Also Something I’ve Had On My Mind For A While Is The Idea Of Pope Finding Love While He’s In Jail.

You know what the problem in the fandom is? You know, and you do know already.

It's racism, it's always been about racism.

You'll see white writers ready to die on their hills over certain tropes that cater to the young white masses, but when it's pointed out that the moodboards are mostly thin white women, or that even though it says 'x Reader', you'll find a silky haired, pink cheeked fmc within the writing 9 times out of 10? Crickets. So silent you can hear a pin drop.

If its x Reader, then everyone is supposed to be able to relate, and that doesn't mean blank slate either because that's where the racists can slip in to the role comfortably, blank slate can still be white coded. What does it mean if you come across an 'x Reader' fic that specifically states that reader is BIPOC but you don't read it because you 'can't relate'? You don't have to think too hard about it honestly, because you already know.

So why is it the norm that people think it's okay the other way around? BIPOC readers have had to acclimatize and adapt their way of reading for years in order to be able to absorb themselves in a fic. Accepting it when it states 'readers hair can be put into a messy bun', 'ran his fingers through your hair' 'pink stiffened peaks'. This shouldn't have ever had to happen, but it did and its still happening to this day in the big 2025 when the world is on fire and the governments are dividing people into 'us and them' once again.

This place is supposed to be an escape from all that.

Why can't you relate to an x Reader fic where it clearly states that reader is BIPOC or at least coded as such? Think about it and sit in that discomfort.

Where is the same energy from months ago where people were reblogging anti racism resources and making statements about making their blogs inhospitable to racists? It's gone. You'd rather not upset your white moots and treat your Black and brown moots as disposable, over what? Over fanfiction? Okay then.

It's not 'policing what people can and can't write' that's dismantling the fandom. If you don't like it, don't read it, first and foremost and someone having a differing opinion on a trope isn't censorship or 'bootlicking the patriarchy', by the by.

It's racism, but you already knew that.

You’re not depressed. You just need $250,000 in your bank account.

WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS

WHO IS USING THIS

AN APP??? THEY HAVE A FUNCTIONING WEBSITE

THE LAST FUNCTIONING WEBSITE

Anyone have a happy fix-it fic with Kylo Ren but Han and Luke and Leia didn't die and the family gets back together and bonus points if Hux is there too

holy space balls

Alright… headphones on, volume max. Nighty night ✨❤️

omg this is excellent

From Each According to Their Ability

Jackson!Joel x gn!reader

Masterlists being updating under the new renovation. I went from romanarose to cosmickid-inmotion!!! I have to fix everything up before I add masterlists etc

Summary: You're fully deaf, and you're begining to feel frustrated with not being seen as a productive human with your own capabilities.

Warnings: Covert ablism. Nothing extreme but just to be fair. Reader lost their hearing in a explosion. Mention of meth. That's it i think, lmk if I missed anything!

Disability Visability event OPEN THROUGH THE END OF MAY!

A note on disability and employment after the fic.

Based on an ask I got by @goodbyetothenight! Back in October I said i was done writing Joel due to constant abuse from the fandom. However, in the spirit of an inclusive enviorment for people of all kinds I decided to write this piece. I took a intro to disability class where one of my big projects was on disability and employment, and i have a good friend who used to do dead/HOH advocacy so I feel pretty comfortable with this subject. As many of you know, for a long time i suffered hearing loss due to what i know know was a mass in my ear. I got it removed and hear much better now, but it was bad enough it caused problems for me. Still, if I said anything offensive please let me know!!

Dividers by @bernardsbendystraws

1.7k words

(I changed it to gn reader so if theres accidentally anything indicating gender other than the 50s housewife joke which i think works either way, lmk!!)

To each according to their need, from each according to their ability.

That was the communist manifesto, wasn’t it? Honestly you don't remember anymore, college was so long ago, and you’d have enough brain trauma. Of course your memory wasn’t what it once was. 

What you did remember was Maria saying, “Everyone has their place”

The accident was how they’d found you; how Joel had found you, actually. No, you weren’t making meth in Wyoming after the world had gone to shit, but you might have been known to… do some trade running is all. Imagine your surprise when you came to a supplier, were having a chat, when his entire lab blew up… and all the explosives he’d stored in the next room. 

You laid there in the rubble, making peace with your ending when and angel appeared in flannel.

You didn’t hear a word he’d said, the ringing in your ears far too loud, but after he’d taken the parts of the house that’d fallen on you and shortly before passing out, you were certain you could read his lips.

I got you.

You had lost all your hearing. This made you hesitant to join the community Joel had brought you too, but what choice did you have now? Maria, in conversing through writing, had assured you that there would be work for you and you’d be provided for in return.

“Not everyone does patrol.”

But you couldn’t do a whole lot you used to do either. Anything that involved needing to be very aware of surroundings was a no. No construction, for obvious reasons. None of the farm work: if there was a clicker or a siren went off, what if you were too far out and no one got you? No teaching, the kids, no large animals, not even cooking because you couldn’t hear when someone said ‘behind!’ or ‘sharp knife!’ or ‘oven open!’

Yeah, you did work. You did a lot of sewing, mostly. Sometimes you could watch the young children in the nursery, just not alone. You did what you could but sometimes you felt useless. It’d been a year now, and you struggled to feel yourself all the time. The world kinda being over meant not much for options like hearing aids, but your deafness was so profound you weren’t sure anything could have fixed it.

Sign language wasn’t happening. You’d learned some things because some people in Jackson knew a little but there was no one really an expert. Besides, at this point it was hard to learn something new. You counted your blessings. You could read lips pretty well, and you could talk, so most communication face to face was fine… unless people were weird.

Maria and her husband, Tommy, were nice and acted normal. They invited you over quite a bit and always spoke clearly, so you could read. Not that thing a lot of people did where they spoke slowly or over-enunciated. That didn’t help anything. The over enunciating was almost worse than the mumbling, but often the mumbling was mixed with people who wouldn’t even look at you.

Ellie was awkward sometimes but honestly, that was just Ellie. Jesse spoke like a boy scout and was overly formal, but you were pretty sure he was just like that too. He enunciated.

But then there was Joel. Your Joel, as he came to be over the months you’d been here in Jackson. Joel took such care to speak clearly, but also let his personality shine, that smile you loved to see. The teeth so close to perfect, you’d known before you ever explored his mouth he had to have a wire retainer on the back of his teeth. The night it all exploded and he closed the gap between you, you’d slipped your tongue behind the bone and felt the wiring yourself. 

It wasn’t long before you’d moved into Joel’s house, opting to free up a new house for the people kept fleeing to Jackson and finding comfort in the safety of him. You weren’t scared of existing in a house, no, not at all. But there were times you worried you wouldn’t hear a siren or a warning call. Now, even though you would be home alone for hours you knew that there were people that would come for you. Joel would know where you were. Joel would find you.

He always made sure to come from the side or the front where you could see him. Since you couldn’t hear when he came home, sometimes he caught you off guard, but after a few jumpscares living together Joel learned how to enter your vision without giving you damn near a heart attack. Ellie hadn’t quite learned the skill, but she was trying.

Joel’s deep green flannel peaked the corner of your eye as you sewed, and when you looked up, he came into vision. When you can clearly see his face, Joel grins at you. Maria said she’s never seen Joel this happy.

“Hey darl’n,” Joel always tried to stifle the accent to make things easier to lip-read, but it came out in certain words. “How was the day?”

You put down the sewing in a huff, pouting up at him. “I’m tired of this. I want to be useful.”

Concern seeped into his aging face, those two deep lines between his brows coming out to say hello. “What do you mean?” Joel came to sit on the couch with you, and you two turned to face each other.

“I mean, I’m useless, Joel. It’s frustrating! I used to be feared, did you know that? No Tony Soprano or anything, but my god people knew my name some places. I was taken seriously. And now?” You hold up what you were working on. “I’m fixing Eugene’s jeans. His You-jeans, if you will.”

Joel was clearly trying to stifle his smile at your joke, unsure of what tone you needed. “Baby,” He gets out through a laugh. “I promise, you’re valued here. Everyone has a role to play.”

“And mine is nothing better than a 50’s housewife. And I don’t even get to be high and balls on valium while I do it.”

Joel sighed, thinking. “If I could get you valium, I would.”

“I know.”

“Used to be able to. I ever tell you I ran drugs?”

Your ears perk up at that. “Before?”

His eyes go wide. “No, no not… not while I had Sarah. That was Tommy’s scene, if I’m being honest. I mean in Boston. I was a big tough guy, running underground trades. Anyone that crossed me got fucked up. People feared me too.”

It was hard to imagine your sweet old man a fear drug runner… but everyone had a second life before Jackson. “I didn’t know that.”

“Used to be a fist of fury. Now it’s just a hand.” he spread his fingers and grinned. Joel was happy in his new life, you understood. He liked this domesticity.

You give him a smile, but you don’t feel better. “It’s not the same, Joel. You get to use your skills. I’m not even that good at sewing!”

Something in Joel’s expression shifted, he could pick up that this was actually bothering you, not just a mild inconvenience.

You continued, softer. “I wouldn’t have an issue if all I was good for is sewing. I understand everyone has their place, everyone is important. But I feel like I’m not being used to my fullest. I’m not a child just because I’m disabled.”

He looked you, those two lines thick with thought before he sighed again. “When I… when I lost some of my hearing, it was confusing. I mean, it was a confusing time in general but navigating everything while dealing with the fact I was never going to hear the same wasn’t easy. I thought, how can I protect Tommy like this? Sarah was dead, all I had left was Tommy. I thought okay, you only have one fucking job left and it’s keeping him safe. It was like we were teenagers again.” That flicker of sadness across his face, the look of a man who was nearing 60 but still shivered at the thought of his father. He shakes the thoughts away. “I had to figure it out, but I would be damned if I let Tommy help me. I hated that shit; I still do.”

You nod a little. “I get that.”

“I know, and darl’n,” His eyes flittered away, and his lips didn’t move enough. “I feel protective of you-”

“What’s that? You’re mumbling.”

Joel snaps back to look at you, eyes apologetic. “Shit, Sorry,” He was clear now. “I just mean, i feel protective of you, but maybe instead of protecting, I should be advocating.”

Your heart clenches, feeling nothing but love for you sweet, still-fresh boyfriend. “I love that you like protecting me. I love when you got your arm wrapped around me when we talk in the tipsy bison… We met because you were protective, even of a complete stranger.” You give Joel a peck on the lips. “But could we talk to Maria about figuring something else out? I can work with my hands Joel, I can be productive for more than Sewing. AND I’LL SEW!” You raise your hands in defense, and Joel chuckles. “I’ll sew too, don’t get me wrong, just… please. I need more.”

He nods. “Yeah baby. I know we can figure something out.”

And you trusted him.

Later that day, you and Joel sat down with Tommy and Maria and explained how you felt. Maria emphasized safety, including yours. You knew she meant well, but I felt frustrated. Joel stepped in. 

It wasn’t long before you joined the construction crew. Not on the field, not climbing around where constant spatial awareness and knowing where everyone was was necessary, no. But a corner of the shop was set up just for you, a space people could only enter with express verbal permission from you, a space you could work with your hands and saw and cut and nail and wire. 

And yeah, sometimes you still sewed, but you don't mind it as much now. Not when you finally felt fulfilled.

Disability and employement.

For a long time, disabled people were often given menial labour jobs, like putting caps on pens, for pennies. Many people thought all disabled people could do was barely contribute to society. This seems to be RFK's thought process to.

LET ME BE CLEAR. You do not need to work to be valuable. Some poeple can't work, and they contribute in other ways. Some people simple cannot work. Everyones life is important and disabled people deserved dignity no matter what. You don't need to be paying taxes to be worth something. Human value is innate.

BUT, just because one is disabled does not mean they cannot work. Many, like myself, WANT to work, meaningful work we feel proud in. I'm lucky to have a job that works well with my disabilities. In this story, we briefly explore the reasonable accommodation. In the past, my emplyers have not had to give an accomidation but I've had costumers be extremely rude with my hearing loss.

Maria is not mean to be the bad guy here. She cares for reader, wants reader to be happy and safe and keep those around them safe, but she wasn't thinking outside the box. Joel gave reader the chance to speak, then helped advocate for them like a good partner.

I want to leave you with this fact I learned from my disability and employment project.

Did you know? Disabled people hired very rarely need much accomidation, and the accomidation is usually pretty cheap if anything. In return, disabled people have much lower turnover rates, which saves the company money. This is a purely capitalist arguement, but unfortunetly we live in a capitalist society. Next time someone wants to say something negative about the ADA or requiring accomidations at work, remember that disabled people are very valuable in a job.

Thanks guys!

@my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @copperhalfcent @miraclesabound @quiet-night-sky-writers-blog @missdictatorme

ill get a proper tag list going i swear sorry if yall arent interested

The Mirage of a Goodbye

Here is my story for @almostfoxglove 's angst writing challenge! The moodboard gave me some trouble while I thought about what I could write, but once the ideas came, it was fun to write it, and a little heartbreaking too. It's been a pleasure to participate. I hope anyone who reads it will like it.

@schnarfer, thank you so much for being so wonderful and sharing your thoughts with me! They have been tremendously helpful and appreciated. And to my friends @thundermartini @encasedinobsidian and @joelmillerisapunk for always being so supportive and sweet. Love you all!🫂♥️

Masterlist // AO3 link

pairing: din djarin x fem! able-bodied reader summary: Forgiveness and healing are heavy words. They come with a price, one that may be life-changing tonight. word count: 2700 tags/warnings: medieval au, angst, did I say angst?, a good dose of angst, grief, mentions of death, established relationship, eight years gap (if it can be considered an age gap), mentions of pregnancy, reader has no description other than having hair, no use Y/N

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

The sound of the pestle grinding against the mortar, the constant, uninterrupted motion, is almost numbing. A reprieve. Bathed in candlelight as the moon rules the sky, and insomnia is her cruel fellow. Seizing her focus while the food, her maid's last attempt to nourish her, lies forgotten on the table in front of the hearth as she stands in the alcove where her healing tools reside wearing only a nightgown. 

Her body is cold as ice. It has been since the day he abandoned her, and nothing is powerful enough to warm her. 

The rotation of her wrist, pulverising, transforming the blend of herbs into a mixture to combat infection, mutes the cacophony in her mind, offering a solace -the safety her chambers haven't been able to provide. 

It puts a halt to the endless reminiscence in the spare seconds that had invaded her dreams, building in exchange a wall of loneliness sinking its claws around her, tall and wide. Unapproachable. Ripping them beyond recognition as the week-long celebrations for the anniversary of the end of the war became grief and death, turning them into a void shell. The musings of an innocent girl who had yet to experience the world's cruelty in its fullest, not being a mere spectator trying to aid anymore, but proof of how all souls are victims of it. 

"My lady." 

The voice is low and gruff, his, with a cadence ingrained in her core; it's impossible not to recognize it the moment it reaches her ears despite the caution infused in it. 

It doesn't come alone, though. It's accompanied by his hushed steps, tiptoeing into her room, softly sealing the secret door they had discovered many years ago - a covert entrance used countless times to spend time together, seeking privacy and hidden from the outside world. 

“The prodigal son has returned.” 

She turns to stare at him, at Din, memorizing the details that make him whole. Real. Not the mirage that had been her companion while he was gone, poisoning her mind, experiencing a whirlwind of emotions. Hurting, raging, and mourning in equal amounts. Becoming a raw creature, seething with longing, so much it ached; hating him beyond words, hating herself for trusting him, for hoping she'd be someone's first choice for once. Believing she'd never see him again as the days spanned, becoming weeks, lifetimes of misery and penance. Crippled. Barely surviving the vipers at court, learning a role she had never expected to have bestowed upon her as the loss tried to devour her, paying for a sin she hadn't committed.

He's dressed in dark leather and with no trace of his armour tonight, the obsidian scales embellished with hints of gold she had gifted him after becoming the General of her father's army, of the realm's army.

His frame has not changed. Strong and beautiful, sturdy, flooded with life, luring her with his chestnut curls. Tall and broad as the day he vanished three months ago, as she remembers him under her touch, caressing his soft skin, bronzed and scattered with scars and freckles. Gripping her hips, helping her take her pleasure atop him, encasing her body amidst the sheets, feeling safe. Treasured. His weight, caging her, burning alongside hers, dancing, adoring her with his cock sheathed inside her, splitting her, inebriated by the passion, the ecstasy growing till exploding, claiming her with his seed.

“Are you preparing one of your remedies?”

“I’d say so," she states, cutting, a vicious chuckle ripping her tone, refusing to accept his attempt to break the tension between them, thick enough to leave a bitter metallic taste on her tongue.  “Why? Do you also think it's beneath me to prepare them now? That I shouldn't care?"

The firstborn. The boy. The heir. The future king. 

Those had been her older brother's titles -pushing her to exist in his shadow since she was born eight years later than him. She’d learned to accept it, watch her absent parents cherish her in their own way but do nothing to mask their preference. Favoring him, spoiling him, giving him their attention and praise, whereas she was handed to nursemaids and tutors without an extra thought. Not growing resentful and even becoming grateful, happy and keen, valuing the lack of pressure on her shoulders, the freedom it provided. Allowed to learn and become a healer, to prioritise love over political alliances in a marriage, and not be chained, used as bargaining flesh.

A sentiment she had been sure about. But Din’s presence only accentuates her doubts, every decision she has made since her future imploded.

Her heart longs to mend, run to him, bury her face on his torso, and breathe his soothing scent -the hints of rosemary from the soap she prefers merged with his musk- feel his arms envelop her, squeeze her hard, and never let go, allow him to ground her like only he knows how to do. But she doesn't surrender, steeling herself, fuelling her anger, folding her forearms over her chest to prevent herself from reaching for him, staring at him in silence, expectant, purposefully making him uncomfortable.

“No, I… I brought you something.”

The tension in his frame bleeds to his words as he approaches her, maintaining his distance. Insecure, hovering around the table as he sets down the bundle he's carrying, shrouded in a thick cloth.

The shape is foreboding, straight, and long, causing a pricking sensation that traverses her from the base of her spine to her neck as she unwraps it, recognising it instantly. A sharp blade black as coal, with an angular hilt carved with an engraving she doesn't require to see to be certain it's there. The will be done. Branding it, bestowing a name almost forgotten, a myth considered lost long ago. The Darksaber. A blade of kings, of worthy rulers blessed by the Gods.

“What have you done?” She demands. The pain of his betrayal stabs her, slicing her heart, and making her recoil in disbelief and rage.

“It’s yours.”

“Mine?” 

“It’s my gift to legitimise your reign," he offers, raising his palm, trying to hold hers. But she moves backward, using the table as a barrier, swatting his attempts, her pain blinding her to the damage her rejection provokes.

“It’s not. This is a curse. Tradition…”

“You’re breaking tradition. I thought…”

“You thought? How could you? The only way to yield it is by winning it in combat. You know it.  Everyone knows the legend. What have I done to deserve this?”

“I only wanted to help,” he implores, failing, interrupted by her reproaches.

“Help? How? By leaving when I needed you the most?" Her finger points at him accusingly, being both judge and executioner. "The only reason the Lords accept me as their Queen is because I’m the only option. And you go and bring this? No one would believe I’d best you. They are going to declare it’s a favor from the Gods.”

“I…”

“Is this your attempt to get the crown without bloodshed? You would have more than enough shore. The Armorer and his cohort still think the crown should have gone to your father, not mine.”

“I’d never do that.”

“Color me surprised," she scoffs, "your actions are speaking quite loudly. Perhaps I should do that, give you the crown, and be free from everything."

“What do you want from me.” It's just a murmur, begging, reverberating in the walls like a roar, as intense and dangerous, silencing her

She wishes to curse at him, wound him, scar him as much as he has done to her. Send him away, sentence him, banish him from her presence, enforce the power she has now, the one she's still getting used to, but she doesn't. His solemn countenance, sad, haunted, the lack of sleep in his stare, glassy with unshed tears, the intensity in them, the one perpetually existing in his gaze, make her shudder and lift the veil of her sorrow.

They are one of her earliest memories: his eyes. Brown, filled with kindness and childlike wonderment. He’s unremarkable to many, low born, easy to forget, to pass over, undeserving of a second glance. The eyes of an orphan, the son of the king's brother-in-arms, who had perished leading the rebellion that had granted her father the throne, adopted by the new king and raised with his children, sharing the age with her brother. She had forever been aware of the truth, conscious of their uniqueness from the beginning. 

Honest, trustworthy, pools to his soul that matured as he grew and developed new shades. Magnificent. Protective. Always looking at her with respect, sometimes teasing but never mocking, attentive, knowing of her worth independent of her sex, by being herself. Bewitching her, lavishing her with the attention she deserved, allowing her to bask in it as much as she desired, encouraging her to do so, constantly seeking her, falling in love in stolen moments. Infatuated and passionate as they kissed, losing their innocence together, sharing countless nights in the sanctuary of her rooms, asking her to marry, promising to never hurt her or give her motive to doubt his loyalty.

“The truth.” Two words, simple, easy to voice, yet massive and terrifying to answer to, decisive. “It was naïve of me to presume you'd still want me, but you left. You looked me in the eyes announcing my father and brother’s death, kneeled like everybody else, declared me queen, and left.”

“I’ve never stopped wanting you. You must believe me, but it was not appropriate for me to approach you. Appearances…”

“Fuck appearances! We were an open secret. People may not have proof of the depth of our connection, but they know what we meant to each other. I had convinced Father. He planned to announce our betrothal that day. Once you returned from the hunt.”

“I tried to later," he admits with remorse embedded in his expression, "but you were talking with Lord Vanth.” 

“You thought I’d stray?”

“No. Never, but it made it impossible to ignore my shortcomings.”

“What?”

“I’m no politician. I don’t understand the court's intrigue. I’m a warrior. I’m not good enough for you, a Queen.”

“Don’t you think that’s why you’re the right one? Why I'd choose you over anyone else,” she offers, her tears falling, rolling down her face like rivers, unstoppable. “I know it’s selfish to ask, but the only way I can confront it, not be destroyed by the Crown, is if I have someone as loyal and faithful as you. The warrior you are, who has the army’s fealty and respect. A shield. A sword. A friend who will see me and not a tool for power, who will not muffle me to aid his own ambition but support me. A Consort I love and who loves me just as fiercely.”

“I…”

“Why did you leave?” she requests, gentler, still not giving in.

“I got scared. I couldn’t breathe, so I went to our tree.” Her hope grows at his confession, loud, taking root in her chest, blooming. "We haven't been there in a long time.”

“Oh.” 

She stays still as he approaches her, tracking his movements, holding his gaze, gasping at the first contact. His skin grazes hers, grabbing her fingers, restoring the warmth she had been bereft of, infusing her lungs with fresh air.

“I was remembering our moments there and sensed this pull in my gut as if someone were calling me. My father’s voice echoed in my mind, urging me to do what we said we'd do as kids. Crack the riddles and find the Darksaber.” 

"Why didn’t you tell me?"

"Because I wouldn’t have been able to leave you." The rawness is proof of his honesty, letting him tug her closer. "It sounds insane, and perhaps it was the fear taking control, but I couldn't ignore it. It took me longer than I intended, but I found it.” His mouth curls at her response, the obvious wish to question for more details. "I’ll tell you everything," he promises, pecking her knuckles slowly, relishing in the action, the privilege. “Once I touched the hilt, all fell into place. I wasn't scared anymore. I was sure where I was meant to be. Beside you. Always." His lips grace her again, worshiping, resting his other hand on her lower abdomen. "I saw you. I felt so proud. You looked so beautiful. Powerful, holding the saber for everyone to see, with the crown in your head and your belly swollen, carrying our child.”

“What?” As soon as he says it, she knows it's true, suddenly remembering how long it has been since she last bled, no longer able to claim that her tiredness came from her lost sleep, from the myriad of tasks she had to face each day, no longer able to assume her nausea was a present from her anxiety, deny what her body had known for weeks, no longer able to restrain her fears.

Her heart gallops against her ribs as her palm lands close to his, not touching, forming a protective barrier with only a few inches between them.

How could she be a good mother when her own had been so lacking? When she barely knows how to reign. Who she is. How to embrace her identity now. When the terrifying prospect of having to do it alone seems so certain at this juncture, and the worry of being pressured to renounce her child for being born out of wedlock looms in her mind.

“Will you forgive me?" His question is a plea, a whisper slipping from his mouth with sorrow infused in his irises as he cradles her cheeks, kissing her forehead, and his thumb caresses her cheekbone. Ensuring her attention and belief in him as he keeps talking. “You’re not the only option. You’re the best one, better than your father was, and better than your brother or me could have ever been.”

It’s easy to believe him. Understand his motives and feelings. Forgive him despite needing time to heal. To picture them together, facing every challenge as a team, turning the Realm into a better place to live, safer and prosperous, raising the child in her womb and any other they would be blessed with, being the parents they never had, growing old, and creating thousands of memories.

“I’m sorry. I tried my best. Don't ever forget that I love you.”

It's a vow sealed with a secret barely contained, with a grievous hue alluding to a deeper significance in his visit. Pushing her to move, raise her hands to his chest to pull him closer and taste his lips, ask what worries him, what he's yet to voice, and share his burden. But a sudden knock on the door distracts her. It opens with urgency before she has time to welcome the intrusion, showing the concerned expression of one of her guards. 

“Your grace, the General has come back.” 

Her jaw opens, ready to state the obvious and acknowledge the man before her. But when she looks, her hands are empty, raised in the air with nothing to grasp. She’s standing alone, bewildered, frozen, staring at the void where he had been seconds ago as Ser Mayfeld continues informing her, and dread invades her.

“He was found unconscious atop his horse in the stables. He has a serious wound on his thigh. The fester has reached his blood, and the healers don’t think he’ll survive.”

The glint of the blade invading the corner of her eye, lying where Din left it, ensures her sanity. No godsend. Damnation, trying to take her man, demanding a price she's unwilling to pay.

Awakening her from her stupor as the pestle calls for her. Giving a new meaning to the tug she had sensed earlier, not only a seek for comfort in the motions and aromas of the healing herbs anymore but a forewarning of the need for a salve to clean the infection.

She seizes it, feeling its weight on her palms, her mind enumerating what she will need, trembling, almost knocking down the other tonics on the table, grabbing them in a rush to throw them in her satchel. And starts to run.

He deserves to live, to be a father. And her child deserves the father she knows Din would be. Stern only when forced to, gentle, patient, silly in private, fun, dotting, attentive, and loving.

She refuses to yield. It cannot end like this when the future is close enough to graze it.

She won't let him go without a fight. He must survive.

Npt (because there was interest in my WIP Wednesday!) @whocaresstillthelouvre @milla-frenchy @jennaispunk @604to647 @pascalssbabyy

@yxtkiwiyxt @aurorawritestoescape @secretelephanttattoo @baronessvonglitter @burntheedges

my girl 🩷🩷

Dominique Thorne as Riri Williams/Ironheart

dir. Sam Bailey and Angela Barnes | Ironheart (2025)

Dave

There’s this guy,

His name is Dave.

He doesn’t know me and I don’t know him.

But I do know a little about him.

What little he’s shared - anyway.

He seems nice and lovely and kind.

He works hard and puts effort into what he does.

But we all know - those of us who’ve heard his songs - that the man we know hasn’t always had it easy

He has a dark past - a sunken place.

He has dark thoughts and sometimes they suffocate

him to the point where he needs to scream to let it out.

But he never lets that get to him.

I admire Dave,

because we’ve both been through some things.

I admire Dave because he’s had it worse than me,

but he’s still going.

I admire Dave because as far as I know he’s an admirable guy.

I hope one day I can meet him,

I hope one day I can be him,

but that’s probably not going to happen

I could use some 💪 luck