Knights held above her head.

It was a hauntingly familiar sight.

Pain gripped his heart like a vice, shocking his system far worse than any weapon could. In an instant, the Celtic warrior was thrust back into the past, standing on the damn Mion River as Gae Buidhe dissipated into the air.

I give you my word, Lancer. I swear it on my sword, I shall win.

Diarmuid’s fist thudded on his chest, urging his heart to calm to no avail. His feelings for that night in the Fourth Holy Grail War—nay, his feelings for the woman whose back he now guarded were far too strong. He still remembered how she looked that night, leagues more radiant than the golden sword she stood under.

This was it. He recalled thinking. She was the fulfilment his lost soul was seeking. Someone who mirrored his values exactly, a perfect rival and friend. If she’d existed in his time, he knew he’d stop at nothing to have her by his side to spar with, to have his back, to cherish. His mind warned him that he fell too easily, but he ignored it, rendered wordless by her refusal to break their gaze.

What a beautiful farce that was.

The short blonde released her Noble Phantasm, at last giving their party the chance to escape. Excalibur’s devastating magnitude would be more than enough to send the Archer faction scrambling to keep their Master safe.

Diarmuid couldn’t even bring himself to look at the pillar of light, fearing his memory would be tainted by his current disdain for Heroic Spirit Arturia Pendragon and the fragile mask of chivalry upon her face. And as much as he loathed knowing she looked at him with so much hurt, he wouldn’t allow himself to be fooled again.

“I have issued the retreat,” said the First Saber, sheathing one of his swords as he led his “comrade” from the battlefield. “Sétanta will have taken Master to the safehouse by now.”

The Seventh Saber nodded silently, struggling to follow the agile Diarmuid into the trees. Arturia clutched her side, her eyes focused on the man’s billowing white cape. It was all she saw of him now, even after the two weeks they’d spent as Lord El-Melloi II’s Servants. Their eyes had met just once, when their new Master pulled her out of his summoning circle and into the mortal realm. Then, Diarmuid robbed her of his gaze forever, rejecting her very presence itself.

Honestly, she didn’t blame him. Diarmuid had every right to be angry at the world for forcing him to work with the woman who couldn’t prevent his suicide; who couldn’t give him an honorable fight before he was forced out of the Holy Grail War. If they hadn’t a Master to serve, she would have offed herself right then and there to save him the discomfort.

But...it seemed Diarmuid wouldn't have to be so burdened much longer, if the sharp, agonizing pain just below her rib was any indication.

Arturia halted her escape and finally gave her wounds a better look. Seven arrows total, each carefully aimed where her armor allowed for movement. The woman yanked out the offending sticks at her thigh and shoulder, then broke off the rest, leaving the arrowheads in her body. Every single one of them was laced with some kind of potent venom, for though the weapon that delivered them was small, each wound felt like it was continuously gored against a barbed wire.

Branches whipped her face where she thought were mere shadows, the dark and her continuously blurring vision aiding their punishment. Her nerves screamed at her like they’d been frayed, but she pushed on through the hurt, sluggishly running through the forest. Diarmuid had long disappeared from her line of sight, but perhaps that was for the best. It wouldn’t do them any good if the enemy found him now.

This iteration of the Holy Grail War would soon come to a close. The Rider faction was completely eliminated. Only one or two Casters out of seven remained. The Berserker and Lancer teams were thinning each other’s numbers elsewhere in the country. A single Assassin had taken out his own masked allies. Excalibur should have at least removed two Archers. She’d have better spent the last of her strength leading any possible pursuers away from her Master’s location, she contemplated, looking down at her translucent fingers.

Suddenly, a hand clamped onto her wrist, the force causing her to slingshot back into a hard chest.

“You are in need of assistance.”

Arturia peeled his fingers off her. She didn’t glance up at his face. She’d rather not die with her last memory being his lips curled in disgust.

“Please do not waste your concern. I’m fine,” She mumbled, stopping just before she could voice his name. “Leave me be. You will have better chances of not being tailed if I stay—”

“King of Knights, you are anything but fine right now,” Diarmuid interrupted, replacing his grip on her sleeve.

The man cursed under his breath. His refusal to look at her may have saved him some emotional pain, but it was costly. He should have noticed that damn green Archer’s attempts at taking out the Saber faction’s sturdiest damage dealer. Poison arrows, each shot at different points during their little scuffle. Robin must have noticed that though she had a higher endurance, she was slower than both him and Sétanta.

Arturia was trying to hide it, but there was only so much she could do to keep herself from flinching every time she breathed. The arrowhead lodged just under her chestplate limited how much she could move...that is, if she still had that ability. Considering the distance they’d traveled so far, the poison had likely spread.

“Our Master cannot afford to lose another ally. You know this,” he said, looping her arm around the back of his neck. Although her stiff movements told him she still disagreed, she made no protest as he scooped her up into his arms and leapt for the canopy. Diarmuid jumped from branch to branch seamlessly, like such a feat was second nature to him, but the woman felt too conflicted to notice.

“He still has you,” Arturia panted, wrestling back the headache brought about by the change in speed. “...and C—Sétanta.”

The man grunted, holding her body just a little bit closer. Arturia was cold to the touch, but he knew his new Lord possessed the skills to heal her. His last Master’s successor was not quite as talented, but he was proficient enough in restoration to deal with poison. The King of Knights knew that.

“If you believe I shall willingly let you die, Arturia, then we may as well be strangers,” he said monotonously, pausing in the aerial journey to listen for any pursuers. “Although, I suppose we must be strangers presently, considering it seems my initial perception of you was false.”

Arturia balled her hand into a fist, crumpling the white cloth at his nape. She tilted her head, hiding behind her bangs, but they were a weak defense. No matter how politely they were delivered, his words were no less biting.

“I understand that you can no longer trust in my words,” she mumbled, mustering up the courage at last to seek his gaze. “But I must tell you nonetheless. I…I swear on my honor—”

“Do not speak of honor when it holds no weight to you,” he interrupted bitterly, still refusing to meet her eyes.

Arturia felt like her heart had been trampled, stampeded by a herd of emotions that were enough to kill a man. The pain of feeling was far more potent than the poison that flowed through her veins. Poisons had antidotes. There was no cure for emotions.

The king’s throat constricted, her heartache muting her voice like it had done in that cursed abandoned warehouse. How glad she was to know Servants could not dream because even without sleep she was haunted by that night. For while she spilt no blood in her victory, she would forever bleed from her guilt.

Do you...Do you desire victory so much? Do you desire the Grail so much? You have trampled...You have trampled on my one final wish!

The memory of Diarmuid’s tortured voice scraping through her eardrums returned with a vengeance, sinking its sharp teeth into the darkest recesses of her mind.

And you?! Do you feel no shame!? I will never forgive you. I will never forgive you for this!

Though no red tears flowed from his eyes tonight, she could still see that fearsome, enraged face superimposed upon his Saber form. Arturia could no longer go on without telling him the truth. She couldn’t stand the thought of him hating her when Diarmuid had been one of the few precious individuals she had the pleasure of meeting in this afterlife. It was sheer chance that had brought her to him, again, she would not let this opportunity slip away.

“Then on my title, my kingdom, my life, I swear that I had nothing to do with my Master’s plot to force your suicide,” She continued breathlessly, wincing as Diarmuid landed a little too roughly outside the safehouse. The taste of iron spread through her mouth, but that was such an insignificant thing compared to most everything else torturing her soul.

“I have never deceived you once,” she admitted, no, begged. This was it, her final chance. She couldn’t mess this up. “I came looking for you that night seeking a fair conclusion to our duel and nothing more.”

The man stiffened like a belt pulled taught, nearly dropping the King of Knights as he set her on her feet, but she didn’t seem to mind. Blood flowing from the corner of her lip, Arturia clung to the collar of his white cape like it was a lifeline. She looked up at Diarmuid with eyes painted a million colors of grief and regret. And though her knees quivered, struggling to keep her upright, her words remained as firm and steadfast as the earth beneath their feet.

Diarmuid felt his heartbeat accelerate, sold so quickly on the idea her intentions were pure it was pitiful. Against his will, his memories took him back to their first bout, forcing him to relive the joy he felt clashing weapons with her. He remembered the adrenaline rush that overtook his form when Gae Dearg exposed her identity, remembered the unbridled glee at knowing he was renowned enough that she recognized him. And just as the bitterness would have sunk into his bones, he remembered how his heart soared when they had the chance to fight side by side.

“I will not ask for your forgiveness, Diarmuid,” said she, her hand hovering just above his cheek but hesitating to touch him.

It was her left, the wrist whose injury had binded her to him throughout the entire duration of the Holy Grail War. The scar that was proof of the promise to finish their duel honorably. The hand she refused to use during their last duel.

“I merely ask for a little faith,” whispered she, the woman who made him wish for that which was stolen from them, even now.

Finally, the man returned her gaze for the first time since her summoning. His brows were crossed, but his amber-colored eyes betrayed nothing beyond their glassy gates. Diarmuid caught the hand that reached for his face, sliding his thumb down to press at the base of her palm. The mind may lie but the body cannot, and though once, her word would have been enough, that was not the case anymore.

“Tell me again,” the First Saber pleaded, voice no louder than a whimper. How weak, that his soul and being hinged on this petty truth. Like it was he who was the king, and she the knight, she obeyed.

Arturia’s words were like a salve to a burn, easing his aching heart with every syllable. He found his salvation in her steady pulse, which erred not for even a second, and finally, he could let the salt spill from his eyes.

The knight wrapped himself around Arturia as carefully as he could, his hot tears dropping onto her cheeks. ‘Twasn’t grief that brought them out, but relief, for now he knew she remained the same pure spirit that reflected and upheld the same chivalric values that he did. There was no jealousy that stained her title, nor greed that had her hastening a victory. Their final fight had been exactly what he’d wished it to be: an honorable duel to the death with a worthy adversary.

The King of Knights had not betrayed him.

Diarmuid refused to end their embrace, lifting her legs so she clung to him as he took her inside the safehouse.

“I believe you,” he whispered to her, and it was like all the pain she was enduring vanished in that moment. “I believe you,” he repeated, carrying Arturia like he had the world between his hands.

Later, El-Melloi II would cure the poison that afflicted her. They’d spend the night strategizing for tomorrow, as the Saber Faction always did. Sétanta would ask questions, Diarmuid knew he would, for the Third Saber was always curious about what kept him so distant from the seventh. He was looking forward to telling the boy about the Fourth Holy Grail War, the true first meeting between him, Arturia, and the younger version of the tactician that commanded them. But that could wait.

“Thank you,” the small king breathed into his collarbones, holding him just as close as he was holding her. Like neither of them wanted to let go. Their souls were finally lighter, the bond of chivalry between them untarnished. That was all that mattered right now.

_______

Some more notes:

You ever wonder what Saber Diarmuid's Holy Grail War was like? I've always been curious, since I personally take his fondness for the King of Knights as something that stems from more than just sharing Lancer Diarmuid's body (in his interlude) but from something that occurs in *his* HGW as well.

But since its Saber Arturia that appeared in his interlude (not Lartoria) I've always wondered why that was.

My hc (I wanna make it a series someday when I'm more free, but its too big a project for now), which is what I wrote above is that he retained his memories from the 4th Holy Grail War and met Arturia in a HGW just before the FGO timeline. A world where they were allies instead of enemies, where the HGW truly felt like a war because of the sheer number of participants.

Seven Masters. Each of them commands a faction of Seven Servants from one of the Seven Classes. A total of 49 Servants.

Anyway, hope you liked this and thanks for the ask! <3

[puthyflapps]

Do you think the l word is going to get cancelled? The numbers aren't great but it seems like a show that doesn't care so much about quantity

Tbh it wouldn’t surprise me because this last season was, and I say this with peace and love, fucking bad.

1. The new group we’re supposed to be invested in are apparently friends but it doesn’t feel like it and I think that’s one of the main issues with Gen Q. The original had a group of tightly knit friends at the core of the show and gen q has???? people who give me headaches????

2. The original was fun and embraced the campiness of it all. Miss chaiken took some creative liberties to say the least but it was always a good time and I don’t think the show ever took itself too seriously. Gen Q comes across like an after school special because it wants to touch on all these different social issues but the writers are incompétént. You know Marja Ryan-Lewis, sometimes all I want is to watch lesbians play a game of pick up basketball. Is that too much to ask?

3. The gen q writers, godbless them, do not know the meaning of show, don’t tell. Y’all don’t want to hear it but it must be said. Shane x Tess and Bette x Pippa were made out to be these super romantic soulmate type couples but like in actuality the math simply isn’t mathing. You’ve got all of Shane’s friends talking about how in love she is with Tess and how they knew from the start and babes,,,,that’s just not true.

The writers had the right idea about doing a lil slow burn build up that shows them growing closer and shows them developing feelings but it’s like they got lazy and didn’t want to put in the effort anymore so they just started having everyone say Shane and Tess are so in love instead of actually showing us this.

To this day I still don’t understand Bette’s relationship with Pippa like the whole reasoning behind them possibly becoming a couple is that Bette loves her art and therefore they are soulmates??? Like what?? How does that translate to compatibility? Both these couples went back and forth on whether or not they even liked each other. Pippa couldn’t stand Bette from the jump and they were arguing like every other episode. Tess went back and forth on whether or not she thought Shane was a good person and she could be kinda mean but I digress

4. The writers have taken the concept of The Chart™️ and just ramped the idea up 10,000 notches. All the characters are swapping partners every other day of the week like no one can hook up with someone outside of the group pls???

5. Some of the plot lines were feeling recycled like they took a plot line from last season and just gave it to a different character and pretended it was something new that the audience hadn’t seen

6. Some OG characters are actually imposters. That’s the only explanation for some of their behavior. Bette has always had a,,,,certain way with the ladies but this season she was just down right awful. She was just fucking mean as hell for no reason.

Shane has money now which means she’s lost all her brain cells and can’t do anything herself. Also her being apprehensive about taking care of a drunk Carrie felt a little ooc because Shane was honestly the nicest out of the original group and was often the very progressive voice of reason. I just find it odd that she would just like lose all her emotional intelligence like that

7. What does Shane do? All of the things the writers could have chosen to recycle from the original and they chose to reuse the Shane doesn’t exist trope. She’s an og but the way they constantly shove her to the background and give her nothing to do is heinous and it feels like a hate crime directed against me specifically. Like she has a whole bar and they can’t think of a single thing to do with that? Shit why does she not try to idk find her younger brother and reconnect or find her mom and older brother that were mentioned in the original? She’s got the money and the means now. Do something bitch!!!

8. This is probably the most important point of all:

No Carmen. They bring Carmen back and boom, 10 season renewal immediately 🥰

[allaboutve]

FAVORITE MOVIE REVIEWS: #10 DREAMS, Akira Kurosawa

Dreams earns a spot as one of my favorite movies because it inspires childlike wonder and mature reflection in me.  Its images inspire wonder in me that I only ever seem to feel within my own dreams.  At the same time, I am moved by the movie’s careful treatment  of its main theme--how to live in a world where the only certainty is our own mortality.

Dreams is a thematic sequel to Ran, the 1985 epic period film that earned Writer-Director Akira Kurosawa an Academy Award nomination for Best Director.  Several critics have described Ran as pessimistic and nihilistic.  Some have even interpreted the film as evidence of Kurosawa’s depression during the later part of his career.

Kurosawa’s later life certainly contains elements of tragedy and hardship, but Kurosawa’s outlook should not be described as nihilistic.  Ran ends with a moral that human folly, not divine will, caused the film’s human tragedies.  

Dreams continues this theme.  It explores the subject of mortality and fear of death and seemingly concludes that this fear is the cause of human folly, and its crimes against nature.  

Dreams shares many creative elements with Ran and Kurosawa’s earlier film Kagemusha.  These elements are worth an entire treatment in and of themselves.  Instead, I will discuss the themes and artistic aspects of the movie that make it one of my favorite films.

Dreams is part of a subgenre of movies that are anthologies of dream sequences--a genre that includes some of the most famous films by Luis Buñuel.  Even though Buñuel was a surrealist with an interest in dream interpretation, Dreams may be a clearer window into its artist’s psychology than are Un Chien Andalou or The Phantom of Liberty.  This is because Buñuel created structure in his scripts by inserting conscious political themes and dream sequences provided by his collaborators--Salvador Dalí and Jean-Claude Carrière. 

Kurosawa frequently attempts to replicate the experience of his dreams.  His most frequent device is to end each dream sequence with a cliffhanger, which he does in dream sequences “Sunshine Through the Rain,” “The Tunnel,” “Mt. Fuji in Red,” and “The Weeping Demon.”

Kurosawa also tries to elevate the dreamlike quality of each dream sequence.  The most successful instance is in “The Tunnel,” when Kurosawa as a soldier sighs with relief after walking safely through a tunnel path.  There is no reason stated reason for apprehension, except that a dog illuminated in a red aura blocks the soldier from walking any other direction.

Details like these communicate Kurosawa’s experience within the dream.  Another device with the same effect occurs at the opening of the dream sequence “Crows.”  Kurosawa studies the Vincent Van Gogh painting The Langlois Bridge at Arles with Women Washing.  The sequence cuts to a live action image of the painting and Kurosawa steps into the foreground from outside the frame, implying he is walking into the painting.   Later in the sequence, Kurosawa runs through several of Van Gogh’s unfinished paintings, searching for the artist.  

For reasons I will elaborate further below, Kurosawa’s attempts to replicate the dream experience sometimes fall short and weigh down the movie.  Yet they are most effective where they distort space and time.  One of the best examples is in “The Peach Orchard,” which I will return to below.

Some details of Akira Kurosawa’s biography inform the meaning of Dreams.  Kurosawa paid attention to detail regarding his childhood home and his mother’s mannerisms in “Sunshine Through the Rain.”  Kurosawa is also said to have taken mountain climbing as a hobby as a young man, which informs the sequence “The Blizzard.”

The movie’s themes of artistry, suicide and the Pacific War all affected Kurosawa’s life.  Yet although Kurosawa was a soldier in “The Tunnel,” the real Kurosawa never served in Japan’s Imperial Army.  

Kurosawa’s career has at times put him at odds with Japanese culture.  His early films were at times criticized for emulating a Western style.  He did draw on literature by Shakespeare, Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky.  And was also quoted saying the Occupation changed the Japan’s film industry in some positive ways.  It’s conceivable his critical relationship with the Japanese film industry may have contributed to Kurosawa’s industry struggles between 1965 and 1985.

The theme of suicide in Dreams suggests Kurosawa’s tone may also be an example criticism directed toward Japanese social values.  Kurosawa was born in 1910 during the Imperial Period of Japan, where ideals of militarism and Samurai culture would have still been preserved.  

In “Sunshine Through the Rain,” young Akira is shut out of his home by his mother and told to either commit suicide or to find kitsune, spirit foxes, and beg their forgiveness.  Walking away from his home, the camera zooms out so he remains the same size in the foreground while the background shrinks.  Literally, young Akira is growing up.  However, he is leaving his home to beg forgiveness, not to commit suicide.

If “Sunshine Through the Rain” was an authentic dream, Kurosawa as a child may have emotionally understood suicide in its cultural context.  And this is supported by details at the end of the dream sequence.   

In every dream sequence Kurosawa rejects suicide when given the choice.  Yet Kurosawa himself attempted suicide in 1971.  Japanese ritual suicide (seppuku) is referenced in this sequence as he is given a dagger to disembowel himself. 

Seppuku is referenced in one other sequence--“The Tunnel.”  In that dream sequence, Kurosawa tells the spirits of several dead soldiers that as a POW he felt like dying, that it would have been easier.  The statement refers specifically to the expectation during World War II that Japanese POWs were to commit suicide--by seppuku or by other means.

Other references to suicide in Dreams do not involve sepukku.  But Kurosawa’s understanding of suicide as a child, when he presumably first dreamed “Sunshine Through the Rain,” would have come from his cultural context as Japanese.  Although Kurosawa may not have intended to criticize social norms regarding suicide directly, as far as he was criticizing suicide itself he was doing so from his own cultural context.

The theme of suicide is a small part of the larger theme of Dreams--fear of mortality.  Western critics tend to misunderstand this theme within the movie and believe Dreams as ‘misguided’ environmentalist preaching.  

Yet the environmental themes in Dreams are not as cohesive or detailed.  The theme regarding mortality is present in “Sunshine Through the Rain,” “The Blizzard,” and “Crows.”  The only other dream sequence with only an environmental theme is “The Peach Orchard.”  

Both themes are presented at the same time in “Mt. Fuji in Red,” “The Weeping Demon,” and “Village of the Watermills.”  I believe this caused critics to misunderstand Dreams.  Kurosawa was concerned about the environment and probably wanted to advocate for a harmonious relationship with nature.  But his message about morality is the more consistent and more clearly articulated theme in Dreams.

As far as Dreams is an authentic representation of Kurosawa’s inner life, it also provides insight into the way he saw women throughout his life.  This is important because Kurosawa has been criticized for his representation of female characters throughout his filmography.

The first three dream sequences heavily feature women.  “Sunshine Through the Rain” shows young Akira Kurosawa intruding into a Foxes’ Wedding.  His mother responds by refusing to let him into the house.  

An important detail is that the Foxes’ Wedding is a traditional Japanese wedding and the female and male foxes are separated based on gender.  For a young child, this detail represents an understanding of sexual difference.  And that understanding separates young Akira from his mother.

“The Peach Orchard” contains a similar theme.  However, young Kurosawa instead leaves his sister to chase after a young girl who is in fact the spirit of a peach sapling.  

In “The Blizzard,” Kurosawa is now a young man climbing a mountain during a snowstorm with three male companions.  When Kurosawa finally succumbs to exhaustion, he is visited by a Yuki Onna (literally “Snow Woman”).  He pushes her away as she tries to comfort him and as the storm subsides Kurosawa and his companions make for camp.

Female characters only feature heavily in two of the remaining dream sequences in Dreams.  This fact strongly suggests Kurosawa’s emotional life was not as strongly influenced by women after adolescence, a possible explanation why women are frequently not protagonists in Kurosawa’s filmography.  More than that, female characters in Kurosawa’s dreams are all either family or magical creatures until the dream sequence “Mt. Fuji in Red.”  

One last theme worth discussing is the role that Vincent Van Gogh played in Kurosawa’s career.  Vincent Van Gogh appears as a character in the dream sequence “Crows.”  Kurosawa was well known as a painter and used his paintings as storyboards.  His paintings have a wild quality and use a surreal, vibrant color palette--which influenced his use of color in Kagemusha and Ran.

Embarrassingly, it took me a few years and several rewatches of Dreams to realize Van Gogh was Kurosawa’s primary influence as a painter.

Dreams is one of my favorite movies.  However, it is Number 10 because it has some fundamental flaws.  

I have mentioned that the movie attempts to replicate the experience of a dream with mixed success.  The failures are mostly in scenes when the protagonist observes and responds to his surroundings.  The device works in dream sequences such as “The Tunnel” because the script viewer shares the character’s apprehension.  The tunnel is shot pitch black and a threatening dog emerges from the tunnel before Kurosawa enters.

Other sequences are less successful.  In “The Weeping Demon,” Kurosawa walks from the ruins of a city onto a desolate slope.  There is no shot establishing what Kurosawa sees as he changes his path from one direction to another.  This goes on for several minutes before any payoff.

Other dream sequences have the same problem with pace.  “The Blizzard” opens with approximately ten minutes of Kurosawa and his companions hiking through a snowy mountainscape.  Although we learn that the men are lost, no dialogue or action establishes that the mountaineers are lost or confused.  I must confess that I have fallen asleep more than once in the early parts of the dream sequence “The Blizzard.”

Another sequence with this problem is “Crows.”  The second half of the sequence shows Kurosawa chasing after Vincent Van Gogh while inside the artist’s unfinished paintings.  Unlike “The Blizzard,” this sequence does not harm the narrative of the dream sequence because the first half already established two things.  It established that Kurosawa is inside Van Gogh’s paintings and that he is chasing the artist himself.

One possible reason the film makes these mistakes is budgetary.  Shooting vast landscapes would have required the resources to shoot on location or create large elaborate sets.  Some sequences do exactly that--“The Peach Orchard” and “Village of the Windmills.”

Dreams had a large budget for a Japanese movie of its time.  But at approximately $12 Million US, the budget would have limited what could be done.

The mistakes regarding the pace in the end fall onto the screenwriting.  The runtime of Dreams is 119 minutes.  Trimming “The Blizzard” and “The Weeping Demon” would have solved these problems and still kept the runtime over 90 minutes. 

Critical characterization of Dreams as self indulgent is probably correct, and is the best explanation for these decisions.  But it is also a creative decision Dreams has in common with the earlier Ran and Kagemusha.  Both run nearly three hours and include several lingering shots--a stylistic trademark of Kurosawa’s later films.  The criticism that Dreams is self indulgent is less an indictment on this style than it is on the quality of the movie itself.

However, Akira Kurosawa’s self indulgence is forgivable because Dreams is such a pretty movie to look at.  Many sequences were Kurosawa’s first experiments with digital special effects, which are never used in a distracting way.  

Beyond that, several shots in the movie are made using experimental cinematography to great effect.  One shot is in the sequence “The Peach Orchard.”  Young Kurosawa is confronted by the spirits of several cleared peach trees in the form of hina-ningyo--ornamental dolls representing the Japanese Imperial Court.  When young Kurosawa expresses his grief for the trees, the spirits respond by performing a traditional dance for young Kurosawa.

The dance takes place on a hillside that is not especially steep.  Yet the spirits appear at the same approximate distance from the viewer, as though they are on the same display as a hina doll set.  Such a shot is obtained by using a strong telephoto lens, which tends to compress the depth of frame in a shot.  For this effect, Kurosawa would have had to shoot this image from at least 250 meters away.

“The Tunnel” is another surprising sequence for its cinematography.  Specifically, the dog that emerges from the tunnel is illuminated in a red aura that contrasts with the color palette of the rest of the scene.

Modern viewers might assume this was accomplished with simple digital editing.  In fact, the red light comes from a street light that is barely visible throughout the scene.  It does not shine brightly until the dog appears and is barely visible as faint glare on the street gravel.

How this shot was made confuses me.  I am certain that the effect is caused by increasing the brightness of the light because the red aura touches Kurosawa’s protagonist in some shots.  But I am not certain the shot could be illuminated from a street light unless the set was already shot in low light.  Other details suggest the sequence was shot entirely in low light.

These and other sequences in Dreams create surreal visual splendor that is only glimpsed in the earlier Ran and Kagemusha.  Although Dreams was not nearly as commercially successful, it is less trapped by its genre and is one of the best movies to look at.

Some of the sequences appeal to me personally because they are things I have only seen in my dreams, such as the mob of crows at the end of “Crows.”  Other images remind me of what I imagined as a child or the paintings I would have wanted to make when art was a greater part of my life.  For these reasons, I recommend Dreams to any viewers who look for that certain visual quality in what they watch.  

But Dreams also has an important message about mortality and loss.  For that reason, I recommend Dreams to anyone dealing with grief and recovery.

-ve

NEXT POST--#9: THE THOMAS CROWN AFFAIR (dir. John McTiernan)

[nightswithkookmin]

Hi Goldy! I am curious about your take on how Jikook are edited in the behind the scenes clips since October (such as the ones for the Life Goes on music video, ABC Holiday Dynamite, and the Japan one (search on youtube for BTS japan shoot || behind the scene of Japan)). Do you think Jikook are interacting less, being just friends, being more professional, or is BigHit editing their interactions out? It just seems so different from the ones before Oct (FILA, Dynamite MV, Season's Greetings 2021)

Huh???😲😲😲

BigHit is doing what what now?😥

Do you mean that as a fact or theory?🤔

Why though?👀 They are not Tae Kook? 😥

There's Bangtan video of Jimin with his third leg dangling loose in the air somewhere on the internet, I don't think BigHit is that savvy.

Lmho. I mean I see what you mean but they are editors and cutting is what they do for a living. But this is Jikook sis. I don't see BigHit's incentive for 'cutting' Jikook's moments and you shouldn't assume that-

Unless...

You don't think Jikook's been groping eachother homoerotically on set lately have you? Cos, chile I'll believe that! I don't trust Jikook anywhere near eachother's vicinity and personal space.

I've seen enough to traumatize the devil himself. Chilee. Lol.

Bighit, in recent times, mostly tend to cut scenes and moments if they are a bit risqué. Like JK shoving his butt in Jimin's groin face, sliding his hands down Tae's chest...

Often times too they cut moments if its redundant. If a part of a scene is already in the main content they don't bother showing it in the behind scenes. From my observation.

When an interaction is awkward they skip it too, I feel. I mean I am still waiting to see JK touching all over Jimin and feeling him up in Run 106- honey, I'll pay to watch that shit with my kidneys. Lol.

Often too they save some scenes for memories or some other shit that they use all those pent up footages for. Lol.

BigHit is a business, they produce content that per their research and analytics garners more engagement, audience retention and a whole other metrics. They put a lot of creativity into what they do as creatives and artists- I mean if the baby noises is anything to go by. Those bites are tired!

But often times too, they're tired and they're lazy, and they just put anything together and toss it out there without giving it much thought- isn't that how they leave Jin or Tae out of packages, how certain Jikook moments that should have never made it into screen time ended up in screen time- how JM's third leg made it to the internet? They should have cut that shit before uploading it with those subtitles and yet here we are.

I think people give BigHit too much credit- talking about JK shouldn't gay panic and run away from certain moments with JM if he knows BigHit editors are going to cut those moments.... JM's dixk begs to differ. Chilee, Jimin you should have just worn pants. Can't trust these phony ass editors my guy.

The editing is really not a big deal. Not to me. But I love your question anyway. Especially the bits about what's different about Jikook and the content BigHit has been putting out since October.

Well something sure did go down in October, I don't care what anybody says.

I keep saying BigHit banks on the bond and intimacy of the boys, and the boys are more than happy to showcase their bond for the cameras just as Tae said and confirmed in a recent interview- Tuktukkers y'all did an Oopsie on the whole Taekook don't like to show their bond on cameras! Lol

Tae said it himself not me- he lives to showcase his bond with the other members. *where is my skull head emoji. Lmho.

I think what has changed since JM's birthday in October to now, to me where BigHit is concerned, is the general marketing strategy of the company.

It seems to me the company is adopting a marketing module opposite of the strategy they had been using before the pandemic. I think I've talked about this though...

Hate to say I said it, but I said it. Lol.

They are limiting access to the boys to drive sales as and when. BTS dominates the internet and have amassed greater reach and attention partly due to the free content they put out on the internet. But those were never monitised- not in a direct or significant way.

In the wake of the virus, they've had to monetize their online presence. A single tweet from their Twitter account is a phone brand promotion as I pointed out in past posts. There's been an increase in their sponsorship collaborations, in Soop and many of the content they've put up this year. They even turned on ads on their YT channels it seems.

Like I've been saying, this situation is global and novel, they are going to experiment with means and methods till they find that sweet spot and that is what I feel we are experiencing- amongst other things.

Unfortunately for us, our access to Jikook is gonna take a hit like I said before because the numbers are in their favor. I mean go to their YouTube page and see the metrics for yourself.

Jikook's holiday remix pulls way ahead of their counterparts. If their going to monetize any ship brand in BTS it's Jikooks. Trust. But that doesn't mean any ship in BTS is spared.

Someone asked me a while back, when I talked about this, whether all these changes the company was going through was going to affect the way Jikook interact on camera and I couldn't answer that with conviction then.

But I mean we are seeing a subtle, if not drastic change in the way Jikook interact with eachother and with their glass closet.

What that means for us, I think, is the company is going to choose when and where to show us content and certain interactions but that doesn't mean Jikook aren't interacting- know what I mean? I mean they have them. The juicy moments that's gonna make us slap our mamas. BigHit has it all. They are just gonna save it for as and when based on their marketing strategy, if you know what I mean.

I mean we all saw that blackswan performance, we all saw the holiday remix performance etc.

And you are right about the less interactions post October and I've shared my thoughts on it so I won't go into it. But I will state again that they are not broken up either, not to me. Lol.

I think we need to examine what interacting less means. To me, I consider Jikook interacting less if they have an opportunity to interact and they don't interact in a way that is usual of them.

Majority of the content we've gotten in recent times are pretty much very official contents, interviews, etc. The entire BE era, as I said is not about Jikook or even BigHit.

It's about BTS, all seven and Jikook can't monopolize the shine like they tend to do in other BigHit marketed contents in my opinion.

Jimin tried to be funny and chill in the dynamite mv and RM nearly went ninja turtle on his ass when he called him out for not taking things seriously enough during the shoot- Left to grandpa Joonie, the kids will sleep at five. Lol.

Seriously though, there is a huge gap between what BTS views as marketing and marketable and what Jikook or even BigHit views as marketing, in my opinion. And conversations like that between RM and Jimin goes to prove it.

Another interesting thing about this whole marketing approach is how BigHit isn't substituting any other particular pair in Jikook's stead. I see them giving equal screan time to the individual members- well not in a technical sense but I think you know what I mean.

Are Jikook required to be professional in certain situations, absolutely. And in previous years, I think they took too many liberties with it. But as I said, now more than ever they are learning and need to learn to read the room because they wouldn't be able to get away with much if they don't.

BE is a self produced project, after Soop- after when they were isolated to help them bond and repair fractures in their bond. If there were anything they were not happy with that led to Soop, trust that they are going to fix it post Soop and it's going to reflect in every sphere of their interactions.

RM for example has chilled on his monitoring and censorship of Jikook, Jikook have been pretty considerate of the group and have tried not to do anything to have RM pop a vein, Tae has been stepping up too- with the members going out their way to praise him and push him to the fore front of the group unlike in previous years *cough cough I don't want trouble but chilee.

I mean Jimin pointed it out in the Be behind when he said Tae was working hard and putting his best foot forward because the members had been showering him with lots of compliments in recent times and he wasn't kidding.

In the LGO comeback live, RM praised Tae for working hard forgetting it wasn't just Tae and JM's reaction was telling. Of course he backpedaled to compliment JM too.

Suga did the same thing in the Be behind video when he was talking about JM and praising him- I mean it's Suga and his Jimin, uWu. But then he too backpedaled to compliment Tae when he realized what he was doing and I was like CAN SOMEONE PRAISE KOOKIE TOO PLEASE AND THANK YOU. Lol.

Anywho, the company is equally chilling on their Jikook agenda which I have speculated on several ttimes so won't get into- it's all so very kumbaya and God, I hate it. Lol.

Give me the chaos goddammit!

I feel Jlkook loosen up in contents that aren't like super official business moments and that's when you see their domesticity. Lol.

You see them having their me time in the background of some of the content, and in one of the interviews where they were sat a good feet apart but they kept moving closer and closer till eventually after their lunch break cut, they were sat very close to each other.

I'm not a fan of the cameras being shove in their faces during their private moments- Kookie certainly doesn't appreciate that either.

But they are working for a living nonetheless and making content is what they do for a living. So we are definitely gonna get the content from them alright, the fanservice, the organic moments passed off as fanservice, the moments that should never make it to screen- all nine. Lol.

We are just not going to get them in a way we are accustomed to. And it certainly doesn't help that they are each on their own personal growth journeys- gradually disconnecting from their fanbase, I mean Jk's been long gone duh, and Jimin did say he has come to the realization not everyone in the fandom loves him and he is learning to react less strongly to them; which to me translates as bye bitches you don't deserve me. Lol.

I mean dude didn't bother posting for new year this year- y'all Jimin is done with our ass. We might as well pack our bags and join him in Kookie's Casa. I call dibs on the broom closet under the stairs. Lol.

Jikook gets called fanservice and other creepy slurs in this fandom but people forget all of this is their choice too. They choose, are choosing to share all the bits of them they share with us, with us. Inspite of all the hate and insults, they choose to do that- if they did it for the fanservice don't you think they would have called a time out on it long ago because it's not worth it?

I hate it here.

I guess what I'm saying is, you are right about these observations you've made and some of the things you've pointed out are facts.

But we have talked about all of that so it really shouldn't be anything new? Kindly check my previous posts. I think I shared my point of view on what I think is going on with Jikook, BigHit and BTS.

Other than those, I don't think there is anything major up with Jikook honestly. I keep saying I don't think they are broken up. I don't see either of them closed off, emotionally open to connecting with the others.

If anything I said I feel Jimin is falling in love all over again with Kook. I mean when he looks at him he looks to me as if he is seeing Kook in a different light.

And it's funny how all through out 2020 he kept reiterating how his friends and family and relationships were important to him, shading the ef out of Kook during the Japan Stay Gold promos claiming his relationships were important to him and was what was Gold in his life.

He even went on to talk about picking an accent spending time around his friends and talking with his friends around his birthday but suddenly in the Be behind scenes he was talking about how he's come to the realization BTS is his only true friends and how friends come and go.

Clearly he's had an epiphany of a sort and has been through something post his birthday that has him setting his priorities straight in the aftermath.

In his Weverse magazine, he mentioned how he's recently discovered something about himself, about how he loves to be loved. He then went on to clarify that when during festa he talked about having a desire to perform with the members for a long that that he meant to say he wanted to be with them for a very long time.

But then JK said Jimin said that bit to him first. And if this is the interpretation Jimin is giving to that statement then- one plus one is two honey. Numbers don't lie.

Dude don whispered those sweet empty nothings in JK's ear telling him he wants to be with him for a very long time and shit.

And now homeboy out here setting up roots in gay boulevard. I don't think their well is drying up any time soon. Lol.

They are in a honeymoon phase again and they are not showing us. Stingy bastards! Lol

And when JK said to JM in response, that BTS is his home- wow. He really said that...

He is Jimin's home. Literally. Please, my heartu😭

Jikook is real. Please support them.

Signed,

GOLDY