#Dream is having a rough path of healing but it may surprise you but he is healing.

[ancha-aus]

RealAgeAU Drabble - Therapeutic

New drabble drop. The awaited conversation between Dream and Ccino. @spotaus you ready for another gut punch for Dream my friend :D

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no edit or beta! :D

*-------------------*

Dream tugs on his vest as he glances at the cafe door.

He sees more people leave. As they have been for the last half hour.

It is fine! There is no reason to be nervous! He is just going to visit a place where someone works and lives who may have been kinda friends with Dream's brother!

The same brother that Dream has been actively working against because he was so convinced he knew better what was going on and instead of talking to his twin Dream decided it was smarter to trust other people's opinions who Dream had only known for a while and who were not close to his brother at all!

The same brother that seems to have disappeared and who Dream is no worried sick about while everyone around him celebrates his disappearance! Again because Dream messed up his job!

Dream leans against the wall and tries to calm his racing soul "it is fine. it is fine. it is fine. the worst that can happen is him telling you to get the fuck out and never return." which would include dream losing his one possible lead to find his brother.

Happy thoughts.

...

Dream shakes his skull. no. No forced happy thoughts. that is part of the reason he is struggling this much now.

Dream takes adeep breath and mutters to himself "let the fear be there. let it be with you. but don't let it consume you. don't let it keep you from doing what you wish to do." a bit of an exercise that Blue's Undyne had thought of for him. As she also struggles mentally with quite a few things.

Dream nods to himself and slowly nears the door to the cafe. a glance inside. just to make sure he isn't still busy. damnit the cafe is empty.

Well! Here goes nothing and everything!

He pushes the door open.

Ccino looks up and speaks with a practised smile "Welcome to the Cuddly Cat-" he stops and stares.

Dream tries to look calm but can't help himself as he slowly raises his hand and gives it a tiny wave.

Ccino's shock transforms into a glare as he hisses out "Well if it isn't the god that didn't even bother to read his own job description.".

Dream can't help but start laughing. It is almost a relieve! so many people had been trying to cheer him up and reassuring him that everyone messes up and that what he did wasn't that bad. It is so much better. He hadn't realised how badly he wanted at least one person to actually hold him accountable. To actually look him in the face and just straight up tell him he messed up.

Dream smiles brightly at Ccino as he answers "I know right? I made a mess of things… It is just…" he takes a deep breath. the hard part. Why he came here and hoped Ccino would have info. Because over the last few weeks a memory had suddenly stood out to him. cats who all looked and acted so much like others who Dream knew "I heard you have... very special cats and i was hoping to meet them?"

Ccino hesitates. Ccino keeps glaring at him but then his sight turns slightly and Dream can see him eye a piece of paper. Dream glances at it and sees his own pamphlet. He had left them in every universe he could think of to give everyone a quick update.

It is still a lot of work to continue clean up all the hatred he had unknowingly spread and promoted but it was a start.

Ccino sighs but he waves him over "make sure to turn the sign to closed please."

Dream blinks before smiling brightly as he does just that. he steps fully inside and turns the sign.

Ccino goes around quickly and closes the curtains and everything. Then he walks over to a table and just takes a seat.

Dream joins him at the table and smiles "thank you so much for doing this."

Ccino huffs as he leans on his fist "I figured you would keep bothering me otherwise."

It hurts to not be trusted nad Dream wonders if Nighty had to feel this daily. First in their own universe and than still in the multiverse. for over 500 years. actually being able to feel how everyone hated and distrusted him.

Dream rubs his hands "I... i would have respected a no... if you want i can still leave." he doesn't want to lose this chance... but he can't make stuff even worse. He just misses his brother so much. had missed him for so long already.

Ccino just waves it off and looks at him expecting.

Dream swallows and looks around the cafe for a moment before looking back at Ccino "I... i remembered that some of your cats were... special... in their looks and acting.. .and I was wondering... is it a coincidence or..."

Ccino snorts as he leans back "Yes. they are counterparts to other outcodes and important players in the multiverse. No i don't specifically look for them or get them or make them." he rolls his eye lights "They just show up at my front or back door and i let them stay. Sometimes some leave again."

Dream gives a slow nod and manages to gather his nerves "is... is... Is my brother's? Is my brother's cat okay? I... I can't remember seeing his cat and it is my brother! He is a god he has to be important and be here at least." he can't keep the desperate hope in anymore.

Ccino shrugs "being a god doesn't necessarily mean they show up here. it would be rather busy in here otherwise as there is a surprising large number of gods." he huffs and dream can hear Ccino mutter "with multiple universes completely focussed on making gods and having gods."

Dream alughs and nods "that is fair... it is just... i remember seeing a cat that was.. well... me.... I figured.. .there is no way that i would be there and not Nightmare."

Ccino snorts and grins "Every protagonist needs an antagonist after all."

Dream glares at the table before shooting him a glare "no not like that!"

Ccino tilts his skull and grins "relax. Antagonist doesn't automatically mean evil or anything. it means they are someone who goes against the protagonist and their goal." he shrugs "seeing as we both know nightmare had been right and you were wrong. he was still the antagonist in your story."

Dream shakes his skull "he wasn't!"

Ccino glares at him "it isn't like you left him any other role to play."

it hurts so much to know that and Dream glares "i know! Okay?! I know I messed up. I just want to find him and apologise. i need to tell him i am sorry and that he was right." that Dream lvoes him. that he is sorry. and that... that it is okay if nightmare hates him... that dream would deserve that but dream needs to make sure that nightmare knows he is sorry. that Dream regrets everything and is trying to make it right again.

Ccino stares at him before sighing and getting up. he walks towards the cattree and Dream feels his hopes fall. he is going to be send away... not even a single clue and-

very angry cat meowing as Dream watches his own counterpart cat be pushed into a side room and the door to close. Next ccino goes to the counter. He dips behind it and Dream hears a cabinet open.

After he hears panicked meowing as Ccino rises again. in his arms a large cat. maybe a main coone? but Dream feels himself start to hope as he can spot four large tails and one slow blinking cyan eye.

That is... oh fuck... that actually is!

Ccino wlaks over as three cats follow him on the ground. Dream looks at them and it is pretty obvious it are Killer, Cross and Horror. Dream wonders why they are following when he sees the cat and feels his soul grow cold.

Nightmare's.... his cat looks sick and tired.

Ccino sits in a chair closer to Dream as he gently pets the cat. Nightmare's cat purrs and leans into the touches.

Killer's cat jumps on the table and meows loudly before marching over to Ccino's side and nudging his arm. Ccino stops with petting and Killer's cat stands partly in Ccino's lap to nuzzle and clean ngihtmare's cat.

Dream looks at ccino "waht... why is he...?"

Ccino answers softly "sick? tired? older? I don't know. I have no idea what caused this..." he loks so sad as he pets the cat "I never saw anything like this before..."

Dream remembers his own weakening powers. the way he had been slowly but surely loosing his own powers and magic as he has lost his domain.

This confirms it... Nightmare's also lost his... but he was being kept alive by said magic and powers.

Dream raises a shaky hand "can i... cna i try to heal him?" anything. please let him try.

Ccino looks very unsure and loks at the cats before looking back at the door where Dream can hear his own cat version scream its head off.

Ccino sighs and nods "you can try. nothing the vet did seemed to help him much. he is just... much older now according to him."

Dream still tries. he first pets the cat gently. the goop feels strange but comforting. Dream never thought he would think of the goop like that. he had believed for so long that the goop had taken his brother from him. that it was something to be removed. But if the goop was just the apples magic trying to keep him whole? How could dream hate it? How could he hate something that saved his brother?

Now it is his turn.

He holds his hand near the rib cage of the cat and he can see NGihtmare's cat shoot him a suspicious look.

Ccino chuckles "i wouldn't touch a cat's belly if i were you. that is a very strict no-touching zone for most of them, no matter who you are."

dream shoots him a smile "that is okay. i wasn't going to touch him there." and even if he wouldn't mind too much. he focusses the little magic he still has and tries to heal the cat.

His magic doesn't touch anything that could be healed. according to his magic everything going on wiht the cat is natural and normal. there is nothing to heal.

Dream frowns as he pulls his hand back and looks sad at nightmare's cat. Dream can't even help him like this...

Ccino sighs but seems unsurprised "I figured as much... don't feel bad. the vet already tried healing magic himself. I just try to make sure he can relax and rest."

Dream frowns at the door "why keep... my cat version away from him?" doens't he hear how desperate his cat is calling for nightmare's?

Ccino looks to the side and shrugs "i mean... before when these two got near each other your cat would... well... attack... all the time. It was saver for both to keep them seperated. and now wiht him weaker... I just didn't want to risk it." ccino pets the old cat.

Dream's hand forms fists as he glares down. his sockets itch with tears but he forces them in. this isn't about you. this isn't about you. your brother is dying somewhere. this isn't the time to make this about you or your pain. you don't even have the right to feel the pain. you are part if not the whole reason this happened.

Ccino gets up and takes nightmare's cat with him again. Dream wants to stop him. beg him to just let him hold his brother's counterpart. if only for a little while. but he doesn't.

Dream remembers how his own aura and the goop could get when they met in battle. he doesnt want to risk making it worse.

ccino returns to their table. also the other three following him gone again.

Dream feels hopeful and stares at him "his... his gang cats stay with him?"

Ccino blinks but grins "yeah. all the time. there is always at least one wiht him."

Dream sighs and smiles "that is good... that... that should mean he has them with him now right? that he isn't alone?" at least?

Ccino shrugs "it means there is no animosity between them all. that they all care. that is all i am sure about."

drema nods and rubs his arm "why... why don't people remember this? I get why you don't tell but how come no one notices?"

ccino shrugs "i am not sure how. people just don't. if anyone is willing to hurt someone within the cat group? they just.. don't notice or remember. it is why i am even willing to have this conversation. you remembering implies you won't hurt him."

dream feels himself relax and nods "i won't" never again.

Ccino nods "i figured... but that is what i know. i don't have any othr information for you."

dream smiles "that is okay... he is alive... and most likely not alone. that is more than i knew before." he may not be able to find nightmare fast. but he has a place where he can go to check if nghtmare is still alive. and then while he waits for their meeting. Drema can work on himself.

He can work on teaching the multiverse the truth and find his own calling.

Dream can work on his own trauma nad heal.

All while he searches for his brother.

This? This just showed that it isn't too late. His brother is still somewhere and there is time to fix this mess.

It won't be easy. but he can fix this. and that gives him hope.

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[dreadfutures]

Justice.

“Despite the secrets,” she said. “Despite the blood… Despite the doubt…”

“It does not have to be ‘despite,’” Solas replied. “You walk your paths with open eyes, and you have shown love and care for the world not ‘despite’ the darkness you see in it, but including it. Would you be so surprised to inspire the same in others?

“Though the path forward is unknown—to you, and to me… I find myself with more hope for the future than I have felt in a long, long time, Ixchel. So yes,” he whispered against her lips. “I am happy.”

Dead Pasts and Dread Futures is the story of Ixchel healing herself of the deepest despair and fighting to have hope for herself. Her story continues in Rogasha’ghi’lan (The Brave Guide), where she will try to bring that hope to her world— and bring as many people with her as possible.

Details (x). Full version (x). Symbolism below.

Other Cards: Wheel of Fortune (x). The Tower (x). Knight of Swords, Reversed (x).

Justice: (x)

UPRIGHT: equilibrium, equity, balance, wisdom, justice, truth, cause and effect REVERSED: prejudice, bias, injustice, lack of accountability, dishonesty

When Justice appears, it should be taken as a stern reminder that the deeds of the past form the foundation for the events of the present and the future. (x)

The Sword: Ixchel is a two-handed warrior, hence there is a sword in every single card in Ixchel’s series. Here it symbolizes how Ixchel’s battle with depression and hopelessness may never end. But she does not grip it tightly—it’s not a pitched battle anymore. She has found a peace for herself, and a confidence that when the going gets rough, she’ll be able to handle it. She is also The Champion of the People, and she will gladly raise her sword in defense of the downtrodden across Thedas. It glows, just as her hand does, to light the path forward.

The Cloak: In the Justice tarot card, it is the red cloak that gives our judge the authority to mete out judgements. Usually the card also features a curtain, acting as the Veil between one world and the other, action and consequence, and obscuring the machinations of the universe that connect them. The cloak only appears on one side in this card, however—leading to the Fade, and trailing behind her as she leaves the darkness of her death and despair and travel forward into a world of new hope. (x)

The Orb: Here the orb is in vivid detail and glows; Ixchel raises the Anchor to light the path, like a torch or a beacon, as the Brave Guide to a better future. In Rogasha’ghi’lan, she saves the orb from destruction and endeavors to purge it of the Blight magic Corypheus put into it, so that she and Solas can protect Thedas from the crumbling Veil and the Evanuris it was meant to trap.

Solas: Ixchel’s story isn’t just the story of how she overcomes grief, loss, and despair in order to find a self-renewing hope for the world. In so many ways, she and Solas walk the same path of duty without end: the din’an’shiral. They are not narrative foils, but rather they mirror each other perfectly. In the end, they realize that neither of them need to walk it alone, nor does it need to lead to death. They share in all things, including an unending trust in one another: Ixchel does not fear what Solas will do with the power of a god in his grasp, and he does not seek it for himself because he knows it lies in good hands.

Covered Eyes: Is he covering her eyes, or is he clearing them? Does she need to see, or is she certain enough of the way? Ixchel leads the way, and Solas looks off to the more hopeful future ahead of them, even when she cannot see it herself.

Ginkgo/Golden Trees: Ixchel’s aspirational hope is depicted throughout her story as golden ginkgo trees. She and Solas have found a place for themselves that is surrounded by them. In their dreams they sometimes return to a grove of ginkgo trees that they call “a golden Elsewhere”—a memory of a place dear to Solas in Elvhenan.

Marigolds (The Ardent Blossom): Ixchel’s Ardent Blossom is a motif throughout DPDF: They are “Felgaral dir’vhen’an. Throughout history, similar items have been given to great warriors selected to be a ruler’s Champion. It stems from tales of Andruil giving such a prize to Ghilan’nain.”(x and x). They become emblematic of what she stands for, what she fights for, as Inquisitor, and rebels across Thedas begin to wear flowers in their hair to align themselves with her movement for equality. They are symbolic, too, of how she bridges her heritages and acts as a Champion for them both. She is coded to be mixed-race, and her name itself is Mayan, hence I wished for them to be marigolds. Marigolds are also tied to guiding the spirits of the dead to visit the living, something Ixchel metaphorically does by connecting the ancient history of Thedas to its present, to inform the future.

The Seven Ribbons: (These are a little obscured by her pose: they’re the ribbons with gold attachments that hang from her cuirasse.) The number seven represent either the threat of the Evanuris, or the Seven Old Gods of Tevinter—the last remaining threat to Thedas once she has defeated Corypheus and convinced Solas to abandon the din’an’shiral.

The Background: Throughout this series, the demarcation between the Waking World and the Fade is taken from symbolism in Solas’s murals, where a green background is given to the Fade. The Waking World is given in blue backgrounds and the ginkgo leaves of hope.

[funkzpiel]

I'll raise you: Everything in the Djinn episode happens the way it did, but even though Jaskier still has his voice he never uses it to sing again...

“You don’t sing anymore.”

Jaskier looked at him from across the fire, the flames casting his face into a maelstrom of flickering colors, distracting from the surprise written plainly there. The bard had paused with his flask halfway up to his lips, stock still like a deer in the woods awaiting the pack that’s come to chase it down.

And Geralt certainly intended to do just that. He couldn’t handle the silence anymore - constant and insufferable. No. That wasn’t not quite right. It wasn’t silent. Jaskier still babbled like he wanted to use every word he could before the grave, but he didn’t sing anymore, and Geralt had never realized how much of Jaskier’s very being was song. Their travels turned into quiet, meandering conversations that the witcher didn’t know how to navigate. It required opinions, words - none of which he had.

Jaskier’s singing had served as a bridge in their companionship. Something to keep Jaskier’s mouth busy, an outlet for the bard’s energy - and while Geralt would never admit it, it had been a pleasant way to pass the time. Even now, he didn’t know why he had ever wished it away… Perhaps because he had been unused to it.

And change was a frightening thing.

“Thought you didn’t like my flavor of pie?” Jaskier asked pointedly before taking a swig. The liquor makes his voice rough. Geralt didn’t quite know why that incited a protective flare in him; a desire to spare the bard’s voice lest it break and weaken. Never the same.

He grunted because aye, he had said that. He knew that well enough. Dreamed of it. Just one more stone picked away from the mountainside, one more trigger to the rockslide of tragedy that was his constant companion in life. He rubbed at his face and searched for the words. Even after days of having decided that this conversation needed to happen, he found the message elusive. Jaskier plucked narratives and flowery diction from the air as easily as Geralt could find flies on Roach’s ass - it felt oddly unfair to feel so inadequate by comparison when it counted most.

Perhaps it was a muscle… Muscles required practice… He would have to think on that later.

“Why did you stop?” Geralt asked.

“Because you wished for me to,” Jaskier murmured, a touch sour beneath his usual bardly enthusiasm, the edge of his voice made sharp by the booze and by the hurt Geralt had been too slow to realize had burrowed into the man’s skin like puss in a wound. Infected and aching, unable to heal.

“I also wished to sleep,” Geralt mumbled defensively, “I’m not exactly a good problem solver.”

“But that’s exactly what you are though, Geralt!” Jaskier said, hands exploding out, “What do you mean? People literally hire you to solve their problems!”

“Their problems,” Geralt said, “Not mine.”

That quieted the bard, the merry crackle of the fire rising to soothe them both in the silence. Out of the corner of his eye, Geralt saw Jaskier work his jaw. He felt a little pang of pleasure to have rendered the man speechless - albeit not exactly under admirable circumstances.

“And what was your problem, Geralt?” Jaskier finally asked, hushed and somber - and more and more, Geralt came to recognize this man as Julian. The man behind Jaskier. The human, not the entertainer. “Is my company truly so burdensome? Why did you allow me to tag along then? You could’ve run Roach at any time, I wouldn’t exactly have been able to keep up on foot before I got Daisy.”

Geralt blew out a breath. This was uncomfortable. Incredibly so. The words he needed felt so far away - fine and hard to hold, like sand slipping through his fingers. The more he struggled to gather them, the more time passed. Finally, Julian snorted - his mask as an easy-going entertainer enclosing around him again - and Geralt knew his window was closing. A window that may not open again.

He knew firsthand the weight of a good mask, afterall. How hard it was to remove it. How dreadful, to reveal one’s face. Let alone to have that trust go to waste. He knew. It just took the witcher far too long to realize he himself had been wearing one as well.

“The Path is lonely. I can count on less than the fingers of one hand how many people would be willing to travel with a witcher. Less so, to happily agree to it. I allowed it, because you… truly appeared to want to travel with me.”

Julian’s gaze was piercing, expressionless and guarded, yet strangely patient across the flicker of the fire. 

“And my singing?”

The witcher’s gaze darted meekly to the fire even as it hurt his eyes to stare. It felt like penance.

“I… I didn’t wish for you to stop singing. I wished for peace. I used to think peace was what I had before. Before you… I just didn’t know that what I had then hadn’t gone by ‘peace’ at all. It was loneliness, and I was merely too used to it to know better.”

His eyes darted up to Julian’s. Caught hold of those cornflower blue eyes and held them in case this was the last time. There was something subtle behind the man’s gaze. Something surprised; as though Geralt was a road he had traveled many times, a path he thought by heart, and yet had found something new.

But the bard didn’t speak, didn’t move, so Geralt continued.

“And I think, well… Few ever agree to travel with a witcher. Even less stay. I thought perhaps… if it were on my terms… it wouldn’t hurt so badly… That if I could just go back to that sense of ‘peace’, I wouldn’t ever have to miss you,” he sucked in a breath, hitched and broken, and admitted softly, “And yet I’ve missed you ever since.”

Julian watched him for a long time. Geralt awaited his response. Expected his meager words to be blown away by the bard’s counter. Instead Jaskier simply stood, and Geralt looked away, his stomach cold as it sank inside him. The bard was leaving. It was finally done. There was nothing left to fix. He had shattered it all, doing what witchers did best: destroy.

He startled when he found two boots come to stand in front of him instead.

“You’re right,” the bard said, astonished, “You are a terrible problem solver. How you’ve maintained such a successful career in the art of it is quite frankly astonishing to me now.”

Geralt looked up, eyes wide, to find Julian still staring down at him. Smiling - the hurt not gone, but not so piercing anymore. Like light coming in through cracked stained glass, filtering not as planned, yet ever more beautiful because of it.

“You’re right. I can’t promise I won’t be gone one day. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned about love, it’s that you can’t have it without pain… I’m mortal. There’s a bit of a looming expiration date on our relationship. One of these days, I’m going to be too old to follow you. Or I’ll be called away for a gig. Or to teach. Or maybe I’ll die, like men do… But I’m not going to just disappear without reason if you don’t make me. We’ll make plans. We’ve got decades to figure it out. Gods above, I can’t even begin to form the words to tell you how utterly mad it is to drive someone away because you’re afraid that they’ll leave. That’s a self-foreseeing prophecy, my dear witcher, and here I thought you hated Fate and any word associated with it.”

Julian smiled. Brought a hand down to brush a white lock back from Geralt’s stunned eyes and tuck it behind his ear. 

“What would you like for me to sing?” He asked.

“Anything,” Geralt whispered.

“Alright,” The bard smiled, taking the spot beside him to curl himself into Geralt’s every crevice. As though he were a being made of water rather than man, made to fill any container, if only one offered him the opportunity to do so. Waiting for it, Geralt realized.

Waiting to come home.

“I’ll sing,” Julian said, leaning into him, “But only because you asked nicely.”

After that, their days were filled with songs; melodious and carrying.

[drawlfoy]

Mirror, Mirror Finale (P.1...)

masterlist (catch up on parts 1-5 here!) request guidelines

pairing: draco x ravenclaw!reader

summary: y/n has had a crush on draco malfoy from afar since--well, forever. what will happen when they’re paired up for prefect rounds and run into a special mirror?

warnings: language

a/n: heyyy guys...how are you doing...so i’m sure you’ve noticed that i have p.1 added into this even though it’s marked as a finale...yes i am aware of the fact but it is not even close to being done and i do not want to give this a half baked ending. i thought you guys might like seeing what i’ve been sitting on for a long time. more writing will be coming soon! i promise! i’m actually working on another oneshot soon that’ll be fun to put out there !

overall tags:  @gruffle1 @missmulti @cleopatera @hahaboop @accio-rogers @geeksareunique @eltanin-malfoy @war-sword @cams-lynn @itsivyberry 

mirror mirror tags:  @theres-a-dog-outside-omg @mey-rapp @kaibie @blackpinkdolan @the-wiener-soldierrrrr @sugarbby99

word count: 2.9k

music recs: i sink i sink -- living hold ; wishes -- beach house ; could this be love? -- saturn 17

Y/N played with the cup of tea that sat steaming before her, running the tips of her fingers around the golden rim. The soft chamomile scent rose up to her nose in charmed yellow tendrils, something that would’ve been calming had she not been sat in front of Professor Trelawny, answering uncomfortable questions and averting her gaze from her loony eyes.

“Dearie, I know that you may not want to share, but it’s incredibly important for the healing process. Even more important than the potions and the tea leaf readings.”

“Er...when I first fell asleep, all my dreams were just of past memories. Aft--”

“Excuse me.” Trelawny held up her hand as she scratched a heading on her parchment. “If you want to get better, you must add more details. What memories? Of what?” 

Y/N swallowed, casting her eyes to the ceiling. “Erm...I saw Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.” Her breath hitched as the professor furrowed her eyebrows. Suddenly the teacup felt scalding in her hand. “I saw our rounds together. When we ran into the mirror, that is.”

“What mirror?”

“The Mirror of Erised.” 

Trelawny raised her eyebrow--a quick motion but not entirely unassuming. “Interesting. Very, very curious indeed. Go on.”

“I saw us...together. I didn’t think that it was a special mirror until afterwards because it looked the same. We were...uhm...together.”

It took a few seconds of staring at Trelawny’s googly eyes before she realized she’d just repeated herself.

“And after that….” Y/N pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to draw out the rest of her memories. “I don’t remember everything else. I’m sorry. It was just everything that I remember about Malfoy in particular...like, the first time I saw him, what it was like to talk to him for the first time, running away from him in the Slytherin dungeons that one night I had to stay overnight for potions...that’s it.”

Her professor nodded gravely, shifting in the only chairs that the hospital wing provided to visitors--hard, cold mahogany wood. “Well done. And after? Once Miss Severyjn woke you up?”

Her throat felt dry. Of course I’d have to recount what happened. Of course I have to tell them about how I had a dream about making out with him in my dorm. Of course. Just my luck.

“I’m sorry,” said Y/N. “It’s just...weird. It felt too private.”

Trelawny seemed slightly empathetic at this; her eyes seemed even kinder (albeit still dreamy) than usual. “I’ve heard it all, love. No need to be ashamed.”

“Okay.” She took a steadying breath. “I...well...it’s fuzzy. I can’t remember exactly why we ended up ditching our rounds and why we decided to go to my dorm instead.”

It was difficult to continue when she saw her companion’s eyebrows shoot up a few inches, but she steeled herself. 

“It took me a long time to unlock my dorm door--I think I was nervous, or something, because my hands were shaking too hard to hold my wand steady. He moved my hand aside and said something--I can’t quite remember what--and he just unlocked it himself. I think I dragged him in by his tie, and he told me that I was trembling, and then before I knew it he was cupping my face. I remember being surprised by how warm his hands were. I thought they’d be colder.”

“Go on, doll. I only need a little bit more.”

“It’s awfully embarrassing, you know,” said Y/N. “I hardly know him.”

“Don’t you worry. Your dream was created by whatever traces of magic the Mirror of Erised left on you. This has nothing to do with how you view Malfoy.”

She dared to smile at this point, mostly as a way to pretend like she wasn’t mortified recounting her tale. “He kissed me. I don’t know if you need any more details, but that’s the grand picture of it all. He kissed me, and I didn’t stop him, and now I feel like a proper creeper, having fantasies about a boy who wants nothing to do with me.”

The wrinkles on Trelawny’s forehead deepened. “Don’t fret. The Mirror of Erised is a very powerful thing. You couldn’t have influenced that dream to work any different than it had. On that note…” She brushed herself off and rolled up the parchment. “You’ve given me enough to work with. The reason why I ask is because sometimes certain dreams can be prophetic--sometimes regarding important wizarding events that the headmaster ought to be aware of--or potentially deadly. Both instances require a bit more...of an intensive treatment regiment, if you will. I’m happy to report to you that your bout of Dream Sickness shouldn’t develop into anything more sinister. I’ll recommend that you stay here for a bit longer, just to ensure that you don’t slip into it again, but you should be able to have visitors and wean yourself off of Dreamless Sleep. Rest up, darling. You have a lot of sleeping to do.”

Y/N smiled weakly as she allowed Trelawny to pluck the teacup from her hands and swirl the leaves about.

“Nothing but good news in your future, just as I suspected. Good night!” 

oOo

Life in the infirmary led Y/N to walk a wobbly line of consciousness. Once Madame Pomfrey lowered the doses of her potion, dreams began to once again tickle at her sleeping mind. Sometimes people she knew would appear next to her bedside, and she was never able to tell if it was real. During one of these instances, Rena appeared to hold her hand and recount the hottest gossip that she missed.

“...And after that, Parvati told Lavender Brown that she was nothing but a ditz whose only acts of Gryffindor bravery had to do with the fact that she left her room every morning wearing THAT disaster of a cloak…but I’m boring you, I can tell.”

Y/N, or perhaps Dream Y/N, whichever one she was, sent her a soft smile. “S’okay. Tell me more.”

“Oh, I totally forgot!” Rena squeezed her hand. “I talked to Flitwick about the whole incident. He sends his condolences. He also says that you’re excused from rounds until we reassign partners. No more late nights with Malfoy!”

She rolled her eyes, shuffling further under the blankets. This was just a dream, just a dream.

“Sucks to be him. He’s gonna have to walk all those big, scary halls alone at night.” 

Rena cracked a grin, but something flashed across her eyes that Y/N couldn’t quite decipher. “Yeah. He already had his knickers in a twist over having to do it the first night. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he missed you.”

“He missed having someone to harass, you mean,” corrected Y/N. 

“Yeah, I suppose so. He’s not all bad all the time though, you know. I mean, granted, he is a rich little prat, but he has some good in him.”

“Got a crush, hm?” 

Rena’s eyes shifted again. She was nervous thought Y/N. But why? She quickly decided to ask Madame Pomfrey for a higher dose of Dreamless Sleep the next time she saw her as a lucid member of society. This stuff is getting out of hand. 

Before Dream Rena left, she dropped off a bouquet of flowers--white roses, her favorite. Y/N tried to thank her, but she felt herself being tugged softly to a different dream, away, away, away from her dear friend. 

It took a rough shake of the shoulder from Madame Pomfrey before she was awake again.

“Drink,” she said, forcing a goblet of something foul into her hands. “You’ve been delirious. You need to wake up.”

The taste that hit her tongue was bitter and laced with the nostalgia of O.W.Ls season last year--Wide-Eye Potion. Her consciousness came crashing down on her like a cool tide and she became aware of how much sweat was dripping down her back.

Gross.

“Feel better?”

Y/N nodded, but as she turned to set her now-empty goblet on the table next to her, her stomach lurched. 

A vase of white roses stood, unimposing in nature but anxiety inducing when she considered the implications they carried. Rena’s visit hadn’t been a dream--and her last excuse to see Draco, the boy who had made her life hell for the last few weeks, was gone. 

So why did it feel like she’d just been punched in the stomach?

oOo

Exactly a week and one day after she had been admitted to the hospital, Madame Pomfrey allowed her a special privilege--the chance to take a walk around the castle grounds. After breathing the same stale hospital wing air, Y/N was eager to fill her lungs with something colder and fresh.

“Stick close to the gravel path,” said Madame Pomfrey, the wrinkles in her forehead deepening with each word she spoke. “Do not, and I mean, do not, get near a single magical artifact or so help me Merlin. If you feel the slightest bit feverish, you will come right back here and you will not--under any circumstances--lie down and shut your eyes. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Madame Pomfrey.” The words fell out of Y/N’s mouth without her really taking any notice; instead, she watched the way the trees moved outside, swaying softly with the wind. “I promise I’ll be careful.”

The nurse nodded--a brisk, tense motion. “Good. Be back here in 30 minutes. Any later and I will employ the entire staff of this castle to come track you down so I can personally drag you back here.”

Y/N had forgotten how air could be crisp--crisp she thought giddily--as she waltzed her way down the steps and into the courtyard. Her loafers made a satisfying tap on the stone that she almost missed when the pathway turned to gravel, the rocks crunching under toe instead. But regardless, she was stoked. In that moment, she had never felt more alive, not even after she’d gotten near straight Os last year...but seconds later, she was hit with something other than euphoria: namely, a silk clad black shoulder. 

“Ow.”  Y/N went face first into the ground, her cheek bouncing off the hard floor.

“Ah, fuck! Fuck! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” A posh voice, no doubt the owner of the silky shoulder, sounded from above her. “Oh, oh my god, Y/N? Is that you?”

She rolled over on her back and looked right up into the concerned eyes of Draco Malfoy.

“Er...Hi,” she said. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

His eyebrows furrowed as he looked down at her. “Are you alright? Why are you out of the hospital wing?”

“Madame Pomfrey let me go for a walk. She said that it’s good for me. Also she told me not to...fuck, I’m not supposed to lie down!”

The flash of terror in her eyes seemed to say enough, and before she knew it, he was hauling her up off the ground.

“Why are they letting you walk out all alone?” asked Draco, his tone demanding but not entirely uncaring. 

“I think they presumed that everyone on the path would have the common decency to avoid a poor sick girl coming out for her first walk in a week, but clearly they thought too soon.”

Draco still hadn’t completely let go of her shoulders, where his hands were clasped firmly around the sides in a gesture meant to steady. He snorted at that moment, a bit of his old self shining back through as he narrowed his eyes down good-naturedly at her. “It’s hardly like the entire school has been issued a warning that you’ve been released.”

“Oh, quit stroking my ego like that.” Y/N tilted her eyebrow to examine him. For the most part, her old rounds partner looked no different--same strikingly light eyes, same aristocratic features, same expensive and fashionable apparel--but the bags under his eyes were new. “Have you been sleeping? Like, at all?”

“Me?” 

“Yeah, you. Who else?”

His hands moved away from their supporting position to scratch the back of his neck. “Oh, er, not much. I keep worrying about getting what you came down with. Rena told me about the Dream Sickness and how it was because of the mirror, and it’s just hard for me to sleep.”

“Oh. I’m sorry about that.”

“Yeah.” He shifted his weight back and forth, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

“What exactly did Rena tell you?” Y/N’s words snapped Draco back to attention. “And if you say everything I will lie down on the ground, go back into my dream coma, and tell everyone it’s your fault.”

“Well, then.” A smirk danced across his lips. “Nothing. Rena told me nothing.”

Y/N stared at him for a few seconds before lowering herself to the ground, never breaking eye contact. 

“What--what are you doing?”

His face went out of her eye line as she lay flat on the ground, stretching her limbs out to vaguely resemble a starfish and exhaling a heavy sigh. “I’m going to sleep right here. When Madame Pomfrey finds me, barely toeing the line between life and death, I’ll have rehearsed a speech in my mind about how Draco Malfoy knocked a poor sick girl over in the gravel pathway and then harassed her to the point of exhaustion.”

When Y/N opened her eyes, she could see Draco come into vision. His green and silver striped tie swung in the air above her as he leaned over her, a slight grimace on his face.

“I don’t think you were sorted into the right house.”

“Keep your comments to yourself,” she said, shutting her eyes again and taking in a deep breath. “Some of us are trying to sleep.”

“I thought you were--Y/N, wait!” A hand reached out to gently shake her shoulder. “Wait! I thought you were kidding!”

“I never kid. I’m very serious. Leave me be, now. I have a speech to write.”

She heard a loud and rather over dramatic sigh above her before a hand started tugging at her arm, lifting it up over her head and pulling.

“Draco! Stop!”

“Calling me Draco, now, huh? Awfully intimate when you’re about to frame me for attempted murder,” he said, his tone surprisingly consistent and clear for someone hauling a whole adult woman off the ground. “Can you at least try to help me? A little bit?”

“Fuck off,” was the only thing coming out of Y/N’s mouth as he pulled her to her feet for the second time in less than 10 minutes. Once they were both standing, just barely a meter apart, Y/N found herself at a complete loss for words. Draco was looking down at her with an emotion displayed across his features that she could not quite place, and it made her stomach twist. 

“You have gravel stuck in your hands.” 

His voice took her by surprise. It had softened considerably, almost to a whisper. There was none of the usual snottiness or nasal judgement present--just a breathy declaration that made her knees weak from the sudden shift in energy.

His hand moved towards hers, and he met her eyes with a gaze that asked “is this okay?” Y/N couldn’t help but just stare, wide-eyed and unable to blink, as he gently took her hand and began pulling out the rocks. 

“I have to tell you something,” said Draco, still quiet and unimposing in tone. “I...I know that this might come as a surprise, and I know that you...er...probably don’t care to hear this, but, erm…”

Y/N just stared.

“I’ve been feeling this way for a while, and I just didn’t really figure it out until you, uh, you got sick, and I know I’ve been a proper prat to you and that you have no need to reciprocate anything, truly, but, ehm…”

His adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he squeezed his eyes shut, like he was in pain or something. 

“Spit it out, Draco, I don’t have all day,” added Y/N lightly. 

“Miss Y/L/N!” 

A voice boomed across the courtyard, making Y/N nearly jump out of her skin. A quick turn revealed that it was Madame Pomfrey. And a furious Madame Pomfrey at that.

“You foolish, foolish girl,” said Pomfrey, seizing her by the arm and dragging her away. “Speaking to the same boy in your dreams? Why don’t you just go and lick the Mirror of Erised and fall asleep right after? You give me migraines.”

“I’m so sorry Madame Pomfrey! I didn’t mean to!” Apologies rolled out of Y/N’s mouth at a rapid-fire pace, not stopping until she’d been escorted back to her bed.

“I am so disappointed in you,” the older lady snapped as she stormed over to the neighboring bed, angrily wringing out a washcloth. “No visitors. Not until you have a perfect bill of health.”

Hospital air had never felt so stale.

final a/n: whew this was a long one and definitely not all. this was about half of my draft and i’m still working on it, so we’ll see how long the next one is. i hope that you guys enjoyed! comments/thoughts on this chapter will definitely give me more motivation to finish this series strong, so i’d love to hear what you guys thought of this :) thanks for reading!

[starlight-starwrites]

pero tovar

character headcanons

note: what do i do when the power’s out? analyze tovar’s character, i guess. these are a bunch of headcanons i came up with about him, some pulled right from the great wall, and some i took liberties with to fit his character. they may be a bit of a mess but, hey, that’s just me. (ps if you use any of these to write something of your own, please tag me because i would love to read it)

- He has difficultly with the concept of loyalty. He’s been betrayed in the past, he doesn’t expect loyalty and doesn’t expect to give it.

- Despite how many times he’s been betrayed, he really is kind of gullible.

- He doesn’t actively hold grudges. He’s been betrayed enough times at this point it shouldn’t be a surprise. Won’t seek vengeance, but if it falls in his lap, won’t hesitate to take it either.

- May not hold grudges, but doesn’t forget either. He’ll bring it up if he feels like it.

- The man may combust if shown dedicated loyalty and care. What is this??

- A ride by the seat of his pants kind of guy. Knows he can die at any moment so what does it matter if he is betrayed? So what if the plan sounds crazy? It’ll work out or it won’t. He doesn’t mind killing his way out of it.

- He sometimes comes off as an idiot. That couldn’t be further from the truth. He’s good at languages, has picked up fighting and healing techniques from all sorts of practices during his travels, and spending time with William has taught him to think when he’s fighting. Strategy didn’t come to him naturally. He studied it, and learned to analyze the situation.

- He travels light. He doesn’t want to be weighed down by things that are unimportant.

- That being said, he is surprisingly sentimental. He’s kept the first knife he ever used to kill a man. He’ll wear a braided piece of cloth from his mother’s shroud on his wrist. He keeps the charm his lover gave him around his neck.

- Traveling light has one exception: weapons. The man will pick up any and every blade he comes across to tuck somewhere on his person. He is the person when asked to disarm will take 20 min. And still have another one hidden somewhere.

- No, seriously. Where did he hide that??

- The guy who’s always hungry. Did he just finish a six course meal? Yes. Will he have another one of those fresh rolls with cheese spread? Yes. And another slice of the smoked meat? Yes. And perhaps another bowl of the stewed potatoes? yes…how is he still eating…

- The fastest way to a man’s heart his through the fifth left intercostal space. Second fastest way? The stomach. No lie. Feed this man, don’t judge how fast he eats, and he may just fall in love with you.

- Not too long after you’ve met, he’s probably considered the best way to kill you. It’s a defense thing. If he really likes you, he will still do this. And then makes sure absolutely no one gets close enough to do anything of the sort.

- He’s no coward. But he’s isn’t bothered by being accused of it. He values his life, and if he knows he’ll lose it, he’ll run. It doesn’t feel great, but being alive is better. A live to fight another day kind of thing.

- Knows swears in probably a dozen languages. Even if he doesn’t know any other words. He thinks it’s fun.

- Sarcastic af. Half of what he says is sarcastic. Sometimes he makes it obvious. Sometimes he doesn’t. It’s led to a lot of trouble.

- He will roll his eyes at anything and everything.

- He isn’t surprised by female warriors. But…he is hella turned on. He’s impressed, and he’s respectful. But again…boy is thinking.

- He’s seen a lot of shit in his life. He thinks nothing will surprise him anymore. Stuff still does. He’s learned to adapt quickly.

- He has a surprisingly good sense of humor. Its dark and dry, but he’s been known to crack a joke. And chuckle at one too. If you can make him laugh, it’s an incredible feeling.

-He doesn’t like to be the center of attention. He will slump and hang is head and try to melt into the background.

- He does want attention though. From a select few people, people who are genuine and care. He will refuse to admit it at all costs.

- He gets jealous. He doesn’t want to be, he doesn’t like the feeling. But it happens. It’s a pain when someone is better than him and is recognized for it. He doesn’t want the attention he realizes, but he wants the recognition. If someone he cares about doesn’t give him the attention he wants, it hurts. He’ll watch and see who receives it. Silently hates them.

- He's logical thinker. Not an idealist. Sure, some things would be nice. Like someone to love, who loves him. A place to come home to. A lot of money. He knows he can get some things. Others are just a dream, and quite frankly, a waste of time (or so he tells himself).

- He’s rough. It comes with the life. He is not nice. If you expect him to be, you will be disappointed. But he’s protective, and loyal if it’s serious.

- He hates changing his mind. It feels like he made a mistake the first time. Or the second, depending on the situation. Don’t make him do it. He will be grumpy for a long time.

- He likes to see things through. He went to the effort of making a plan, and he’s going to go through with it, consequences be damned.

- Keeps his past and personal life close to his chest. Even William doesn’t know much about the man.

- He sleeps like a rock. Hates being woken up. He’s disoriented and grumpy, and probably assumes there's danger.

- If you save him, he is indebted to you. whether he likes it or not. Will either be grateful and want to return the favor or will be so cross you think he might be following you around to kill you himself.

- Doesn’t love easy. Doesn’t trust easy. But when he feels safe, that’s when he realizes. And he doesn't let go easy.

- He thinks about keeping a full beard way too much. It happens when he’s been travelling, he’s busy, just doesn’t get to it on a job. But he always shaves it off. Then kind of regrets it. At least he didn't shave it all this time.

- When he’s away, he misses ‘home’. When he’s home, he doesn’t know why he did. Perhaps he just wants to have a place to belong.

- He has more scars than he can count. He’s never felt self-conscious about them. He knows most were well earned. He learns to take pride when someone is intimidated. If his healed flesh scares someone, honestly it becomes more amusing to him than anything.

- He doesn’t want to be a dad. He’s lived a dangerous life, and still is. settling down and having kids always sounded outlandish to him. What would he do with a baby? However, should he ever find out that he is going to be a father? He’s going to be the best father he can be. He tries. He may not have a choice when he has to leave for another job, but he does everything for his family now. You can bet his son or daughter is waiting at the door for him, practicing moves with the wooden sword he made for them, climbing him as soon as he shows his face down the path. As soon as he sees his family, it’s like he can breathe easy again. After he has one kid and gets used to the idea, he…kinda…wants another. The kid should have a sibling right? He doesn’t know when to stop.

tagging: @ficsilike-reblogged @perropascal @yespolkadotkitty

[walviemort]

hidden blessing (1/?)

Summary: Killian thought the only thing he was left with after Milah's death was a broken heart and a thirst for vengeance. It's not until he gets to Storybrooke, after so many years spent in stasis, that he discovers something else: he's carrying her child. How does this new, tiny blessing change his path? (Canon-divergent from 2x12.) 

rated T | AO3 | 2.7k

A/N: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, @sherlockianwhovian​!!!! Here it is: that random idea I sent to you a few months ago and we had a crazy conversation about. I’ve been picking at it here and there ever since and today seemed like a good day to start posting. I hope you have a beautiful day, darling, even with all the craziness in the world! (General note: this will mostly follow canon, but may jump around a bit. And will be updated whenever I get to it, lol.)

With the heaviest of hearts, Killian watched as the body of his darling lover—and part of his soul—dropped to the depths of the sea. A significant part of him wanted to join her, but he knew that’d be a disservice to her memory. 

So instead, he led his crew to Neverland to bide their time until he could find a way to destroy his crocodile. Aside from a handful of ventures into the Enchanted Forest and other realms, they spent close to a century in the ageless realm. 

When they finally left Neverland for good, it was only a couple of weeks until he was again put in stasis by the Dark Curse. Once time unfroze, he got anxious as the months ticked by and they couldn’t leave, but Cora assured him—“Time still hasn’t started to move here, not really; we’re just not frozen in place. You’ll still have your pretty face once the curse breaks.”

And when it did, everything seemed to run faster. Was it really only a matter of days from the time the curse broke, to meeting Swan, to their adventure (and her subsequent betrayal) on the beanstalk, to fighting at Lake Nostos, to landing in Storybrooke? No wonder he was nauseous once they’d docked in the sleepy town. 

He figured a night of rest would send that away, but it lingered in the following days, even while enacting Cora’s plan and finally, finally starting to seek his revenge. Though the rounds of abuse suffered at the hands of the Dark One and his librarian lover certainly didn’t help. 

He got the last laugh, though, with his pistol. Watching the Crocodile’s panic at the realization his love didn’t know him filled him with glee—even if he was in pain a minute later after being thrown by the heavy metal coach. 

So it wasn’t much surprise when, hours later as he woke in the infirmary, everything hurt, including his stomach. 

“Good morning, Hook,” a man said a bit later. “I’m the doctor looking after you; name’s Whale. You took quite a hit there.”

The blonde man looked as haggard as he felt; Killian recognized a hangover when he saw one. But he only eyed the man warily and let him continue. 

“Nothing too serious happened, and you’re lucky. Ribs heal, but we’ll have to be careful not to do anything to hurt the baby.”

Killian blinked. Baby? What? He wasn’t expecting. “Beg your pardon, mate?” he asked, voice a bit rough with disuse. “What baby?”

Whale seemed surprised. “Your baby; the one you’re pregnant with right now. You didn’t know?”

Cold fear washed over Killian; he couldn’t be, could he? “Is this some kind of joke?” he bit out angrily. 

“It’s not; we checked your blood before giving you any pain medication. You know you’re capable of carrying children, right?”

“Aye,” he confirmed; all men in his family had a womb, so he knew it was possible. “But I haven’t lain with anyone in at least a century.” Not since his last night with Milah—though, as he recalled vividly, the situation was right for him to conceive. 

The doctor thought about it for a moment, then asked, “If it’s been that long, then how are you still here as a healthy young man?”

“I’ve been in Neverland; time doesn’t move there,” he explained. “As well as a handful of other situations that left me in stasis.”

“Well, that’s it, then,” the doctor said. “If your body wasn’t aging, neither was the fetus. But now that you’re here, that kid is finally getting the chance to grow.” 

The man continued to drone on about the biology behind everything, but the only thing Killian could focus on anymore was the fact that he was pregnant—with Milah’s child. A child she’d never know. Yet another thing the Crocodile had taken from them. 

Anger threatened to wash over him again, but then a quick wave of nausea brought him back down and found him instead staring at his midsection. He tried to place his hand on it, but found it was cuffed to the side of the bed. So instead, he put his bare stump over it, a rush of paternal feelings rising within. 

He wasn’t sure how his blood had confirmed it, but once he’d heard the words, something just clicked and he knew it to be true. He was going to be a father. And suddenly, he didn’t want anything else.

“Hook, did you hear any of that?”

Killian blinked and looked back up at the doctor. “Afraid not.”

Whale sighed. “Okay, I’ll say the important parts again: we want to do an exam to make sure everything is okay with your baby, given the number of hits you’ve taken over the last few days. Does that sound alright?”

“I suppose so, yes.” If anything, he was curious about this realm’s medicine and how it worked. But if it enabled him to ensure the well being of his child, then he’d do it without hesitation; he’d likely done enough to risk their health. 

“Alright; I’m headed into surgery, but someone from the OB-GYN will be around later. Rest up until then.”

He didn’t know what those letters meant, but nodded his assent and the doctor left. Which meant he was alone—but not really, apparently. 

He glanced back down at his still-flat stomach. At first, he was filled with shame at not knowing that new life was growing within him; goodness, the things he’d done in the past decades. Hell, the past month. He’d have to curb that immediately, assuming he hadn’t done any damage already.

Gods, he couldn’t live with himself if he had. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. Though he was sure the babe couldn’t hear him, it helped to say it out loud. “If I had known, I would have been so much more careful. But from now on, I promise to do whatever I can to keep you safe. Always.”

His mind grew fuzzy not long after and he drifted off; it was no surprise that he dreamed of holding a small child in his arms. They had bright blue eyes and curly hair that seemed to change color on a whim, from black to red to blonde. They were darling and precious and he couldn’t wait to meet them.

Until something pulled him from his dreams, and he was suddenly aware of another presence in the room. He blinked, winced at the various maladies all over his body, and was finally able to focus; Emma was sitting on the edge of his bed.

Emma; he’d forgotten about her for a bit there. (Understandably.) She looked pissed, which didn’t surprise him, but just as fierce as ever. Something stirred somewhere else—thankfully not his stomach, for once—and the attraction to her that he didn’t fully understand came back. He was torn between wanting to bed her and fight her. (Maybe both?)

She set the tone immediately, though. “Where's Cora?” she asked sternly.

He tried to sit up, preferring to have a confrontation at the same eye level, but first the cuff stopped him, and then his sore ribs did. “Damn, that hurts,” he hissed.

Emma stood and hovered over him. “Told you. You cracked a few ribs. Where's Cora?”

She was all business, but she was no match for his well-honed deflection skills—or flirtatious front. “You look good, I must say, all "Where's Cora?" in a commanding voice. Chills,” he added salaciously. It was fun to get a rise from her.

She just raised her eyebrow, unamused. “You have all sorts of sore places I can make you hurt.” without warning, she lunged forward, aiming for his ribs; instinctively, he brought up his left arm to protect both them and his baby. She didn’t connect, but clearly wasn’t afraid of using physical torture methods; in that instant, he knew—he wasn’t about to tell her, or anyone else, about the baby just yet; not if they could use it against him.

She pulled back and he relaxed, but the ache was renewed. Sighing, he told her, “I've no idea where Cora is. She has her own agenda.” And it was true; he hadn’t seen the witch since she placed the cloaking spell on his ship. “Let's talk about something I am interested in: my hook.” He felt slightly naked without his prosthesis. “May I have it back? Or is there another...attachment you'd prefer,” he tossed back, eyes glancing down his body. If he couldn’t physically defend himself, he could at least annoy her until she left. (Though he wouldn’t complain if she took him up on the offer.)

Emma rolled her eyes, of course. “You're awfully chipper for a guy who just failed to kill his enemy, then got hit by a car.”

“Well, my ribs may be broken, but everything else is still intact, which is more than can be said for all the other bad days I've had,” he said, gesturing with his stump. “Plus I did some quality damage to my foe.” 

“You hurt Belle.”

“I hurt his heart. Belle is just where he keeps it. He killed my love. I know the feeling.” Even further reason to keep his child far away from anyone who could hurt them.

Emma gave him a wry, insincere grin, and bent over him to come closer. “Keep smiling, buddy. He's on his feet, immortal, has magic, and you hurt his girl. If I had to pick dead guy of the year, I'd pick you.” And without another word, she turned and left.

He sighed and gently placed his stump back over his stomach; he hadn’t wanted to do that in front of Emma, lest it give her any ideas—male pregnancy was rare, but not unheard of, and he didn’t know how much she knew of the magical realms yet. But the encounter proved one thing: the number of people he could trust in this town was small, possibly nonexistent. 

And only reinforced that his child wouldn’t truly be safe until Rumplestiltskin was out of the picture completely.

Gods, he’d only known about the babe for a matter of hours and already had recentered his life around him or her. It wasn’t the first time he’d done that, of course, but still—it took him by surprise.

He dozed off again for an unknown period of time until a soft knocking woke him. “Oh, sorry; didn’t know you were asleep,” a timid-looking man said. He had white hair and glasses and was of short stature, looking altogether unthreatening—but the machinery he pushed on a small cart was completely foreign to Killian. “I’m Doc, the obstetrician.”

“The what?” was all Killian could say.

“I’m here to check on the baby.”

“Oh!” Killian exclaimed, and tried again to sit up, only to fail again.

“Here; let me.” The doctor rushed to the side of Killian’s bed and pressed something, making the top half of the bed lift as if by magic. 

“How did you do that?” Killian asked, trying to peer over the rail without causing further injury.

“It’s all mechanical; I can show you later. But first: can you tell me when you think you conceived?”

“Um, about 130 years ago, if my arithmetic is correct.”

The doctor dropped his pen as soon as he’d picked it up. “Beg your pardon?”

Killian explained again his history with Neverland, and Doc was well aware of the magical happenings since then, having been equally cursed. Killian also told him what he knew about his ability to carry children, though it wasn’t much, seeing as his father refused to and his brother never got the chance. “All I know is the woman has to be on top,” he summarized.

“Got it,” Doc answered, though clearly embarrassed a bit. “Well, given that this is as new to me as it is to you, I’m going to have to do some poking around in some...personal places. Is that alright?”

“Don’t have much choice, do I?”

“No, sorry; but I’ll be gentle.”

The doctor was true to his word, carefully examining Killian’s stomach and private areas and proclaiming that everything appeared to look good.

But then he picked up a wand-like device that appeared to be attached to the machine he’d brought with him, and started fiddling with the contraption. “What’s that?” Killian had to ask.

The doctor was blushing; this couldn’t be good. “Well, uh,” he stammered, clearly not sure how to explain it; Killian subconsciously wrapped his arm around his stomach a bit tighter. “It’s a machine that lets us see inside the womb; there are a couple different kinds here, but this one is a little more...invasive.”

The fact that such a device existed was incredible to Killian, but he quickly put two and two together. “Does that...thing...go inside me?”

“I’m afraid it does.”

“Bloody hell. Is it necessary?”

“Given what you’ve gone through, and that we’re not really sure how far along you are, it is.”

Killian sighed dramatically, but he could tell it was important. “Go ahead.”

While he knew worse lay ahead, he sincerely hoped to not have to go through anything so awkward as that examination. “Just look at the screen,” Doc said, trying to keep him calm; but the space on the machine only showed nondescript black and gray blurs at first. The feeling of the device within him was not pleasant, either, but finally, Doc proclaimed “Ah! There it is! Hear that?”

The oddest noise filled the room from the machine; Killian had no description for it. “What is that?”

“That’s your baby’s heartbeat, and look—there it is on the screen.”

It didn’t look like much, but Killian had to admit—there was something vaguely humanoid about the blob-like images on the screen.

“That’s the head, and the spine, and there’s the legs.”

Killian had to tilt his head to make sense of it, but it started to take shape. “Does it not have arms?”

Doc chuckled. “It does; we just can’t see them right now. Based on that image, I’d put you at about 11 weeks along.”

“You can tell from that? And what does that even mean?” He’d never heard of measuring pregnancy like that; he knew it took a certain number of months, but most people just estimated. The fact that they could narrow it down so much was astonishing—and made him realize how little he knew about what was to come.

Thankfully, Doc explained everything as he removed the device and cleaned up, and they were able to estimate a due date; he also recommended coming in regularly for appointments to track the progress of the child’s growth, which Killian wasn’t sure would be necessary, but he agreed in order to placate the doctor. 

The machine made some more weird noises and spat something out, which Doc took and handed to Killian. “Here; you can keep that.” It was the picture from the screen; goodness, this realm was proving to be a technological marvel. He wanted to take it but, again—handcuffs. “Oh, I’ll put it on the table then,” Doc said, and started to, but Killian couldn’t risk anyone seeing it.

“No, don’t—if you know where my coat ended up, can you put it in there? I...I don’t want anyone knowing just yet.”

“I understand,” Doc answered with a small smile. “It’s in the closet over here.”

As he put it away, Killian added, “I can trust your discretion, yes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you.”

Doc finished gathering his things and headed towards the door. “Oh, and Captain—one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Congratulations.”

Killian tried, but couldn’t hide his smile. “Thank you.”

He was going to be a father—a father to a child that was, by some miracle, the product of he and the woman he’d loved above all else. He didn’t consider himself a lucky man, but thanked the gods that they’d seen fit to bless him just this once. 

And he fell asleep once more, knowing that—for the first time in so many years—he had something worth living for other than his revenge.

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

thanks for reading! and be sure to send some birthday love to Leanne! tagging a few others: @cocohook38​ @ashley-knightingale​ @jennjenn615​ @wyntereyez​​ @superadam54​

[sad-sweet-cowboah]

My Little Secret part 5

Summary: After experiencing a turbulent night, you wake up feeling oddly refreshed. You try to go about your day when your mind is clouded by other things.

A murmur of words. A flash of skin. Heated breaths. Swollen lips pressing against one another. A fire that ignited deep within you, a sweet pleasure waiting for its release. Rough hands on your bare torso, a gruff voice whispering in your ear…

Darlin’.

The sun shining through the blinds across your eyes awoke you from a deep, dream-filled slumber. You shifted slightly, only to realize your hand rested underneath your pajama pants. The intense burning had cooled to a dull ache. Did you really just…dream like that? About Arthur?

You sat up slowly, stretching out your stiff muscles. Last night felt surreal, the assault only seeming like a vague nightmare rather than a vivid memory. It certainly didn’t bother you like it did upon coming home last night. The only reminder was the empty mug sitting on your nightstand. Next to it, your clock flashed 9:30 am. It’d been a while since you’d slept in that late. You had to wonder, how long did Arthur stay after you’d passed out? You crossed your arms, fingers idly searching for the scrapes, though in your surprise, found nothing but smooth skin.

You blinked in confusion, staring down at your arms. No evidence of scrapes or scratches, not even scabs or redness to indicate healing. Maybe they weren’t as deep as you’d thought.

Your hand wandered to your temple, expecting to still find the soreness and swelling, only to find that had disappeared too. You frowned, wondering how the hell you healed that quickly. Schooling and simple logic told you it would be impossible.

You shook your head in defeat, knowing that trying to make sense of it would lead to only more questions to which you wouldn’t know the answer to. Unless Arthur somehow brewed an all-healing tea, like some sort of health potion in fantasy worlds, which would be, again, logically impossible.

Emitting a long sigh, you swung your legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. You grabbed the mug and headed out toward the kitchen.

Friday meant online work; which allowed you to relax in the comfort of your own home or the quiet, serene atmosphere of the library. But you also had work, which reminded you of the daunting task of having to speak to your boss about the night before. You could almost hear the conversation in your head; her demanding you take the matter to the police despite your constant protests.

Deciding to send a text rather than making a physical appearance, you let your boss know what was going on. Naturally, your phone blew up with multiple texts and eventually a call. You answered, albeit reluctantly, to have a thirty minute conversation about the details and trying to convince her you did not want to go to the police station and file a report. You hurriedly ended the conversation after that.

To keep your mind busy, you set yourself to making a nice breakfast. Your efforts proved fruitful; the savory-sweet smell of eggs, bacon and waffles filling your small apartment. You’d say yourself down and dug in, your mouth welcoming such a symphony of flavors that it almost seemed unreal. You’d always made breakfast the same way, yet somehow it seemed more…complex. Every ingredient was the same as you bought it, though you couldn’t quite figure out why it tasted different to you.

You’d left your apartment closer to noon, your backpack full of books and your laptop bag slung around your shoulder. Rather than hitting up the campus grounds, you decided to go to the local town library instead. As you walked along the dusty red paths of Rhodes, the thought of running into Tom again had briefly crossed your mind. Somehow though, you weren’t worried about it. Your mood was unexplainably heightened since waking up, and the last thing you wanted to do was dampen it.

Rhodes Town Library had loomed in the distance amongst the rows of houses and shops. It was a small, older building that was built in the 20’s. It certainly fit the more rustic part of town; buildings that had stood proud since the 1800’s. It only took you another moment to reach it, pushing open the heavy doors. The smell of must and old parchment was nearly overwhelming, though a welcome scent.

You settled at one of the tables close to one of the windows and got to work.

As time passed, you’d managed to make a sizable dent in your work. After about an hour and a half, you stood up to take a small break and stretch your legs. You began to wander aimlessly through the aisles. It wasn’t your first time here, though you weren’t too familiar with it. The college library was much bigger, although this place contained local history, and even had a couple of items and documents on display.

Your eyes wandered, observing the old photos, drawings, and newspaper clippings that decorated the walls. Topographic maps, photos of the mansions owned by rich families of the past, even one of Shady Belle. It was clear that much had happened since the town’s founding, even way before a university was built within it.

Creeping along the walls, everything keeping your interest. You came across an article that seemed almost familiar. Upon closer inspection, you realized it was about the Van der Linde gang. Between the museum in Saint Denis and the ghost stories at Shady Belle, you’ve learned a lot more about this gang in the past few weeks.

The clipping was faded and yellowed with age, though had a picture of the group posed in front of a large wagon. You stepped closer to get a better look; gazing over each and every one.

You paused at one, a man that looked…too familiar. Though with the low quality, it was a little difficult to really see. The name had been listed under the picture in order, and you found it: Arthur Morgan.

Now it hit you, he looked a lot like the Arthur you knew. You tilted your head in thought, observing as many features as the century-old newspaper allowed. Perhaps this was Arthur’s ancestor, or maybe it was some strange coincidence.

Your curiosity got the better of you, and you returned to your laptop. A few minute search rewarded you with a better image of this fellow.

Well, “better” would be a loose term, given how old the photo was. Still, it provided more features than the newspaper did. Arthur Morgan was posing in front of a backdrop, a revolver in hand with a fierce and very familiar expression. You recalled a moment from last night, how angry Arthur had looked when defending you from Tom. The resemblance was uncanny.

You tried to focus on your work once again, yet Arthur and his possible doppelgänger ancestor remained in the back of your mind. Maybe you could ask him next time you ran into him.

Your thoughts began to wander more, idly thinking about the dream you had last night. Admittedly he was a handsome man, though getting in bed with him was the furthest thing on your mind. The way his lips caressed your body sent a flush of heat into your cheeks. You could vaguely recall seeing him shirtless, a broad torso lined with thick muscle. Was that what he looked like in real life?

You reached further into your subconscious, mentally peeling his clothing off layer by layer. You could hear his voice, low and rough, his teeth grazing against your neck.

Despite the air conditioning, your body was hot.

You took a deep breath and shut your laptop, knowing there was nothing much else to be done with yourself in such a state. You’d have to find another activity to keep yourself busy. Silently, you scolded yourself for allowing to even consider such a thing. Arthur was nice, as strange as he seemed when you first met him. A gentleman who gave off an air of old-school polite mannerisms, yet fiercely protective as well. You had to wonder why he didn’t have a significant other, or if he did and just never mentioned it.

Of course he wouldn’t mention it, you’ve only spoken with him a handful of times.

Shit, why were you thinking about him so much?

---

The day wore on rather quickly, after you left the library you’d stopped for a quick lunch before returning home. Even though you kept yourself busy enough, you still could not get the image of those beautiful baby blues from your head. You’d even found yourself doodling them at some point; on the corner of your notebook page.

As the sun was setting, you were beginning to grow restless. With the evening off, your ideal night would be to relax. However, you felt as if you needed to do something else. You’d hadn’t had a Friday night off in a while, so it felt a little strange. You may go out for a walk perhaps, enjoy the outdoors after having your nose buried in research and textbooks for the majority of the day. Walking at night wasn’t something you’d done often, especially in such a humid area. The air had cooled down to a bearable temperature, enough to enjoy nature without feeling suffocated.

You knew most of the people in town as they’ve come into the club at some point or another. Rhodes wasn’t a town known for its crimes; though you had a pocket knife on you just in case. You headed toward the park, the paths illuminated with golden lights. Aside from the heavy ambience of crickets and katydids, it was quite peaceful. You wandered aimlessly, occasionally passing by others who had the same idea. Evening joggers and couples chattering away, or enjoying each other’s company.

It’d been a few years since your last relationship, opting to focus on your studies rather than a significant other. Regardless you missed the companionship and closeness, and a warm body to cuddle with. You imagined a pair of strong arms wrapping around your waist, your skin tingling from the sheer thought of it. God, were you that touch-starved?

You sat down on a nearby bench, facing an elegant fountain. You focused on the running water, the sound of it soothing. Still, the distraction didn’t allow those thoughts to stray. A ghost of a person beside you, keeping you in a loose embrace. Tender lips pressing a light kiss to your cheek, whispering sweet words to you.

The sound of footsteps caught your attention, your gaze turning to see a figure stepping into the light. You’d expected to see another park goer, instead it was someone all too familiar: Arthur.

Your breath hitched, cheeks flushing in slight embarrassment. You’d caught yourself daydreaming about him again, and it was if the universe was teasing you at this point. Perhaps it was a hallucination fueled by your own desires.

He caught your stare. “Hey, Y/N.”

Definitely wasn’t a hallucination.

“A-Arthur, didn’t expect to see you here!” you exclaimed slightly louder than you intended to keep your voice steady.

“Could say the same ‘bout you,” he responded with a slight chuckle. “You doin’ alright?” his tone became more serious, though with a hint of concern.

You nodded, remembering those moments from last night in your home. “Better. I’m not as hurt as I thought I was. I told my boss too, like you said. And took the night off.”

He nodded. “Good,” he stepped closer, gesturing to the empty space on the bench next to you. “Mind if I sit?” when you shook your head, he sat down and you realized he was a little closer than normal.

He was just mere inches from you, your skin tingling once again as if he radiated electricity. Your heart began to race, and you took a slow, deep breath to try and calm yourself. “Thank you,” you managed to say, “Again, for last night.”

He gave you a small smile. “Don’t have to thank me, Y/N.”

“You saved me, Arthur,” you continued. “I don’t know what else would have happened if you hadn’t shown up. You even stayed with me when I asked, even if it was stupid. If I could ever repay you, please let me know.”

He looked at you again, though his expression was hard to read. He sighed and shook his head, “That ain’t needed.”

“Are you sure?” you pressed, sensing his hesitation. “It could be anything…really.”

You caught your own desperation from your response, followed by a stab of shame. You hoped he hadn’t picked up on it. His attention turned to you again, his eyes staring directly into yours. Those blue eyes were beautiful and hypnotizing. You could get lost in them. Quickly, you peered at his lips. They were surprisingly plump and slightly parted, as if he were going to say something. Yet it was silent between the two of you.

Was he leaning in?

You’d never been this close to him before, his defining features stood out even in the darkness. The way his cheekbones were set, sloping a smooth angle to a strong, scarred jaw. The stubble that shadowed his face, you could just imagine it tickling you if you kissed him-

Kissing him.

You were that damn close to his face.

Fuck it.

You closed the space by planting your lips to his. They were unusually cool like the rest of his body, but soft against your skin. When you felt his body stiffen, you pulled back at an instant, afraid that you’d misread him.

He stared at you with a dumbfounded expression. “Y/N-”

“I’m sorry!” you exclaimed, tearing your sight from him. “I’m so sorry, Arthur. I totally misjudged- I didn’t mean- I thought you-”

Your rambling was stopped short when you felt a hand caress your cheek. You peered shyly up at him again, surprised to see a small smile on his face. It absolutely took your breath away to see him stare at you that way.

He guided your face close again until his lips rested on yours. You were even more surprised by this, almost pulling back in your own confusion. But his hand, as gentle as it was, kept you locked in. You melted to his touch, kissing him back with gaining confidence.

It felt like ages when he finally released you, pulling back slowly as his fingers slid from your cheek. The smile remained on his face. You stared him, your mouth slightly hanging open. Did that really just happen?

You’ll catch flies like that, sweetheart.” He chuckled.

You closed your mouth with a little more force than necessary. Your face burned with a blush. “Uh…” was all you could manage to utter.

“You okay?” he asked, the concern immediate on his face.

You blinked and nodded, turning your head away in embarrassment. “God, I-” you took a deep breath to collect your thoughts. “We just kissed.”

“Yeah…we did.” He said nonchalantly. “Ain’t that what you wanted?”

You turned your head slowly to face him, but avoiding his gaze at the same time. You weren’t sure why you felt so shy at the moment. “Of…course,” you said slowly. “I just…I didn’t know you wanted to as well.”

He chuckled again. “Wouldn’t o’ kissed ya otherwise, Y/N.”

Somehow you blushed even harder. You covered your face sheepishly. “Aw jeez…didn’t think I’d be so flustered…”

“Hey…” you felt his cool hand on yours, slowly peeling it away from your face. “You’re alright, darlin’.”

Darlin’, just like in your dream. Was this a dream? His eyes were on yours, exhibiting a softness on his otherwise weathered face. You reached out, cupping his face almost hesitantly. His stubbled skin felt very real to you, your thumb running along his cheekbones. You could observe his features up close for once, from the faint scars that decorated his face and the ridge on his nose, indicating it’d broken at one point. He was very real to you.

“Can…can I kiss you again?” you asked, your voice lower than a whisper.

He nodded silently, allowing you to take the lead this time. You brought yourself closer, eliciting a kiss even better than the last. Your arms wrapped around his neck, the muscles of his shoulders strong underneath your touch. His mouth felt soft against yours, his lips moving in sync with yours. Hands rested against your waist with a light touch, and you scooted closer into his arms. His grip tightened slightly.

Your thoughts roamed back to earlier, awakening a spark that cascaded down your body.

The kiss became more heated, his mouth gently prodding yours to open as his tongue darted across your lips. You chased after it with your own tongue, wanting so desperately to have more of him. Would it go that far tonight?

As if he read your mind, his hands disappeared from your waist only to gently grip your wrists. He pulled your arms from around him, parted the kiss and sat back. You pouted and whined slightly, craving even more.

He gave you an apologetic smile. “Don’t wanna get carried away with ya. Might end up doin’ somethin’ I’ll regret.”

You sighed in disappointment, but you understood. It was too soon for anything else right now, and you still barely knew one another. You ignored how your emotions were driving you wild. Too wild. You’d never experienced anything like this before for someone else. Arthur really had a different effect on you in a way you couldn’t explain.

He brushed his lips against your hands, still trapped within his. He lifted your arm up gently to kiss a line from your palm, down to your wrist. He rested his mouth against your pulse point for a second before releasing your hands. You could have sworn you felt his teeth graze your skin, but it was so slight and quick you weren’t able to tell. “Walk with me, Y/N. Think I oughta get to know ya more.”

You nodded silently, though your legs felt rooted to the bench. He helped you to your feet, sliding his hand into yours with a gentle grip.

You didn’t expect yourself to become a chatterbox after that, but for the next twenty minutes, you walked around the park as you poured your entire life out to him.

“So you’re gonna be a pharmacologist, huh?” Arthur asked after you’d explained why you were here. “That’s a lotta schoolin’ ain’t it?”

“So much, feels like an eternity sometimes,” you sighed. “I think at this point I could list every drug in the world in alphabetical order, along with each effect it has on the human body. The best part is it’ll be part of my job to create new ones.”

“That’s some skill,” Arthur mused. “New drugs to fight sickness n’ all?”

You nodded. “My ambition will be the death of me.” You said with an amused tone.

Arthur peered over at you. “Ah, don’t say that. You’ll be great at it.”

“I’m only joking,” you pointed out with a smile. “But some days I feel like my head will explode from all the studying. I was in the library earlier and-” you stopped your train of thought, remembering what you discovered in the library. “Hey Arthur, are you named after an ancestor? Like a great-great grandfather or something?”

He frowned in confusion. “Why?”

“Well, I came across something interesting. Those outlaws that used to roam this area over a hundred years ago? The library has some information displayed about them. I found a picture of one that looks exactly like you, and has the exact same name.” you explained.

The confusion in his face deepened slightly, and then it was wiped when he gave a slight chuckle. “Yeah. Guess you could say that. Descendant of an outlaw.”

Something about his tone struck you as odd, as if he were nervous about it. Perhaps of being judged by his family’s history?

“It’s gettin’ late, lemme escort ya to your car.” He said, squeezing your hand slightly.

You blinked and glanced at your phone. It was nearly 10 pm. “Oh, shoot, didn’t even realize it was that late.”

He led you back through the park, taking you to the parking lot where your car was. He finally released your hand, and noted how cold it felt despite holding on to it for nearly a half hour now. You turned to face him, smiling up at his handsome face.

“Goodnight, Y/N.” he murmured to you, leaning in for a kiss to which you responded eagerly.

It was quick and sweet. As you broke from him, you said, “Arthur, we walked around the park for twenty minutes and I still haven’t learned much else about you.”

A half smile touched his lips. “Ah, my life is borin’ compared to yours, darlin’. Pretty sure you won’t wanna hear ‘bout it.”

“But I do,” you responded as-a-matter-of-factly, putting your hands on your hips. “Especially if…ya know, we’ll be seeing each other more often. I just gave you my whole life story, so I’d like to hear yours.”

His head shook slightly at your tone, the smile widening with amusement. “I ‘spose that’s fair. Next time, sweetheart. Don’t wanna keep ya out too long.” He reached over and nimbly opened your car door.

How was he such a gentleman? “Okay, how about a date? I have off next Monday.”

“A date.” He repeated, rubbing the back of his neck. “Been a while since I’ve been on one.”

“And all the more reason to do it.” you pointed out with a smile.

He contemplated for a moment, his eyes cast toward the ground. He finally looked at you once again, giving you a nod. “Alright. Monday night.”

“8 pm, we’ll go to that little burger joint by the school. Sound good?”

He didn’t answer for a moment, rubbing his chin in thought and appearing almost…nervous? He finally nodded and answered, “Sure. 8 pm on Monday night.”

“I’ll see you then, Arthur.” You said as your smile widened.

It was then when you said your real farewells. He’d reached out to caress your hair gently, each touch elicited from him would send sparks along your skin. Your body trembled with a slight shudder as he whispered another goodbye to you, smiling at you before stepping away.

You watched as he crossed the parking lot over to a motorcycle partly hidden in the shadows. He mounted the iron horse and the engine roared to life, filling the night air with its growls. Just moments later he skirted across the lot, turning onto the street before speeding off and out of sight. As the noise faded, you stepped into your car and sat down.

Excitement overtook you from head to toe, expressing itself in a squeal of glee. For the first time in years you had a date.

[saltyandsassynomad]

I’ve been learning about Tarot.  I’m a total novice and as a way of making sure the information sinks-in, I write in a journal about each reading.  I figured I’d share it with the void known as Tumblr.  

The first two cards made complete and total sense.  The third one, not so much.  I’m trying to figure out how it ties into today’s reading.  

March 3, 2021

I’m not in the best of places right now and am really struggling to keep my head on straight.  There is so much going on; I’m totally overwhelmed.  I pulled a 3-card spread, inquiring about my future, specifically: where I am now, what I aspire to, and how will I get there.  

Where I am now: Page of Cups (upright) - creative opportunities, intuitive messages, curiosity, possibility.  The Page of Cups wears a blue tunic with a floral print and a beret on his head with a long, flowing scarf.  He stands on the shore with the wavy sea behind him, holding a cup in his right hand.  Surprisingly, a fish pops its head out of the cup and looks at the young man.  The fish and the sea behind him represent the element of water and all things to do with creativity, intuition, feelings, and emotions.  The unexpected appearance of the fish signifies that creative inspiration often comes out of the blue and only when you are open to it. 

The Page of Cups suggests a new idea or opportunity has come to you out of the blue.  Your creative energy is flowing and now the question is how you will express it.  Will you snap up this new idea and turn it into something, or will you let someone else bring it to fruition?  The Page of Cups invites you to have an open and curious mind.  Be open to anything - including a fish popping its head out of a cup!  It is with a curious mind that you will discover new aspects of your life and yourself.  Open your mind to all possibilities, especially those of a creative or intuitive nature, you will be pleasantly surprised.  Be ready to dream the impossible dream, and explore the magic of your fullest potential, even if it seems out of your reach.  The Page of Cups is asking you to embrace your inner child and believe that anything is possible.  

As each Page asks you to explore a new facet of yourself, the Page of Cups is asking you to explore your creative, emotional self.  You may start a new art class, read books about how to express your feelings, or learn more about developing your psychic abilities.  Dreamy aspirations race through your mind, and you may find yourself moved by simple things.  Don’t be afraid to let your feelings show and wear your heart on your sleeve.  

This card often appears when you are being called to trust your intuition and be open to the multitude of intuitive messages coming your way.  Look for synchronicities and signs from nature that will guide you on your path.  They may come from unexpected places, or they may not even make sense to your rational mind; be open to the possibility and ready to discover new aspects of yourself.  It is like following “intuitive breadcrumbs” - one intuitive clue leads you to the next thing, and the next, and the next.  And before you know it, you have found yourself in a place of full alignment, happiness, and bliss.  All by trusting your intuition and going with the flow.  

In a practical sense, the Page of Cups can indicate that you will receive an unexpected and pleasant surprise.  The Pages are often known as the messenger cards, and with the Page of Cups, you may receive a message related to the emotions, intuition, or creative endeavors.  It is not a surprise you can anticipate or force; be ready to receive when the time comes.  

What I aspire to: Four of Swords (upright): rest, relaxation, meditation, contemplation, recuperation. The Four of Swords shows a knight lying horizontally on a tomb.  He remains in his full armour, and his hands are in the position of prayer as a sign of rest.  One sword lies beneath the knight, symbolizing a single point of focus, and three swords hang above him, pointing downwards towards his head and torso.  The stained-glass window above him shows a woman and a child together.  

Upright: The Four of Swords tells you to rest before you take on the next challenge.  YOu have reached an important first milestone and must recharge your energy before the next phase begins so you are refreshed and ready to go.  Even if you are highly productive and driven, take time off from your busy schedule to restore your energy and heal the body and the mind.  Constant stress and tension will break even the hardest and most resilient of people but brief periods of rest enable you to refresh your energy, concentration, and focus so that you are ready for the next challenge. 

If you have been going through rough times recently, such as the trauma of a break-up or departure, relationship or family problems, financial and health worries, stress or conflict, then the Four of Swords comes as a sign to take a step back and regain perspective.  Now is the time to make decisions.

In fact, the Four of Swords presents a new challenge: to stay silent and inactive.  Now is the time to build up your mental strength by clearing your mind of any mental clutter or stress.  Meditate and spend time in a place that creates peace, calm, and tranquility for you.  You need to replenish your strength and spend time connective with your Higher Self.

The Four of Swords suggests the need for seclusion.  You need solitude to negotiate your situation and time apart from others to gather your thoughts and feelings.  Following on from the painful loss of the Three of Swords, this Four suggests your need to spend time alone to re-evaluate your life.  Solitude, although often difficult to bear, is necessary for you to recharge your batteries and rejuvenate your spirit.  This solitary experience always bears fruit in greater inner strength and confidence.  Retreat from pain, conflict and distractions, and rid yourself of stress and anxiety.  Ground and recharge yourself.  Look inward for real change and meditate daily.  

In a practical sense, the Four of Swords is an indicator that you need to take some time to review your progress so far.  This is an excellent time to reassess your priorities.  It is almost like conducting your own ‘post-implementation review’ following a major milestone or a significant challenge.  Create time and space to evaluate what has worked well, what has not, and what you need to change.  Pausing to reflect after each major challenge will position you well for success in the future.  

How I will get there: Queen of Swords (reversed) - Over-emotional, easily influenced, bitchy, cold-hearted.  

The Queen of Swords sits on a stone throne decorated with a cherub, representing the Queen’s softer side, and butterflies representing transformation.  She faces towards the future, with her left hand raised as if to receive, and in her right hand, she holds a sword up high and straight, representing her desire to find the truth in all matters.  Clouds accumulate in the sky and a strong wind that passes through the trees, symbolizing the ongoing nature of change.  

The Queen of Swords reversed points out that you may allow your emotions to get the better of you as you put your heart before your head.  YOu may be emotionally involved in a particular issue, and it could be distorting your perception of the situation at hand.  You need to use your head a bit more to understand what is happening and read the signals more accurately.  Take an objective look at what’s going on and decide what you need to do next.  

The reversed Queen of Swords suggests that your relationships are clouding your usually clear vision.  YOu are allowing others to dominate you and negatively affect your ability to make decisions.  You hesitate to pursue your plans because you don’t want to rock the boat or disrupt your relationships with others.  At the end of the day, however, you need to be more hard-edged, confident, and assertive to be successful.  Sharp analysis, objectivity, and careful consideration of (bot not necessarily choosing) the alternative are essential right now.  

At times, the reversed Queen of Swords can come across as cold-hearted, resentful, and bitchy, particularly if she is devoid of any emotion or compassion for others.  This card may represent a part of yourself or someone else you are trying to deal with.  You may be putting others offside and losing your supporter base, isolating yourself from others and being seen as narrow-minded, intolerant, and mean.

[xtrashmammalstefx]

Ogre Battle (Joe! Deaky x Reader) FLUFF w/ a Sprinkle of SMUT!!

Part 15 of The Queen Repertoire

WARNINGS: Cursing, mild smut, insinuation of domestic violence

Notes: Sorry this took so long it was ridiculously hard to come up with an idea for this song, and not to mention with what’s going on around the world I found it hard to find the mental energy to write. I’m doing better though and am planning to get stories up in a faster pace cuz lord knows  we need the distraction now more than ever. Stay safe and at home fam! Enjoy!

Come tonight Come to the ogre sight Come to the ogre-battle-fight

Not all heroes wear capes. I know that now.

My ex just left our flat fuming. The flat itself was a mess now, but it was nothing compared to me. My cheek stung from where he hit me and I was just... done. The phone rang as soon as he left. I tried to put on a brave, normal voice...but you can never lie to Freddie darling.

“Y/N what's wrong?” he asked.

“I-It's no—.”

“Lovey don't you dare say it's nothing. I can hear it in your voice something happened,” Freddie said. “Tell me.”

“Save me first then I'll tell you,” I said holding back tears. He and the other's knew my ex and I were having problems and that he wasn't always the loving type. So it didn't surprise me that Freddie knew just how bad things were with just that one little sentence.

“Pack your things lovey we're on our way,” he said.

It's been a few minutes. I packed my clothes haphazardly, and grabbed my box of records (what records were left after my ex took to smashing them against the wall). I waited by the door  grateful that my ex always spent a couple hours getting smashed at the pub.  Good for nothing drunken arsehole wanker. That's what they kept telling me but I never listened...just kept telling myself it wasn't true. God I'm such a bloody idiot.

I nearly jumped at the sound of a knocked at the door, a very furious knock. I opened it to see an enraged Freddie, being slightly held back by Brian who stood behind him with his hand on Freddie's shoulder. His hand slowly fell though when he saw my face.

“Where. Is. He?” Freddie said, fists balled.

“Not here,” I said turning to pick up my bag and box. As I did I left the door open revealing the mess left in the house.

“Jesus,” Roger gasped. “The prick is fucking mental!”

“Lovey, I will ask again, where the fuck is he?” Freddie asked again as John took my bag from me and Brian took my box.

“It's not worth it love,” I said closing the door behind me.

“LIKE HELL IT'S NOT NOW TELL ME WHERE THAT FUCKING WANKER IS BEFORE I TEAR ALL OF LONDON APART LOOKING FOR THE PIECE OF RUBBISH!”

“FRED!” I reached up and took his face in my hands. “I'm leaving him! Alright? I'm leaving...that's all that matters.”

“B-But he hurt you.”

“And it'll only hurt me worse if you got in trouble because of him,” I said. “Now can we please just go.”

Freddie cooled down a bit and we piled into Roger's van. We drove down to their flat where they escorted me to the 'guest room'. “Deaky isn't this your room?”

“You need it more than I do, love,” he said placing my bag down by the bed.

I walked over to it and collapsed. The lads just stood their awkwardly, as though waiting for a miracle to come and heal me right there on the mattress. “Well are you handsome bastards going to just stand there or am I not getting a cuddle tonight?”

With an eye roll Freddie moved to lay down beside me. John collapsed on the other side of me. Roger laid back by my feet at the foot of the bed. And Brian pulled up a nearby chair sitting in it with his long legs dangling over one of the arms.

I was surrounded by warmth and silence; the feeling so comforting I prayed I could stay like that for the rest of my life.

“Why can't all men be like you lot?” I asked not realizing I asked it aloud.

“Well then we wouldn't be so unique then would we?” Freddie said. “Besides can you imagine the chaos that would ensue if the world suddenly had more than one Roger Taylor?”

“As if one of me is so bad to be around,” Roger said. “Besides do you think a world with more than one Freddie would be any better?”

“Darling I don't think...I know,” Freddie said cheekily.

I rolled my eyes and pecked Freddie on the cheek. “I love you, you crazy bunch of nutters.”

We laid there together for what felt like a peaceful eternity.

“What do you suppose that pathetic waste of space is doing now?” Roger asked.

I groaned. “Roger please...I don't want to think of him anymore. Not even to imagine him dying of alcohol poisoning in his spot at the pub.”

“So he's there then?” Roger perked up.

“Proper smashed I'd bet,” Freddie said sitting up. “Lad's why don't we have ourselves a little fun showing that ogre piece of shite just how it feels to be on the other side of  the fist.”

“OH FUCK YEAH!” Roger stood up and ran to get his coat.

“Freddie please!” I said grabbing him by his arm. “I don't want you getting hurt or imprisoned because of me!”

“Darling just seeing that mark on your face hurts me. Ergo I must show him that you can't hurt anyone of us without hurting all of us. Now he may walk away alive but I can guarantee he will suffer pain a million times worse than what he has inflicted upon you.” I'd never seen Freddie so furious before. It was scary but at the same time...

“I love you,” I said pecking him on the lips. “So you better come back to me or so help me I will never forgive you.”

“I will, darling,” he said. “I love you too.”

“And I will do everything I can to keep these nutters under control,” Brian said standing up from his chair. “I'll carry you over my shoulder if I have to you are not leaving that pub a murderer.”

“As if you could lift me with your twig arms,” Freddie said.

“Want to bet?” Brian said in his serious 'I'm-Not-Bullshitting-Here' voice.

“Deaky will you join us?” Freddie asked the man laying beside me.

“Um no, thank you, I'd rather spend the night with Y/N than in jail,” he said. “Besides I don't feel comfortable leaving her alone right now.”

I sighed. “Well thank God one of you has a brain.”

“Ahem,” Brian looked at me offended.

“Fine, thank God two of you have a brain,” I said laying back down. Brian smiled at that and left the room followed by Freddie.

Once they were gone I turned and placed my head on Deaky's chest.

“I don't deserve you guys,” I muttered.

“Yes, you do,” Deaky said wrapping his arms around me.

“No I—.”

“Y/N,” he lifted my chin up with his forefinger. “You deserve the world and so much more.”

I brought my hand up to play with the tips of his long hair. Deaky was always the kind and gentle soul in my life. The one who held my heart and cared for it when nobody else would. “I should've been with you.”

“What?”

“Back when that monster first came into my life I was a bit conflicted. Here I was with two choices; go with this new mysterious path or go with the one my heart always wanted. I chose wrong.” I looked up at his gentle eyes, his face soft with innocence and love. “I should have chosen you from the start, and spared myself the horridly wasted time with that ogre...I choose you now...if you'll have me.”

“Y/N,” he said brushing my cheek with his fingers. They were rough and calloused but gentle as they touched me. “I chose you a long time ago. I will always choose you.”

I reached up and pressed my lips onto his. He kissed me back and after a while flipped us over. He peppered my lips and cheek with kisses before bringing his lips to the skin of my neck. He licked and sucked at my flesh, earning a moan from me. “Deeaaakkkkyyyy.”

He pulled back looking at me as though I was the only thing that existed for him at that moment. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” I said brushing my nose with his before our lips collided again.

Life with my ex was never like this. With Deaky I could breathe, and relax, my body melts into his, and my heart...my heart only beats for him. Making love with my ex was also never like this. Deaky was gentle touching me and taking his time; he made sure my comfort was a priority and not his satisfaction.

His hand snaked underneath my shirt nudging it upward. I pulled back and nodded letting him lift the material over my head. He tossed it aside and looked down. He gasped and I knew he'd seen them; yellow patches that used to be bruises decorating my stomach.

“H-He always had to have his way,” I said.

Deaky sighed and brought his lips to one of the patches. He kissed each one as though that was all it would take to heal them fully, and erase the painful memory. Soon after we continued ridding each other of clothing. Deaky might have been a thin and slender lad but that didn't reflect in his length which was a size other men could only dream of.

I moaned  loudly as he pushed into me. “God! Christ!”

“You feel fucking amazing love,” Deaky groaned as he started to move.

I really had chosen wrong but I was now making up for that mistake. Our bodies moved together in perfect rhythm as I knew they would for the rest of our lives. Sometime later, our skin glistening with sweat Deaky erupted inside me, filling me until he had nothing left.

“You are my life now, Deaky,” I whispered snuggling up to him after.

“You've always been my life, Y/N,” he said pressing his lips against my forehead.

We fell asleep and didn't even hear when our warriors returned from the great ogre battle.

“Dammit Freddie you're never wrong,” I heard Roger whisper.

“About love I'm never am,” Freddie said. “You can pay me in the morning. I'm off to bed.”

“I'm never betting against Fred again,” Roger said.

“I never do,” Brian chimed in laughing his soft and gentle laughed.

Eventually the flat was silent, as is every moment after a battle.

Taglist: @okaykathryn​ @fairestkillerqueenofall​ @onceuponadetectivedemigod​ @boherahpsody​ @thebohemianpenguin​ @ihatethespacebars​ @madsthegroupie​ @freddie-bulsara​ @rose-de-jaune​ @xxkellsvixen19xx​ @valeriecarolinaw​ @5sos-wdw​ @hearttshapeddboxx​ @fluffffffffffff​ @pleasingiswhatweaimfor​ @hatemylifesofuckingmuch​ @jollyavacado​ @painandpleasure86​ @haileynicoleseavey17​ @queenlover1997​ @rrogerrz​ @peachyywine​ @mrsmazzello​ @hannafuckingsucks​ @zwiezraczek​ @night-writer-writer​ @theborhapboysawakenedmywhatever​ @tinywildeace​

[bitsandbobsandstuff]

A love that never leaves (4)

Summary: Sometimes when you go looking for the past, you find things you never expected. When an accident brings him face to face with something he never knew he lost, Bucky Barnes begins to understand an age old truth – it’s so easy, sometimes, to love the things that destroy us.

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: Bad language. The word rape is said, but only in confusion (nothing ever happens). 

A/N: Bucky thinks he fucked up, but she talks him down. Also he loves comfort food and hates stitches and I agree with both those feelings. They learn a little more about each other including a BIG discovery at the end. I’m very hungry after writing this and you’ll see why (diets are stupid).

Tags are open, if you want on the list please send me a DM or ASK, it’s easier for me to track. Otherwise you can find the new updates each weekend!

MASTERLIST ALTNL MASTERLIST

PREVIOUS CHAPTER

Previously...

Cold. Always so god damn cold.

The sticky feel of him drying on her thighs is the only indication he was ever more than a dream. Hopeless tears fill her throat and after all this time, she wonders how there are still any left in her body.

It doesn’t matter.

They arrive like a tidal wave, breaking over her, destroying everything in their path and dragging her under.

*****

MISSION REPORT

NEW OBJECTIVE IDENTIFIED. RECONNAISSANCE REQUIRED TO DETERMINE APPROPRIATE COURSE OF ACTION. OBSERVATION WILL CONTINUE FROM A SAFE DISTANCE.

Was this it then? How could it be possible, after all these years? He just wants answers. Something to clarify the jagged outline of the puzzle plaguing him night and fucking day.

Balancing the notebook on his knees, he grips the pencil so tight, the sharp point of lead snaps and goes spinning across the page.

*****

Sometimes when it happens, it’s like running face first into a brick wall.

The outline was there in his brain, a lost memory he never knew he needed to find. Now, with the story she offers, the paintbrush in his head goes crazy, spilling out the colors of an icy, destructive night in Paris. Memories return, a blizzard of blurry faces and voices crackling like radio static.

Black-gloved fingers moving effortlessly over ivory keys. 10, 9, 8. Sparkling people and fizzy champagne. 7, 6, 5. Excited screaming. 4, 3, 2. Beautiful eyes, watching him from across the room. 1. Confetti and balloons bouncing. Screaming. Screaming. More screaming. Terrified screaming. Blood on his fingers, soaking into crisp white cuffs. Slipping like a shadow from a locked room. Stalking through the streets of Paris, heading back to base, until, until, until. The detour. Green paint on her walls, an open window with fluttering curtains. A trembling body dressed in satin and lace. Pleasure. Force. Rough hands, rough words. The feel of her clinging to him like he meant something. Like she wanted him. Heat licking up his spine, heat between her legs, heat in her mouth. And then tears. Sadness. Disappointment. Always, disappointment.

He remains frozen in shock, until he finds his voice. He jumps to his feet.

“Jesus,” he chokes out. He drags shaking hands through his hair and the wild tangles snag around his fingers. “Jesus. Did I - I raped you? Oh, my fucking god, fuck. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so fucking sorry, I don’t – ”

He falls mute. The apology sits heavy on his tongue and he wants to apologize for an eternity, but this is not for him to be upset. He’s not owed the relief of tears: those are reserved for victims, not criminals. Instead, he remains silent, awaiting the condemnation he deserves.

But to his disbelief, it doesn’t come.

“No! God, no, that’s not what I’m saying,” and now she stands up, trying to assuage his horror. “You didn’t, that’s not what happened.”

“Sure sounds like it was,” Bucky grits out. His hands are clenched at his sides and a faint whirring creeps from his arm when it recalibrates, a physical representation of his panic.

“No,” she repeats forcefully. “Listen to me. That is not what happened. You didn’t, you don’t understand, I wanted – ”

She stops in frustrated confusion.

“Still, I – “

“Bu – sorry, Soldier – “

Apologies collide, and both fall silent. Bucky tries first and his voice is quiet.

“Bucky. Please. My name is Bucky.”

Wetting her lips nervously, she tests the syllables on her tongue.

“Bucky,” she begins, embarrassed. “Listen to me. I hadn’t been with anyone that way for a long time. I wanted - that. I wanted you. That night, I wanted you.”

Bucky stuffs his hands in the pockets of the sweatpants and stares at his socks. They don’t match, and he wonders fleetingly where all the socks in his dryer go. He wiggles his toes as he thinks.

“That night, you were waiting for someone else though – you thought I was someone else. Jimmy.”

He looks up and sees the wind of his words blow the light from her eyes. When she speaks, her voice is tired. “I did. I thought, I hoped, maybe I would see him, but – he didn’t come.”

The look on her face speaks of a loss so devastating, it steals his breath. “Oh,” he finally says. He has nothing else to offer.

Considering the checkered past they apparently share - and he knows it’s all true, the memories are back again, slotted back into the space from where they were previously wiped - Bucky doesn’t understand why she hasn’t thrown his ass out the door. He’s grateful for the reprieve. Undeserving, but grateful. Inflicting his presence on her any longer though, seems selfish.

“I should go,” he says heavily. “Thank you. For saving my ass. For cleaning me up. I didn’t deserve it. I’ll get my stuff and go.”

He takes one step and black spots explode in front of him. Grasping the edge of the couch, he stumbles, and she reaches for him. Leaning clumsily into her, he grunts at the bursts of pain flooding from the wounds in his chest.

“No,” she says. “Those two bullets nearly hit your heart. I don’t even understand how you’re walking right now, but you’re not going anywhere until you’ve fully healed. Please.”

“Really, I’m fine - ”

“Really, you are not,” she interrupts, steel-edged voice brooking no argument. “Stay. I insist. Get some sleep, let yourself heal. Then you can head back.” She hesitates, before the next sentence. “The world can wait, Bucky.”

Something in her tone makes him pause. It feels important, like there’s more to this exchange than meets the eye. Bucky feels the age-old desire to wrack his brain hit him hard.

“Okay,” he mutters, looking down. “If it’s really not a problem - I’ll stay. Just a few days. I, uh, I heal pretty quick.”

“Yes, I thought you might,” she murmurs, letting go of him.

Bucky waits for his vision clear, fiddling with the hair tie around his wrist and snapping it a few times to ground himself. “Once I’m not totally useless though, you gotta let me earn my keep. I’m not lying in bed all damn day.”

“Okay,” she agrees. “If you get up to bed and stay there, I’ll find some things for you to do when you feel better.”

“Helpful things?” Bucky clarifies.

“Yes, helpful things. I promise. Now go back to bed. I didn’t spend all that time stitching you closed so you could rip it all open and bleed on my floors.”

“Alright,” he agrees, giving her a small smile.

There’s that peculiar longing in her voice when she speaks again, the same as he remembered when she found him in the snow and her words brand him in the oddest way.

“Stay as long as you want. It’s nice to have someone around, no one ever comes up here.”

Bucky nods his thanks and shuffles slowly toward the stairs. As he walks, he thinks he hears her whisper his name, but it must be the wind blowing outside.

*****

The odds of Steve flipping his shit when Bucky calls are high. Toying with his phone, Bucky grimaces before he punches the STEVIE G button and waits. Blinking little dots fill his screen, and when it connects, he sees a big forehead and snarls of damp blond hair.

“Hey man. How was it?”

The phone shifts and Steve’s whole face comes into view. He’s eating Skippy peanut butter straight from the jar.

“You were eating that last time I called,” Bucky responds. “You ever gonna do anything useful, or just sit around in your underwear?”

Steve scoops a huge blob and stuffs the spoon defiantly in his mouth. “It’s a new jar,” he mumbles defensively.

“Lazy little shit,” Bucky adds, grinning.

“Okay, time for you to fuck off,” Steve replies, now washing it down with milk straight from a carton with TONY written down the side in black sharpie. “How was it? Find anything?”

“It was fine. Another false alarm.”

“Great. Headed back soon then?”

Bucky chews the inside of his cheek and looks away. “Yeah, about that. So, I may have run into some issues – ”

Milk splashes on the table when Steve bangs the carton down. “What’d you do?”

“Well hell, Rogers, I’m kinda offended. Why do you always assume it’s me?”

Steve snorts like an irritated bull and rolls his eyes. “Because. Have you met you?”

“That’s fair, but this time it wasn’t me. I swear. I was heading back to the hotel and ran into this guy, some Hydra asshat asking if I’d set off the distress signal at the base. Anyway, he’s pretty dead now, but the fucker hit me with a couple gunshots and – ”

“Hit you with a couple what?” Bucky’s always surprised Steve’s voice can hit that high note - it sounds a like he’s taken a kick in the balls. Bucky ignores it and keeps talking.

“– and I’m fine, Steve. It’s fixed, I’m all good, I just want a few days to recover, so I’m staying a little longer.”

Steve’s already stomping into his room and throwing open his closet. Yanking an army green canvas duffel from the top shelf, he throws it on the bed and starts digging through his underwear drawer. Bucky sees a handful of demure blue boxers and one pair with neon pink Captain America shields go flying into the bag while Steve mumbles to himself.

“Steve. Steve. Rogers, listen,” but Steve just plows along, ignoring Bucky and muttering about the shortest flight paths and weather reports and meetings to reschedule and all of a sudden, Bucky panics. Pulling the rip cord, he shouts a single word.

“Kit-Kat!”

Steve freezes.

For good reason.

Years ago, when Bucky was mired in a particularly crappy depressive episode, he decided to make a blanket fort in his room. He stayed huddled in the retreat for a solid week, grudgingly emerging only to scrounge up food and get fresh batteries when his TV remote went dead. It was in the middle of the night, while he was watching ‘Twilight Zone’ reruns, that Steve crept into the room and sat beside him. No words were spoken, he simply hugged his knees to his chest and sat in silence.

During a break, a Kit-Kat commercial came on. The click and snap of the candy bar and the merry little tune of ‘give me a break, give me a break’ squeaked quietly from the TV and Bucky’s voice was groggy when he spoke.

“This is really hard. Sometimes, I just – I need a break.”

Steve hummed his agreement and through the thick blankets, Bucky felt the comforting pressure of Steve’s hand on his shoulder. “I know. How about you and me make a deal? If things get to be too much and we need a real break, where you just get to be alone, no questions asked – we say that. Say Kit-Kat and everyone’ll back off. It’ll be like a safeword. Okay?”

The pile of blankets is silent, but a minute later Steve hears Bucky’s voice whisper. “Okay.”

“But you can’t use it often,” Steve says firmly. “This is only for the big ones. You only get to use it when you really need it. Deal?”

The ���Twilight Zone’ theme song buzzes from the TV, playing through the entire refrain, before Bucky’s hand slowly emerges from the pile. He holds it in the air and waits. Steve grips his fingers to shake and without thinking, unconscious movements walk them through the stupid super-secret handshake they created in 1927.

Bucky still wonders how the hell his body remembers these things, when his broken brain couldn’t recall his own name for decades. Steve reminds him some things are like that.

Muscle memory. Some things just stick.

The pact is binding. Rarely used, but unbreakable when granted. Since their agreement, Bucky’s used it twice and Steve’s tried it once. Now, Bucky watches Steve’s jaw working, peanut butter smudged in the corner of his mouth, and he knows Steve wants to argue.

But a promise is a promise.

Steve drops the duffel bag with a muffled thump.

“Alright. But you better fuckin’ call if you need something. None of this ‘I can get by on my own’ bullshit. Understood?”

“Hey man, that line was all you, not me,” Bucky reminds him and Steve grunts irritably. “But yeah, ‘course I will. Thanks buddy.”

Before he hangs up, he gives the phone a mocking salute and a wide smile. Steve rolls his eyes and flips him off, very pointedly pushing the end call button.

Silence surrounds him and his smile fades as he looks around the room. Exhaustion fills him then and his limbs feel like lead. Collapsing onto the bed, he buries his face in her pillow and closes his eyes.

*****

He sleeps for 48 straight hours.

He gets up a few times and stumbles to the bathroom, eyes half closed and leaning against the wall because he can barely keep his balance, but otherwise he’s out cold. The gnarled fingers of the nightmares always strangling him slither up his neck, searching for purchase, but they’re rebuffed. Again and again and again, they bay for his blood, but for some unknown reason they’re pushed away.

What a god damn relief.

*****

It’s late morning on the third day, when the sound of his stomach growling kicks him awake. Huffing out a soft whine as he stretches, he rubs the grit from his eyes and lifts the blanket. Tugging gently at the tape around his bandage, he sees splotches of green and yellow bruising around the area, and finds two wounds that look weeks old, scabby and starting to itch.

“Good morning,” he hears and looks up to find her standing in the doorway with a purple mug of coffee.

“H-,” he croaks, voice rusty with disuse, and he clears his throat and tries again. “Sorry. Hey. Good morning.”

She walks slowly toward the bed, as if not to spook him. Bucky tries to smile, wincing just slightly as he struggles to sit up. Extending the mug, he accepts it gratefully and takes a long drink.

“Damn, that’s amazing. Thank you.”

Returning his easy smile, she motions to the wound and holds up a small scissors. “I can take those stitches out, if you want. Unless you’d prefer to do it yourself.”

Letting an unknown person near him with a pair of scissors seems like less than intelligent behavior, but Bucky’s never been a fan of stitches – putting them in or taking them out. Broken bones, concussions, burns, those are no problem. But anything that includes sewing human flesh together? That’s at the top of his nope scale.

“God yeah. Please.” He throws the blankets aside and swings his legs over the edge of the bed looking up at her. “How do you, um…how do you want me?”

“That’s fine, just sit up straight and, um, if you can – lift up your shirt?” Bucky nods and pulls up his t-shirt, removing his right arm and then hesitating. He ends up with it half-way on, keeping his left arm and the thick red scars around his shoulder, hidden from view. Clearing his throat, he looks into his lap and waits.

Kneeling between his legs, her fingers are freezing when they touch his skin and he flinches slightly.

“Sorry,” she murmurs apologetically, pulling away and rubbing her hands on her thighs. “My hands are always cold.”

“S’okay, just surprised me,” Bucky replies quietly. She glances up with a fleeting smile and goes back to work.

For the strangest reason, he feels himself begin to blush. Which makes no sense, because how many times has he been buck-ass naked in front of doctors and never batted an eye. But now, he swallows self-consciously and maybe he sucks in his stomach and flexes just a little, because for some wild reason, he cares what she thinks.

Which makes no god damn sense.

She doesn’t seem to notice though, tongue between her teeth while she snips carefully at the threads and tugs them loose. Once they’re gone, she squeezes a bit of ointment on, rubbing her thumb gently over the scab, and puts a clean bandage in place.

When she’s finished, she looks up to find him staring awkwardly down, his face flushed a splotchy red.

“Are you okay? Do you feel warm?” She reaches a cool hand to his forehead and Bucky gets flustered.

“No, no,” he says hastily, and he nearly tumbles off the bed when he ducks away. “I’m great. Fit as a fiddle. It’s just the fire, kinda hot in here, and you have lots of blankets and they’re so fluffy, and I’m, yeah. Whew! Hot stuff. Anyway.”

Bucky wants to sink into the floorboards. Hot stuff? What the hell was that?! he groans internally. Have you ever even talked to a woman? Get your shit together you fucking moron!

His verbal stupidity surprises her, but thank god she ignores it. Standing up, she crumples the used bandages.

“If you’re tired, you should keep sleeping. It’s good for you.”

Bucky shakes his head and adjusts his shirt. “I’ve slept more these past few days than the past two months. Usually have - nightmares and things,” he tucks loose hair behind his ear, frowning at the admission, “but I’ve slept perfect here. No nightmares at all.”

Her eyes light up at his admission. “That’s great. I’m glad.”

“Besides, you deserve your bed back.”

“No, you’re recovering, you need to stay in here – ”

Bucky holds up both hands to stop her. “Yeah, no. You’re not winning this one. If it’s still okay, I’d like to stay a couple more days. Pay you back for helping me. But I’m taking the couch downstairs and if you try to make me sleep in here, I’ll sleep downstairs anyway and this very comfortable bed will go to waste.”

Hands on her hips, she raises her eyebrows, staring him down. Bucky feels momentarily cowed, but he gives just as good, so he folds his arms and stares back.

Finally, her lips twitch and he hears a small laugh. The sound makes his blood sing.

*****

The days tick by.

And it goes like this.

Every morning, she comes downstairs to find him sitting on the couch, blankets perfectly folded into neat squares. He hands her a cup of coffee, asks what he can help with today, and her long list of home improvements begins to shrink.

Every evening, she makes supper and they talk, and Bucky quickly realizes how much he enjoys these evenings. It should bother him, he thinks, to feel so oddly at ease with this woman who’s essentially a stranger. But he finds himself sharing bits of himself, absorbing those pieces of herself she hands over. He relaxes more in a few days of knowing her, than in months of living with his team in New York.

Every night, she tells him to sleep well and she climbs the stairs up to her bedroom. He listens as she gets ready for bed, the quiet path of her footsteps a soothing predictability. When the footsteps go silent, he fluffs out a blanket and gets comfortable on the couch, so he can think.

And all through the night, he dozes in fits and starts, staying awake in the darkness to keep watch over this unknown woman who saved his life.

*****

“It’s just always so damn cold out there. You know what I miss? Soup.”

“Hmmm. Soup would be good. What kind?”

“Um…potato? My Ma makes the best damn potato soup. Warms your bones right up.”

“I have some potatoes left in the cellar. Come over tonight, I’ll give it a try.”

*****

“Can I ask what you were doing up here?” she asks, stirring her soup. Bucky ignores caution and dives right in, chomping into a steaming potato and gasping in pain.

“Damn, this is amazing, I love potato soup. Haven’t had it in years,” he enthuses, fanning his mouth. He swallows the scorching bite and takes a swig of water. “So, there used to be an old Hydra base near here. Been abandoned forever, but one of the old distress signals went off. I came up to investigate.”

Fishing in the liquid for another potato, he captures one and looks up to meet a wide-eyed stare.

“I never knew there was a base around here. Did you find anything?” she asks tightly. Bucky sees her fingers clutch the spoon so hard he’s surprised it doesn’t snap.

“No, nothing. It’s happened before, couple other places. Old bases breaking down, tech sparking out,” he says quickly. “Never anything wrong when we get there. It’s nothing to worry about, I promise. Just Hydra shit finally crapping out. It’s a good thing.”

“You’re sure?”

Bucky hears it in her voice. He’s intimately acquainted with the sound of fear. His spoon clinks when he sets it down and he gives her a reassuring smile.

“I’m sure.”

She’s keeps stirring her soup, thinking. When she asks a question, her voice wavers. “The man I shot. Was he Hydra?”

Bucky knows that sound as well. The uncertainty of someone who was caught in the moment, who fought violence with violence. “Yes. He was there about the signal. Asked if I set it off.”

Looking away, she sees their reflection watching from the living room windows. Her face is thoughtful when she considers.

“I shot someone. And I didn’t think twice.”

The movement is purely unconscious. Bucky couldn’t stop it if he tried.

“Thank you,” he says, clutching her fingers and pouring every drop of sincerity into his voice, “for not thinking twice.”

“You’re welcome,” she says faintly. Her fingers press against his for the briefest moment, before she drags her hand back to her lap.

*****

“You ever think about getting rid of that rooster?”

“Are you trying to murder my birds?”

“No! Oh geez, no.”

“How about this - if he’s still alive next time you visit, I’ll make you fried chicken.”

*****

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” she answers, carefully setting fried chicken on a paper towel to cool.

Bucky thinks for a moment and chooses his words carefully. “The last time we met, it was 1969.”

Her shoulders tense, but she nods and avoids his stare. “Yes. It was.”

“You can tell me to fuck off here if you want, but - you don’t look quite old enough for us to know each other then.”

She stays silent, scratching at the edge of the skillet with tongs. He can tell she’s deciding how to answer.

“No. I guess I don’t.” Looking up at him, she sets the utensil in the sink and meets his curious gaze. “I’m – enhanced, I guess. If that’s what they’re calling it these days.”

It makes sense. There must be thousands of enhanced people across the world. So many choose to stay under the radar, uninterested in the circus spectacle that follows anyone who displays even a hint of ability. Bucky thinks of Steve wearing baseball caps all the time, and Wanda dying her hair black and changing her accent, and Bruce avoiding the color green and staying hidden in Tony’s labs all day.

Sometimes being different sucks.

“Got it,” Bucky says. He watches her pick at her chicken and he nudges a little more. “So, you’re enhanced and you…found a good skin cream then?”

She huffs out a laugh.

“That would’ve been nicer. I was born with an ability. It was nothing powerful. Nothing fun,” she says with a trace smile and Bucky feels himself smile in response. “It was passed down in my family. My mother had it, her mother before her. When I was 27, there was an accident. I don’t understand what th – what happened. But here I am.”

Bucky sees the light in her eyes dim, her expression closing off and he desperately wants to keep her talking. He wants to learn more. He wants to learn her.

“Should I assume Hydra was responsible for that accident?” Startled at the comment, she looks up nervously. “Sorry, I’m sorry. I just, when I told you why I was here, you seemed - scared. I know the feeling.”

Swallowing hard, she licks suddenly dry lips. “Yes. They - liked their experiments.”

Bucky gives her a grim smile. “Yeah. They really fuckin’ do, don’t they?” They sit in silence for a few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts, until Bucky’s curiosity gets the best of him. “What’s your ability?”

With those magic words, it ends. Her expression shutters and she retreats into herself.

“I’m sorry. I’m not comfortable talking about it,” she says quietly. “I hope that’s okay.”

“Of course,” Bucky replies easily, and he means it. He picks the crispy skin from the chicken leg. “I know what it’s like to be different.”

*****

“You made noodles?”

“A long time ago, when we had plenty of flour and butter. They won’t be as good as the ones you had in Italy though.”

“Nah, those were fascist noodles. I bet your noodles taste better.”

“I would hope so.”

*****

“The food here is fantastic,” Bucky says reverently, piling a second helping of spaghetti on his plate. Maybe he should feel self-conscious at the awkward way he slurps the noodles, but it’s so fucking good he doesn’t care.

She forks the noodles and twirls them into a spoon, grinning at him. Bucky marvels briefly at the effortless gesture.

“Well, I try.”

“You succeed.”

Passing him a basket of bread, she stirs the noodles around her bowl.

“Hey Bucky?

“Hmmm?

“What have you been doing? Since you came back?” she asks tentatively.

There’s a question.

What has he been doing? Revenge. Rounding up the arrogant fucks who escaped the first Hydra purge following DC. Avenging. Throwing himself back into fighting, trying to rebuild his tarnished reputation with the good deeds he owes. All are viable answers, but he goes with a more personal truth, the one that keeps him up at nights.

“Trying to figure myself out, I guess. Learn how to be part of a team again. How the world works, when you’re allowed to make your own decisions. Sorting through memories, trying to make them useful. All that good stuff.”

She takes a drink of wine and seems to gather her courage. “And are you - I mean do you – have you been remembering things?”

The question is so hesitant. Bucky wonders wryly if she’s afraid to hurt his feelings, but it doesn’t matter, he can admit when he has no fucking idea what’s going on. Which is most of the time.

“Some,” he says honestly. “Don’t remember anything from before I was captured. Anything I know, it’s stuff Steve’s told me, or stuff I’ve read. Watched a bunch of documentaries about WW2, that was weird, seeing myself on old film reels. No idea why, but I can’t get to any of those memories, they’re just - obliterated. The ones with Hydra though, they’re reappearing. That’s why I volunteer for jobs like this,” he admits, tearing off a hunk of bread. “Keep thinking if I go back to these places, I can figure out who I was back then.”

“Bucky. Why the hell would you do that to yourself?” she asks sternly. Bucky grins at the tone.

“You sound like Steve. Look, I don’t want to know what I did back then. All the shit I’ve done to other people…all the shit that’s been done to me. Fuck that. I don’t want to know, I need to know. Hard to put yourself back together, when you’re missing huge pieces of the puzzle.”

Bucky looks down at his plate, mopping up spaghetti sauce with his bread. She doesn’t say anything else.

*****

The air is crisp and clean the next night, when Bucky steps outside. Standing on the front porch, he pulls a dark blue knit hat low over his ears and sucks a deep breath, reveling in the freshness that fills his lungs. Mountain sunsets are something incredible to behold and he stops to savor it; the craggy horizon painted brilliant red-orange, deep purple hugging from above, crystal white stars gleaming.

It clears his head in an unexpected way. The scents of snow and pine needles and life. He’d forgotten how reviving life in the wilderness could be. Growing up in Brooklyn, spending most of his life now in Manhattan, he wasn’t exactly an outdoorsy guy. And normally, he hates the snow. Spent far too many years being cold to seek it out, but here? Here, it’s not too bad. The sound of the nearby river bubbling through ice, the smell of wood smoke curling in the air, and – well.

And her.

There’s something strangely calming about her. Her voice, her mannerisms. Her cautious smile. The way she hums while she cooks and how she catches her tongue between her teeth when she’s concentrating. Bucky feels an unusual tug in his belly at the thought. It feeds something he hasn’t really considered since he fought his way back to the land of the living and it’s making him reconsider a few things.

He should probably call Steve tonight. Let him know he’s still knee deep in Kit-Kat mode.

Because right now? Bucky really doesn’t want to leave.

Reaching for the tattered broom leaning by the railing, he sweeps away the couple inches of new snow covering the steps and jumps lightly down. Walking back to her little woodshed, he pops a key into the lock connecting the shed doors and eases the creaking wood open. Rummaging for a few minutes, he piles up a massive armful of logs and carries them back to the bin on her front porch. Three times he makes the trip, arranging the pile carefully, filling it to overflowing, so she won’t need to tramp through the snow to get more.

Maybe tomorrow, he’ll make himself useful and cut more. Manual labor, fresh air. The happy thought makes him giddy.

When he finishes, he flips the lock clasp to bolt it again, but something catches his eye. Peering closer, he finds scratches down the side of the lock. Glinting silver, they look new. Bucky narrows his eyes and glances over his shoulder, into the darkness of the trees beyond.

The world is quiet. Not a breath of wind.

It seems odd, but as she said before – no one ever comes up this way. Likely it’s nothing and she mentioned this lock gave her issues, so maybe it was simply past frustration. Fingering the grooves, he makes a mental note to ask her about it, just in case. Trudging back toward the porch, the scent of pancakes reaches his nose and he leaps eagerly up the first step.

He pulls up short.

It happens then. The brick wall appears.

Bucky feels his brain ricochet from the blow. He wasn’t even searching, but it hits like a hammer, pounding the breath from his lungs and the sound of Steve’s voice fills his head.

“Nah, it was in France, about a year before. SHIELD never returned your bag after – well. After. Who the hell knows though, maybe it’s lost in the archives somewhere. Anyway, there were all these letters you had in there from your girl, maybe they’re something you want.”

“My girl?”

“Yeah, you – your girl. Smart. Beautiful. You were, uh…you were just fuckin’ head over heels. She used to write you all these letters, you kept ‘em stuffed in your bag, ‘Dear Jimmy,’ they always started and – ”

“Stop.”

“Buck – ”

“Stop it Steve, I mean it.”

“Alright, alright, you said you wanted to know, I’m just telling you - ”

“Dammit, just - I don’t wanna remember it. Not right now. Can’t fuckin’ handle hearing about someone else I let down.”

Somewhere in the forest, a bird whistles. The sound brings him crashing back to the present.

Dear Jimmy, he thinks.

Bucky stops breathing.

*****

There’s an old jazz song on the radio perched above her sink, and she turns the dial up. Tapping her feet to the brassy beat, she moves through the small kitchen, humming. Pancakes, eggs, bacon. Breakfast at supper. For some reason it’s always a treat, no matter how old you are.

She’s mixing batter when she hears the quiet click of the closing door, and she sets the bowl down and turns to look at him with a grin.

“Look, I know you said you don’t like your pancakes burnt, but I think you should just try – ”

Her voice fades when she sees him. Bucky stands before her, the blue knit cap clenched in his hands. Dark hair sticks in every direction and he pushes it back, trying to coax it smooth, and she sees his fingers tremble. His face is pale and his bright blue eyes watch her closely.

“Bucky? Are you okay?”

He opens his mouth and closes it. Twice. Unable to find the words.

“Are you hurt?” she tries again, wiping her hands on a dish towel and coming forward. “What happened?”

Holding up a hand, he stops her and moves to sit on the edge of an armchair. Chewing his lip for a full minute, he finally finds his voice.

“I have a question. I need you to answer me with the truth.”

“Okay,” she says hesitantly. She moves to the living room and sinks slowly to the chair opposite him. She pinches her lip nervously and Bucky feels his heart spasm. He keeps watching her, willing himself to pull up the correct memories and failing. Finally, he gives up and whispers.

“Am I Jimmy? Were you waiting for me that night?”

Her expression never changes, but he sees her breathe faster, chest rising and falling quickly. The answer is clear. Closing her eyes, she exhales a long breath.

“Yeah. You – yes. Yes. You were, you are – him. You’re Jimmy.” Opening her eyes, he sees them shiny with tears and when she blinks, they spill over. “I was waiting for you that night.”

Silence stretches longer and longer and Bucky finally realizes his lungs are burning. He lets out his breath with rush and leans forward. Elbows on his knees, he tries with everything in his heart, to remember.

“We’d met? Before then? We knew each other?”

She sits up straight, never breaking eye contact. Wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand, she searches for the right words. Bucky feels his heart thump wildly while he waits; her voice is laced with sadness when she speaks.

“The first time we met was in 1944. I was wearing grey and you were wearing blue.”

*****

Next Chapter

*****

Tags are open right now, if you want one, please send me a DM or ASK.

[frankiefellinlove]

Bruce's eulogy for the BIG MAN:

I've been sitting here listening to everyone talk about Clarence and staring at that photo of the two of us right there. It's a picture of Scooter and The Big Man, people who we were sometimes. As you can see in this particular photo, Clarence is admiring his muscles and I'm pretending to be nonchalant while leaning upon him. I leaned on Clarence a lot; I made a career out of it in some ways.´´

´´Those of us who shared Clarence's life, shared with him his love and his confusion. Though "C" mellowed with age, he was always a wild and unpredictable ride. Today I see his sons Nicky, Chuck, Christopher and Jarod sitting here and I see in them the reflection of a lot of C's qualities. I see his light, his darkness, his sweetness, his roughness, his gentleness, his anger, his brilliance, his handsomeness, and his goodness. But, as you boys know your pop was a not a day at the beach. "C" lived a life where he did what he wanted to do and he let the chips, human and otherwise, fall where they may. Like a lot of us your pop was capable of great magic and also of making quite an amazing mess. This was just the nature of your daddy and my beautiful friend. Clarence's unconditional love, which was very real, came with a lot of conditions. Your pop was a major project and always a work in progress. "C" never approached anything linearly, life never proceeded in a straight line. He never went A… B…. C…. D. It was always A… J…. C…. Z… Q… I….! That was the way Clarence lived and made his way through the world. I know that can lead to a lot of confusion and hurt, but your father also carried a lot of love with him, and I know he loved each of you very very dearly.´´

´´It took a village to take care of Clarence Clemons. Tina, I'm so glad you're here. Thank you for taking care of my friend, for loving him. Victoria, you've been a loving, kind and caring wife to Clarence and you made a huge difference in his life at a time when the going was not always easy. To all of "C's" vast support network, names too numerous to mention, you know who you are and we thank you. Your rewards await you at the pearly gates. My pal was a tough act but he brought things into your life that were unique and when he turned on that love light, it illuminated your world. I was lucky enough to stand in that light for almost 40 years, near Clarence's heart, in the Temple of Soul.´´

´´So a little bit of history: from the early days when Clarence and I traveled together, we'd pull up to the evening's lodgings and within minutes "C" would transform his room into a world of his own. Out came the colored scarves to be draped over the lamps, the scented candles, the incense, the patchouli oil, the herbs, the music, the day would be banished, entertainment would come and go, and Clarence the Shaman would reign and work his magic, night after night. Clarence's ability to enjoy Clarence was incredible. By 69, he'd had a good run, because he'd already lived about 10 lives, 690 years in the life of an average man. Every night, in every place, the magic came flying out of C's suitcase. As soon as success allowed, his dressing room would take on the same trappings as his hotel room until a visit there was like a trip to a sovereign nation that had just struck huge oil reserves. "C" always knew how to live. Long before Prince was out of his diapers, an air of raunchy mysticism ruled in the Big Man's world. I'd wander in from my dressing room, which contained several fine couches and some athletic lockers, and wonder what I was doing wrong! Somewhere along the way all of this was christened the Temple of Soul; and "C" presided smilingly over its secrets, and its pleasures. Being allowed admittance to the Temple's wonders was a lovely thing.´´

´´As a young child my son Sam became enchanted with the Big Man… no surprise. To a child Clarence was a towering fairy tale figure, out of some very exotic storybook. He was a dreadlocked giant, with great hands and a deep mellifluous voice sugared with kindness and regard. And… to Sammy, who was just a little white boy, he was deeply and mysteriously black. In Sammy's eyes, "C" must have appeared as all of the African continent, shot through with American cool, rolled into one welcoming and loving figure. So… Sammy decided to pass on my work shirts and became fascinated by Clarence's suits and his royal robes. He declined a seat in dad's van and opted for "C's" stretch limousine, sitting by his side on the slow cruise to the show. He decided dinner in front of the hometown locker just wouldn't do, and he'd saunter up the hall and disappear into the Temple of Soul.´´

´´Of course, also enchanted was Sam's dad, from the first time I saw my pal striding out of the shadows of a half empty bar in Asbury Park, a path opening up before him; here comes my brother, here comes my sax man, my inspiration, my partner, my lifelong friend. Standing next to Clarence was like standing next to the baddest ass on the planet. You were proud, you were strong, you were excited and laughing with what might happen, with what together, you might be able to do. You felt like no matter what the day or the night brought, nothing was going to touch you. Clarence could be fragile but he also emanated power and safety, and in some funny way we became each other's protectors; I think perhaps I protected "C" from a world where it still wasn't so easy to be big and black. Racism was ever present and over the years together, we saw it. Clarence's celebrity and size did not make him immune. I think perhaps "C" protected me from a world where it wasn't always so easy to be an insecure, weird and skinny white boy either. But, standing together we were badass, on any given night, on our turf, some of the baddest asses on the planet. We were united, we were strong, we were righteous, we were unmovable, we were funny, we were corny as hell and as serious as death itself. And we were coming to your town to shake you and to wake you up. Together, we told an older, richer story about the possibilities of friendship that transcended those I'd written in my songs and in my music. Clarence carried it in his heart. It was a story where the Scooter and the Big Man not only busted the city in half, but we kicked ass and remade the city, shaping it into the kind of place where our friendship would not be such an anomaly. And that… that's what I'm gonna miss. The chance to renew that vow and double down on that story on a nightly basis, because that is something, that is the thing that we did together… the two of us. Clarence was big, and he made me feel, and think, and love, and dream big. How big was the Big Man? Too fucking big to die. And that's just the facts. You can put it on his grave stone, you can tattoo it over your heart. Accept it… it's the New World.´´

´´Clarence doesn't leave the E Street Band when he dies. He leaves when we die.´´

´´So, I'll miss my friend, his sax, the force of nature his sound was, his glory, his foolishness, his accomplishments, his face, his hands, his humor, his skin, his noise, his confusion, his power, his peace. But his love and his story, the story that he gave me, that he whispered in my ear, that he allowed me to tell… and that he gave to you… is gonna carry on. I'm no mystic, but the undertow, the mystery and power of Clarence and my friendship leads me to believe we must have stood together in other, older times, along other rivers, in other cities, in other fields, doing our modest version of god's work… work that's still unfinished. So I won't say goodbye to my brother, I'll simply say, see you in the next life, further on up the road, where we will once again pick up that work, and get it done.´´

´´Big Man, thank you for your kindness, your strength, your dedication, your work, your story. Thanks for the miracle… and for letting a little white boy slip through the side door of the Temple of Soul.´´

´´SO LADIES AND GENTLEMAN… ALWAYS LAST, BUT NEVER LEAST. LET'S HEAR IT FOR THE MASTER OF DISASTER, the BIG KAHUNA, the MAN WITH A PHD IN SAXUAL HEALING, the DUKE OF PADUCAH, the KING OF THE WORLD, LOOK OUT OBAMA! THE NEXT BLACK PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES EVEN THOUGH HE'S DEAD… YOU WISH YOU COULD BE LIKE HIM BUT YOU CAN'T! LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THE BIGGEST MAN YOU'VE EVER SEEN!… GIVE ME A C-L-A-R-E-N-C-E. WHAT'S THAT SPELL? CLARENCE! WHAT'S THAT SPELL? CLARENCE! WHAT'S THAT SPELL? CLARENCE! … amen.´´

´´I'm gonna leave you today with a quote from the Big Man himself, which he shared on the plane ride home from Buffalo, the last show of the last tour. As we celebrated in the front cabin congratulating one another and telling tales of the many epic shows, rocking nights and good times we'd shared, "C" sat quietly, taking it all in, then he raised his glass, smiled and said to all gathered, "This could be the start of something big."´´

´´Love you, "C".´´

[powerovernothing]

What would the other two bros do if one of them was really terrified of something?

Dear sweet lovely Anon, I do believe you have just said the magic words. After all, I consider hurt/comfort to be my all-time favorite sort of genre to write about in general, and when it comes to Korbin and his siblings, I rarely do anything angsty without including something near the end to make the pain and the tears all better… so really, what I’m trying to say here is that you really don’t have to twist my arm to get me to answer your adorable question~

In fact, I believe I shall go a step beyond just the regular and long-winded answer I normally do when you send me these wonderful messages and will actually give you a few snippets of my writing based around this very concept! So, in other words, my friend! Buckle up, prepare your feelings, and get ready to do some reading down below!

And, if I didn’t already say it at some point recently, thank you – and everyone else – so very much for the continued and wonderful support! It means more to me than you guys will ever know~!

(*~*Underneath is six different snippets of writing from my Oblivion Verse, some that have actually been unseen as of now on this blog, and all of which involve tons of emotions from all three of the boys. Lots of reading involved, proceed with caution!*~*)

If Korbin Was The One Afraid:

When it comes to Korbin and the subject of fear, the things that he is quite often afraid of is based around the aspects of mental terror. Whether it is because of intense nightmares of past mistakes, or the torment he endures at the hands of Sheogorath and what may happen if he goes against his abuser, those are the things he is afraid of most. So, if he was in the trying process of suffering through either of those outcomes – or both at the same time, imagine that – I believe his chosen siblings would react as follows:

Lucien:

(In the aftermath of Sheogorath’s latest ‘play sessions’ with his Little Raven, Lucien soothes Korbin’s mangled nerves)

“Mydear Silencer, look at me,” He calls to him softly, his voice reassuring andgentle. Yet, when his words are unable to breach through the darkening cloud surroundingKorbin’s mind, his tenderness fades and is replaced with as much firmness as hedares to allow himself to be in this moment. “No, Korbin, you will do exactly asI say, and will look at me when I tell you to.”

It takes a rather long while, butKorbin finally does as he is prompted, and when their eyes meet, Lucien noticeshis normally sparkling gaze is now terrified and filled with overwhelmedtears.

“My brother, you are allright,” He says matter-of-factly, and lowers Korbin’s trembling hands tohis lap, so he might hold them both tightly in his own as their fingers intertwinewith one another. “Simply breathe deeply, and know you are not in any formof danger. Do this as many times as you need, as many times as you believe are required, until you find, and at last grasp the truth behindthe words I speak.”

An extended silence falls over thecamp, and Korbin’s shoulders continue to shake violently; the tears in his eyesfalling from his eyes and down his cheeks even amid attempting to make sense ofhis brother’s instruction. Lucien remains where he is, hardly daring to moveeven an inch from his side, and only squeezes Korbin’s hands when he believes hisSilencer falls prey to whatever unspeakable horror he is attempting to fightwithin his own mind.

And when Korbin is carefully pulled from the depths andrealizes the touch he is feels is Lucien’s own, he grasps onto his brother’s handswith white knuckles, and holds on as though they were truly the only possible thingin time itself that could keep him afloat.

“Can you hear the sound of myvoice?” He asks after a moment.Korbinsays nothing in response to his brother’s questioning, and simply nods; hisbreathing rough and ragged, but calming slightly.Lucien then takes one of hishands away from Korbin’s tight grip and returns his palm back overthe side of his cheek.“Are you able to feel mytouch upon your face?” Another nod, and Lucien’s tonesoftens once again.“And you know for absolute certainthat it shall not harm you?” “…I do,” Korbin finally speaks, and he struggles to find his words.“I know… very well that you… that you would never hurt me, Lucien. Even when… evenwhen I’m like this…”“Yes, very good,”Lucien replies with a genuine smile. “And indeed, you are correct in whatyou say, my Silencer, for I would never think to harm you in any way.”And although he cherishes the soothing words his brother speaks to him, and howthe Madness is beginning to subside the longer he remains underneathLucien’s careful touch, the lingering fear of somehow falling back to sleep, only to find himself suffocated underneath never-ending chains, before being broken from an all too different, and oh-so sickening touch, only causes his shoulder to tense and whatever reassurance he thought to heave leave him almost instantly.“But even if you wouldnever hurt me… I know… I know someone who would,” He pulls away from Lucien’s touch, and wraps his arms around himself. “Someone who did. In my mind, before you came tome. You have no idea what it was like, brother, it was simply…”However, Lucien refuses to allowsuch a thing to happen, and reaches to pull Korbin back before he has a chanceto get too far.“It was simply a terribledream, and nothing more,” He explains in a gentle tone, placing one hand in hishair and the other around his shoulders as he holds him close. “It cannot physicallydo any damage to you.”Korbin shakes his head. “But,you don’t –”“—Silence now, and know Iam here,” He whispers, lowering Korbin’s head to his chest before he thinks to speak another wordand runs his fingers through his brother’s tousled locks of grey affectionately. “Whatsoever yousaw surely does not matter any longer, for you are safe within my embrace, and Ishall never let anything come to harm you, Korbin. Not now, and not even whilstyou sleep.”

Martin:

(Martin tends to Korbin after an ambush by the Mythic Dawn, and Korbin blames himself for needing help at all)“There is no shame indesiring protection, and comfort; or coming to my side and allowing me to healyour injuries, you know that I would never –”

“–You very nearly passed outbecause of me, Martin.” Korbin interjects softly, cutting him off as hefeels the tears pooling in his eyes. “You wasted too much energy, and Iwould have been the reason for you hurting yourself…”

Martin breathes out, andthen begins to stand to his full height; touching both of his hands to Korbin’scheeks affectionately, and carefully lowering his tone.

“And yet do you see merefusing, or turning you away, even if such words were true?”

Korbin shakes his head, attemptsto wiggle out of the touch he does not deserve, but his brother onlyholds him in place.

“No, it is not as thoughyou would slam the door in my face,” He tells him, his eyes nearlyoverflowing. “But it does not mean that you should help me,or that I deserve such…kindness.”

Martin places a hand againstKorbin’s neck, and slowly pulls him forward. Korbin does not fight him, he onlyreaches out and grabs a part of Martin’s robe to clutch onto. Grounding him andkeeping him afloat in this dark raging sea. Just another weakness, just another act born ofshame.

“And just why do youbelieve that?” Martin whispers, allowing his brother to hold on ashe runs a hand through his hair. “Why do you believe that you, mydearest little brother, is unworthy of my affection, or my love?”

Korbin buries his head intoMartin’s robe and chokes out a quiet sob. “…Because what if in thenext instance that this happens, you are with me?” The tears run freelydown his face. “What if you are injured somehow, or you expend too muchenergy, or my own actions cause you to leave me?”

Martin pulls back andgives him a curious stare as he tries to dry his tears with his thumbs. “What do you mean by–”

“–You know exactly what Imean by my words, Martin!” Korbin shouts, jerking back as tears runincessantly down his cheeks. “I cannot bear the thought of my mistakescausing you to die in my arms or turn away in shame and anger! And yet, with asmany missteps as I take, it surely means that is only a matter of time before Istumble down the mountain entirely, and you or Lachance fall along with me! Itonly makes sense! Perfect, terrible, awful sense!”

Martin feels his heart breakinganew, and yet he only moves forward to pull Korbin back against him. He husheshis frantic cries and tries to calm his shaking shoulders.

“…Korbin, neither I nor Lachance would ever think to leave your side,” Martin slowly rocks himin place, attempting to soothe him in action as well as words. “We loveyou far too dearly to ever think of doing anything of the sort.”

[…]

“What I am attempting tosay, however,” Martin slowly turns Korbin’s face back around, and lockseyes with him as his voice turns serious. “Is that even though you may beafraid, and that the path before you may be treacherous, and overwhelming tobehold… there is certainly no shame in how you feel, as you are not alone infeeling them. Nor are you alone whatsoever.”

Martin leans forward, and Korbinis surprised when he places a gentle kiss upon his brow. “And if you find that toohard to accept,” He whispers gently, the firmness in his voice gone as quickly as it had come. “Then simply allow me to fightoff whatever frightens you the most.”

If Martin Was The One Afraid:

Being the chosen heir of the Imperial throne in the midst of the great Oblivion Crisis, there is no limit to the things that Martin would end up being afraid of. From dealing with the constant onslaught of Daedra forces, to knowing he will have to bear the weight of the crown by the end of the Crisis, to even witnessing his brothers constantly putting themselves at risk for his own sake… there are many things that could make Martin frightened for one reason or another. Thus, if something like that occurred at any point, I believe his siblings would react as follows:

Lucien:

(Martin has sleeplessness from the Mysterium Xarxes, and Lucien tends to him)

“When was the last time that you slept?” He says,reaching out his hand and turning Martin’s face to the side with a singletouch. “And slept more than a few hours at a time?”

Martin touches the hand that is on his face and lowers itwith a small – rather nervous, sheepish – chuckle. “Would you possiblybe satisfied in any way, if I told you that I simply cannot remember?”

Lucien frowns in response, quite obviously not pleased in anyway regarding Martin’s words, and he exhales a soft sigh. “Ah, then it is justas I thought.”

Lucien pulls his hand away from Martin’s grasp, and thenslowly begins to shuffle backwards upon the large bed until his back is laidpropped against the headboard. When he stills, he crosses his arms overhis chest, and gestures towards Martin with his chin.

“Then I shall ask you again,” He says, and heshakes his head in knowing that Martin managed to have him repeat himself afterall. “Come here and allow me to rectify your terrible choices atonce.”

Martin pauses, genuinely surprised by what he was hearing,and what Lucien was doing – for him,and not their youngest, more troubled brother for once – and he just smilesfaintly.

“Are you suggesting that I come lay beside you?” Heslowly moves forward, but pauses half way, as though he was awaiting voicedapproval of such actions. “As you would with Korbin?”

Lucien holds out his hand; an invitation. “Do you have issuewith that?”

Martin shakes his head and takes the offered hand willingly. “No,not at all,” He tells him simply. Letting himself be pulled forward untilhe was directly beside Lucien against the pillows. “I was just… rathersurprised that you would choose to do this. For me, that is.”

Lucien wraps an arm around Martin’s back, and slowlyreadjusts the Emperor Priest until his head was laying upon his robedshoulders. He listens carefully to the words in which his brother speaks, and asmall amused chuckle escapes him before he realizes it.

When Martin looks up, due to the sudden sound, Lucien justsoftens and tightens his almost protective grip around him.

“You are my brother, are you not?”

Martin nods, nestling himself further within Lucien’s grip,and finding the embrace of The Assassin comforting despite everyknown reason that it shouldn’t.

“Indeed; or at the very least, I was the last Ichecked.” Martin smiles slightly playfully.

“And you have gone without sleep for many nights;possibly brought on due to a certain Daedra Artifact and its influence overyou?” Lucien turns his head, casting Martin back underneath his darkstare. But instead of the Septim Heir desiring nothing more than to wiggleaway, and escape from Lucien’s eyes, he notices a hint of concern lurkingbehind his elder brother’s eyes.

Martin merely nods and allows him to continue. To piece togetherthe puzzle pieces he had already gathered, and to admit the truth in which wasalready clearly known.

“…Or perhaps, it was not simply that damnable bookitself, but the nightmares seeking to torment you when you longed for asoundless rest?”

[…]

“Lucien?”

In response, almost as though he could sense where thisthought process was heading just from the whisper of his name alone, Lucienhushes Martin, and pulls his brother closer.

“…I am not going anywhere, Septim,” He reassures him,hoping it is enough even as he wraps his other arm around him just in case itproves otherwise. “Sleep and know that I am here. You are perfectly safe.”

Korbin:

(Martin is temporarily blinded by Akatosh’s great power, and Korbin tries to see the bright side of things)“Martin, what in all of Sithis himself were you thinking?!“Korbin shouts, kneeling in front of his brother and grasping onto his shoulderstightly as his concern and anger combine into an uncontrollable emotion seeking to overwhelm.“I told you I would have beenfine! You had no reason to give yourself over to that sort of magic, especially whenyou barely understand such power to begin with!” He shakes Martin slightly in emphasis to his heated words, and then his emotions shift from the intense mixture of worry and rage, to a much more selfish line of thought. “You could have hurt yourself back there! Burned yourself from the extent of the flames, did terrible things to your body, or you could haveeasily died by unknowingly expending too much energy! And just what would I have done then? What would I have done if youdied in the process of protecting me?!”Korbin pulls his hands away, and impatiently awaits a reply. But whenone does not come, and instead his brother simply continues to stare at him blankly, hardly reacting to his words, or even the sudden shaking, his expression twists in frustration.

“Are you merely going to let me ramble on without end? Without hardly saying asingle word in response?” He asks in an offended tone, and then touches his shoulder once againwith one hand, patting it lightly in an effort to gain his attention. “Did you evenhear a single word I said to you at all?”

Martin inhales a deep breath in the hopes of somehow composinghimself, but it does very little to soothe his nerves. His shoulders beginto shake as he desperately scrambles to reach for the hand he feels restingagainst his shoulder. His voice stammers, and his unfocused eyes fill to therim with terrified tears.

“…I can… I can hear you justfine, Korbin,” He tells him when he finds his brother’s hand at last. He turnshis head, and the tears slip down his cheeks as he clutches the hand pitifullyagainst his chest. “It is only because I cannot… see you… that I said nothing. Know that I… that I can hear you just as clearly as I would naturally… but your face… noteven your place in, where I assume, you are in front of me… I can no longer see it… Isimply cannot see anything…”

[…]

“All right, this doesn’t… this doesn’t mean it isn’t something we can learn to deal with, and come to terms with, yes?” Korbin mutters with a nervous chuckle, one hand resting against Martin’s face so that his brother might know he is still there outside of voice alone, and the other running through his hair almost frantically before he stands.

“We have faced all manner of things before now, and dear Sithis, we have even faced the very worst that Oblivion itself had to offer! So, a little thing like… like a sudden loss of sight doesn’t mean it takes away who you are! You are still very much my beloved brother, and I care for you even if you have bright and shining eyes much like my own, or dimmed and faded ones!”

Martin sits with his hands folded in his lap where Korbin had placed him beside what he assumes is the feeling of the heat of the fire lightly warming against his skin as it crackles and pops. He listens intently to his brother as he rambles on and finds it curious how his voice fades in the distance, and then rises in volume at least half a dozen times.

He can only surmise, from behind his still darkened eyes, that his brother is pacing about the grounds of their campsite.

“And if that is not enough to soothe you,” Korbin begins, halting his step and coming to stand in front of his brother with his hands outstretched to gesture. “Then we could always locate a healer of some kind! I mean, there must be some amount of magic, or magical being in this Void cursed world we inhabit that could make you better! I mean, whatever else is that damn magic good for if not for healing! Or, if you simply do not want to involve an alternate means of magic – considering it was Divine tampered magic that caused this to happen to begin with – then I simply stay beside you and help whenever you needed to see.”

Korbin kneels in front of Martin and reaches to take his brother’s hands in his own, and Martin tilts his his head and blinks in surprise.

“After all, considering that my honored title is the Knight of the Emperor, I see very little reason why I cannot be considered the Eyes of the Emperor just the same,” Korbin tells him with a genuine smile. “I can assist whenever you need to pass judgement, or when you need to write out papers, or even when you need to go from one room to the next. Whatever is needed my dear brother, you have me. As long as it helps… and as long as you know, without a doubt, that I am with you in this darkness….”

If Lucien Was The One Afraid:

Now, this is where things become quite tricky, and just a touch complicated in the long run. Mostly because, as the eldest sibling out of the three, there are very seldom moments where Lucien allows himself to be seen as weak in front of both Korbin and Martin. As he deems himself to be their protector, and the one who keeps them safe whenever something dangerous or frightening arises.However, this is also where it backfires on him, as while he is indeed the eldest, that just means he has so much more to lose. Worrying over their safety, and fearing the moment he would be too late, sometimes it just overwhelms him in uncontrollable ways. And while there aren’t exactly many moments where he is the one receiving comfort from his younger brothers, you have just managed to inspire me to create more, my dear Anon!

But here’s hoping these will sate you until that time comes~

Korbin:

(Lucien is haunted from nightmares of his previous Silencer, and his brother’s death, and Korbin calms him unintentionally)

“What good is your trustand love, dear Speaker,” Lara whispers; her fingernails digging into hisforearm and drawing blood, as her lips twitch with a demented smile. “Whenyou knew in your cold and selfish heart that you would never be able to carefor them as much as they cared for you?”

Lucien’s eyes dart quickly fromboth Lara’s bloodied and torn face, to where Korbin stands far too still as heslices his throat with The Assassin’s own dagger, and he feels himselfdrowning. Being pulled under the weight of his own choices, his own mistakes,his own foolish heart that should have never tried to love whatsoever, and allhe wishes to do is scream until his throat is raw.

“Whatever you thought were yours to hold, shall againbe taken!” Lara squeals happily; pulling Lucien into her embrace, as hervoice shifts from playfulness, to quiet anger. Lucien feels a cold sweat formover his forehead as he listens to her words. “And yet, why do you look sosurprised, dear Lachance? Have you not realized by now that your love is simplya death curse written in the bloodstains of those you foolishly sought to carefor?”

Lara finally lets him go, andLucien falls to his knees in tearful heap. Watching helplessly as Korbin chokeson his blood, and falls backwards away from the cliff side, and down into thedepths of the abyss below. As he does, and Lucien’s hand remains outstretchedtowards a brother he knows he can no longer save, he finds his voice at last.

“Dear sweet Dread Father make itall stop!”

[…]

“By Sithis, I surely cannot explainit,” He mutters to himself; his tone quiet, far softer than the mosttender whisper. “…But the mere thought of losing you in any way; why, itis enough to bring me to my knees in sheer grief alone.”

As his hand moves away fromKorbin’s head, a small grumble – caught between another snore and a groan –reaches his ears, and his brother begins to stir from where he lay.

“…Lucien?” He says ashe attempts to raise his head; his eyes still closed as he speaks. “W-Whatdid… what did you say?”

Lucien chuckles warmly despite it all and leansdown on one knee. “Nothing, my Silencer,” He whispers; pulling the blankets back up around Korbin’sshoulders. “Or at the very least, nothing of grand importance.”

Korbin lowers his head back ontohis pillow when he feels the warmth of the blanket envelop him, and he smilessleepily.

“Are you certain?” Comespart of his question, and his head rolls several times to the side and backuntil he is able to find enough willpower to finish what he was saying. “Afterall, if there is… something you need from me, I could try… and assist?”

‘All I need from you, my brother, is for you to simply stayalive.’

It goes unspoken, unsaid, and asLucien muses silently over the thoughts in his own mind, he slowly brushes theback of his hand against Korbin’s cheek in a candid moment of affection.

“Yes, I am quitecertain,” He answers simply; his gentle actions betraying his otherwiseunemotional tone of voice. “Go back to sleep now, and we shall speak againcome morning.”

Korbin nods in response to hisbrother’s commands, incredibly eager to follow them to the letter withouthardly a word in complaint for once. Lucien continues to watch Korbin for amoment, and when he believes him to be back within the realm of sleep, hefinally stands; moving away from the beds before heading back towards thecracked door of their shared chambers.

But before he reaches connectinghallways, he hears a familiar voice sound from the shadows once again.

“Goodnight, brother,”Comes Korbin’s fading tone from behind; already consumed by his tiredness whenthe words leave him, and yet still desiring to have the final word even still.

Lucien merely smiles sadly whenhe hears his Silencer’s incredibly innocent – and yet far too ironic – wellwishes, and he slowly shakes his head as he whispers his faint reply under hisbreath.

“Sleep well, my dearKorbin.”

Martin:

(Lucien breaks down whilst on the search for Mehrunes Razor to save Korbin from Sheogorath, and Martin soothes him)

Lucien buries the sharp edge of his blade into the bark of the tree and forces down the scream rising in his throat. From the corner of his eyes, he sees Martin’s hands trembling in front of him, uncertain as to what he could possibly do to make this moment better. And all Lucien can do is laugh bitterly at the sight.

“…How is it that no one, in the entirety of this unjust and vile land, has come to realize that we, as his chosen eldest siblings, only want him to be safe?! To at last be set free from his seemingly unending torment and have some manner of the peace so wrongfully denied him!” He slams his fist against the harsh bark and cares very little for the blood running down his hand in response to his actions. His eyes are downcast, and he stares at the pebbles at his feet as the memory that drove him to such a state repeats without end in his mind, and he becomes more emotional.

“Is the sight of him lying in broken tears not already enough to feel utterly helpless? Knowing there is very little we can do at this point to soothe him? Is the sound of his near constant begging for the sweet release of death far too much of a grand request in the eyes of for any possible Divine or Dread Father to somehow grant their mercy?”

Another laugh escapes him, and he slowly pulls his hand back to wipe the blood upon the surface of his armor before turning around around and locking eyes with Martin as angry tears slip down his cheeks. When he began weeping, he surely does not know, but he makes no effort to stop them from falling, even when he sees Martin’s own eyes go wide in shock.

“Of all things… of all things that would prompt them to shun us both away they are needed the most… why must it be this? Why must it be him?” He asks miserably, forcing himself not to step back as his brother begins to move forward. He simply remains fixed in place, all his energy spent on giving life to the words, and the emotion, he had kept within him for too long.

“Tell me, oh wise Emperor… For all your knowledge, all your reassurances, and all the Void-Damned hope you continue to carry alongside that ever-damnable Light, merely answer me this…” Lucien feels his legs beginning to tremble alongside his hands, and he hates every part of the weakness he is allowing himself to give into. But it was too late now, and if he did, indeed somehow fall, then perhaps Martin would catch him. Perhaps then, the two of them could make sense of this all, instead of choosing to shoulder it solely on their own.

Perhaps that is what Korbin needed.

“If you are so content to stand silent and bear witness to me in such a state, lost and near breaking just the very same as you, then surely you must have the answer which eludes me,” Lucien shuts his eyes before he continues, allowing himself to shed broken tears. His anger now having faded away, and simply replaced with genuine pain. He takes a breath, and speaks from behind closed lids. “Why is the one thing I know we both truly desire above all else, for our brother to be alive and to simply feel joy once again, why must it seem so utterly imposs–”

His words are cut off before he has a chance to complete his sentence, for he suddenly feels arms wrapping around his shoulders, and his breathing catches in his throat. Rising his head, he opens his eyes, and sees the faint shape of Martin resting against his shoulder. His hands begin trembling more fervently as they linger just above his brother’s back.

“It is not impossible, and we shall fight back againstevery thought saying otherwise, until we are able to finally save him,” Martin whispers softly, pulling the Assassin close, and tightening the grip he has around him. “He will live through this, Lucien, for we will not let him go so easily. You simply have to keep trusting thatthere will come a day where this will at last be over…and he will be his smiling self once again.”

Lucien says nothing, only nods and slowly wraps shaking arms around Martin’s shoulders. The Emperor Priest rubs a hand over his brother’s back in comfort, as he tries to calm Lucien’s raging emotions with whatever gentle words he believes that he needs to hear the most.

“And if such a thing proves too difficult at first, or you are unable to continue to uphold your self-imposed image of unshakable strength for whatever reason,” He whispers into his ear. “Then understand that it is quite all right, and I shall simply believe enough for the both of us…”

Oh goodness, this ended up way longer than I first expected it to when I was first compiling my ideas, but I honestly couldn’t help myself by the halfway point! Your question was so lovely, and I got so inspired by it, that I couldn’t help but give you something special in return for you taking the time to drop this in my askbox! Did I possibly overwhelm you with all the various snippets of writing from so many different scenarios? Most likely, but I hope that even despite that, you enjoyed reading all of this over!

As you may have already guessed, most of these came from different points in the boy’s lives – some during the Crisis, a little while after, and some even post the two-year time skip – so there’s a touch of flip flopping around, and some of these were actually quite old before character development actually set in. Meaning I had to do a little flash editing to make them presentable to how Korbin and his brothers act nowadays. But as I said, I hope you end up getting some feelings while reading, and you are satisfied with all the new information and scenarios involving these three!

If you have any further questions about the boys, are curious about one of the snippets above that you wish to see more of, or you just wish to poke my brain a little further in the near future, please feel free! I am always overjoyed and honored whenever you prompt me like this, and I always enjoy taking the time to answer you in full! Thank you so much again for leaving this message, sorry for making you wait a while – as well as possibly overwhelming you with all my writing lmao – and I hope that your days are filled with lots of love, hurt/comfort, and tons of hugs and kisses!

All the best to you, lovely Anon~ ♥

[unconsciousxreality]

A Lot to Live For

They’d done their duty; now came the agony of accomplishment when so many others had lost their lives. (Paige Lives)

>>>THE LAST JEDI SPOILERS<<<

She was the only member of Cobalt Squadron to make it back alive.

Paige stumbled as she climbed from the cockpit of her wrecked ship; the bomb bay had been torn off completely in the chaos after they’d released the payload, and it had been a miracle in itself that the airlock cycled in time for her to hit the fuel booster and limp out of there. The dying screams of her squadron still rang in her ears, even as she wrapped her crying sister into her arms in relief.

“I’m ok, Rose, really,” she said as she met Commander Dameron’s eyes over her sisters shoulder. He was all fire, all hero. They’d done their duty, and now came the agony of accomplishment when so many others had lost their lives.

“You’re a hero now too; just like them,” Rose said, helping her peel off her flight suit in the medbay. White veins of stars in hyperspace streaked past the small porthole above the bed. After the initial adrenaline fueled numbness, exhaustion had begun to flood Paige’s body, and she slumped onto the cot, letting Rose manipulate her arms and legs out of the sweaty suit. Paige sighed. Her little sister had formed an unrelenting veneration of the Resistance heroes that destroyed Starkiller. She’d done her best remind Rose that they were all just people, but the stories and rumors that circulated the D’Qar base were much more interesting to the young maintenance worker.

“We just did what was asked of us,” she answered, voice rough.

Beyond the bruising and shallow lacerations from being knocked around her cockpit, Paige had suffered carbon burns in her esophagus and lungs, making it hurt to speak. She shuffled into the fresher for a quick sonic shower, and when she emerged, Rose had a tube of bacta-salve in her hand. They sat together on the cot, Paige wincing as her sister rubbed the healing gel into her bruises.

“Have you heard anything about a new base?” Rose asked after a minute or two. Paige shook her head.

“I’ve not exactly had time to discuss it with High Command,” she said drily. Her sister rolled her eyes.

“Weren’t you in the Officer briefing with Commander Dameron? I just thought you may have overheard–” Rose was interrupted by a shrill beep emanating from her wrist comm. “Kriff, I was supposed to report in 20 minutes ago…”

Rose left her with a hug and an extra ration of nutritive milk before reporting to her duty station. Given how they grew up, it wasn’t surprising that Rose latched onto stories of hope and heroism the way she did. Paige had always been more realistic, shouldering any burden she was asked. The hopefulness that filled her was more understated than her sisters, almost grim in the way she tamped it down into something that could be weaponized.

The Raddus shuddered out of hyperspace as the medical droid prepared a bacta spray breathing treatment.

“Are there any side effects?” Paige asked the droid, rolling her shoulders and accepting the proffered stack of new clothing from it. She pulled on the clean flight suit.

“It is a low dose. Short-term side effects are limited to light headedness and dizziness.”

As Paige lifted the nebulizer mask to her mouth, she was thrust back into her bomber’s cockpit: Warning lights flashed, alarms blared, her flight mask malfunctioning so that it felt like she couldn’t breathe. It would be so easy to give up, to let herself be overcome and fall into the maelstrom below. Debris from fallen ships hurtled through space; it was headed straight for her bomber. Paige’s breath stopped, images appearing in her mind. She saw Rose’s smile, and Kaydel’s eyes. She saw her home planet being stripped of everything good by the First Order. She saw her squadron plummeting to their burning demise onto the surface of the Dreadnought. With Commander Dameron’s shouts echoing in her ear, Paige slammed her hand down on the airlock control and the fuel booster in quick succession, knowing she only had half a moment to get out of the firefight before her hobbled ship would be noticed and shot down.

She came back to herself, breath heaving, and ripped off the nebulizer. You’re fine, she told herself, body clenched tight. It’s over. Paige sat, shivering, as the med droid fussed over her. It placed the mask gently back over her mouth, and she resigned herself to sitting still on the cot as the breathing treatment did its job. The sickly sweet taste of the aerosol bacta clung to the back of her throat. Ten standard minutes into the treatment, the med bay door slid open with a hiss.

“Paige!” Lieutenant Connix burst in, wide eyes taking in the breathing mask and med droid. “The transport deck officer said you crashed in hangar 5–”

“Kaydel, I’m fine,” Paige smiled weakly behind the mask; the younger officer hurried toward the cot she was on. Privately, Paige thought the Lieutenant looked adorable, all worried like this. A second later though, it was Paige who was flustered; Kaydel threw her arms around the bomber pilot, and when she pulled back held Paige’s face in her hands.

“I saw the ship. Don’t tell me you’re fine.” Kaydel’s voice was steel underneath the wavering distress. Paige took Kaydel’s hands in her own, then removed the mask.

“You should see the other guy’s ship,” she attempted to joke, but her scratchy voice made it tough. Kaydel snorted, a small laugh escaping even though she was obviously upset. Heat bloomed in Paige’s chest at the sound. “The evacuation. Did we get everyone out?” Paige changed the subject. Kaydel sank to the cot next to her, still holding her hand.

“Every transport got through, thanks to you.” A thrill ran down the length of Paige’s spine as the young Lieutenant looked up at her. Kaydel’s bright brown eyes, so often inscrutable and serene, now glittered with unshed tears. “I was so scared,” she whispered. “The rest of the bombers were gone, and when you didn’t respond to Poe I thought–I thought the worst.”

“I did too,” Paige responded honestly. “My comms were fried, I could hear him but he couldn’t hear me…” Her back stiffened, thinking about the hopeless fear that had engulfed her. She ran a hand through her short black hair, breathing as deeply as she could. “Grazed by an ion cannon, I think. The surge killed Finch, Nix was long gone…I had to drop the payload remotely from the cockpit.” Speaking about her gunner and bombardier brought despair crashing down once again, and Paige didn’t try to stop her tears. Kaydel’s grip tightened on her hand, and she was shocked to see fresh tear tracks on the junior officer’s cheeks when she looked up.

Paige had never seen Kaydel cry before.

They’d been friends for close to two standard years, and never once had she seen that wholly composed facade fall so completely. When the younger woman had joined the resistance military command, it was her natural and calm leadership that allowed her to jump rank so quickly, and Paige had noticed. As a flight controller, Kaydel’s path crossed her’s regularly; often they would end up at the same bench in the mess, or relaxing in the barracks at the same time. The growth of a closer relationship was organic. Paige, while initially finding herself dazzled by Kaydel’s lovely smile, other attractions soon developed. Her wit, her determination, the ruthless way she competed in even the most casual game of sabaac.

And now, her empathy.

Kaydel leaned forward, resting her forehead against Paige’s. The sounds of the medbay faded into the background; all Paige could hear was Kaydel’s breathing. The pain from her bruises faded; all she could feel was warmth from the points where their bodies met. It was like nothing else Paige had ever experienced. As if in a dream, Kaydel’s hands moved up to cradle her face.

“I am so, so sorry,” she murmured, stroking a thumb over Paige’s cheek, who leaned into the touch. The nebulizer mask dangled off the cot, forgotten. The aching guilt and sadness that had weighed her down since her ship had screeched into the hangar bay became lighter; it didn’t vanish completely (Paige knew from experience she would feel the guilt of a survivor for years to come) but the weight became bearable with Kaydel’s featherlight touch on her skin.

“Kaydel, I–” Paige paused, heart caught in her throat as she looked into the eyes of the incredible young woman in front of her. She knew words would never express the magnitude of what she was feeling, the gratitude for her friend, the adoration she felt for months she’d kept to herself, for fear of ruining what they already had. Words were not enough, Paige decided, before closing the remaining distance between their lips.

Kaydel kissed back. Slow, at first, then with more fervour. Paige poured every emotion swirling around in her chest into the kiss, savoring the feel of Kaydel’s lips on her own. She felt like she could kiss this young woman for the rest of her life.

When the klaxons sounded, they pulled apart reluctantly, too wrapped up in one another to notice at first what the alarm meant. Paige recognized it first, apprehension rising to replace the bliss.

“That’s the proximity alert. What in blazes–” she began, but the black wedge was suddenly just visible out the porthole answered her unfinished question. Kaydel gripped her hand even tighter.

“No,” Kaydel breathed. They looked at each other for a moment, eyes still teeming with emotion and quickly drying tears, before sliding off the cot and out the medbay door. The comm system replaced the klaxon soon enough:

“All hands to your stations. All hands to your stations.”

[twinflameshardcore]

Disclosure and further awakenings

I have written in one of my blog post lately, that around 2 years ago I received a glimpse about an alien contact, disclosure, anything like that to happen between December 9th-24th, 2017, that it will be a preparation for a real contact with aliens, with beings from other dimension, whether energetically or physically. And so it has begun :)

This is the news on CNN today, not that this is the best media, since they cause bad blood very often but it has been said that major media will post news about aliens when the time is right. Pentagon had that ‘threat searching’ program they abandoned in 2012. How meaningful about the date. This means that somebody in Pentagon must have gotten a channeling that they should stop assuming that aliens would be a danger but rather wanted allies to let us fight against all those ‘archons’ here on Earth, and above. That they needed to let go and let the outside help in. This is also no coincidence that the newest Star Wars premiere happens this season ;)

This also means that soon I’ll be allowed to fully tell the real story of Draconians (pieces of the story I’ve received so far from my higher self, which match together well and these will be from the very source as I’m a Draco-human) because there will be more understanding about who we are and why we happened to be in this solar system. Not for bad reasons at all, but just like between humans, there are good and bad guys, those who turn to greed & control instead of staying on the original path, and those who keep supporting love and spiritual progression. I’m still awaiting that inner impulse of ‘sit down and write’. We, true Dracos, dragons and seraphim basically remained hidden and quiet during centuries to let liars talk and threaten people against us, to then let the people awaken on their own and see through illusions, to discover the truth and chase the liars away ;]

My twin cut any contact with me which is not unusual but this year has been just horrible in terms of our lack of verbal communication. It’s all him, I’ve  reached out on countless occasions. I feel him and I know that he began feeling me more and more which may come as a shock for him, yet a confirmation that we share the same spirit. Merging in spirit continues, we bring each other amazing harmony and love at times. I had to let go of trying to compare it to a rough reality. There are 2 realities which are merging and helping us live in one, the better only. I had the most meaningful experience lately on 12/17 which felt as if 2 grids in your spirits and bodies matched perfectly, so called blueprints of us two. It felt like there were grids on our chests and in bodies and all of ‘eyes’ of that grid matched perfectly with the other, like numbers 1 with 1, 2 with 2, 3 with 3 etc.

Is my twin awakened yet? I don’t know, due to lack of communication. I’ve done my job, researched, understood who I am, accepted that I’m very powerful and I know the real truth different to that it is shown on Earth which definitely involves religions. I don’t see the entire picture yet but there’s definitely more to come which will be just a pure relief for the brain mostly because it will no more have to ignore, deny or search for ‘facts’ it hadn’t been taught on Earth. My higher self told me to be quiet now, because it’s his time to awaken further, to have his realizations, to research, to verify within that what I shared with him during the last 4 years - discoveries I was receiving via own channelings about myself and us. I’m now a living confirmation of all he could receive, and as a forerunner, I can be also a guide for him, if he asks. But it seems once we meet in person again, who knows when, maybe in 2018, we’ll be fully synchronized, energy, light bodies and knowledge. There’s no such a thing that one can be denying and rejecting truths which are bombarding them. If you came here and forgot who you are, then you will be recalled and you need to accept it as there comes a liberation thanks to this knowledge, a former charisma, skills, inner power and self-esteem will be retrieved to stay.

This time now is the beginning of a quick yet fast awakening of these who are only facts-orientated, who only listen to ‘specialists’, to the people with scientific degrees, to what is written in serious books published by serious publishers and also what is on the TV too - the last wave of people who are not spiritually orientated yet whose souls are ready to switch from the brain/ego to the heart/spirit. Year 2018 will be for them to wake up and understand while we, so far awakened angelics will be benefiting from our hard work, in any way possible. If you were pulled to do something which your heart enjoys, it’ll continue with fascinating effects, and you will be guided further, by your Self. Our higher original versions are entering our Earthy copies to replace them further. Often you will discover that you feel like being steered from inside, that something moves your hands, legs, makes decisions for you, that your human, fear or ego driven willpower will be ‘turned off’ and at certain times the angelic/higher you inside of you will take the lead. It’s very useful to help deal with problems we thought were lost. We still can win. I find such events fascinating. We should not fight with it, because these ‘original versions’ entering us, they are most advanced us, they spread within us, from the hearts outside. They know us, they have been observing us all the time since we were born from the Light, they are our good twins as in number 11. In a twin flame relationships, 11:11 means that we come as 4 folks together, 2 of me and 2 of the twin. They love us and they arrive with certain goals to make us do next, which goals we’ll love because they fit into what we like doing, into our dreams, favourite activities, passions, and desires. If the topic of love was your all-time direction, to give love, to be in love, to open hearts, to transmute/merge masculine and feminine through love and sexuality, to make people happy, to be with that One and only man/woman, then I feel there won’t be any replacement. You’ve been doing what you were guided to do, unless you keep sabotaging yourself against your happiness. This means there’s a negative energy attached to you, a distortion which has to be removed, and which will eliminated thanks to the ascension. These energies won’t survive in high vibration which our bodies pick up (through plasma bodies’ liberation and expansion) but it’s also your job to 'scan’ yourself, find the leeches and order them to go to hell, alone. Be guided by your heart, not the ego.

I had experienced at least 2-3 shifts this month so far, which were related to changing dimensions and the plasma body further stretching and liberation. Moments of huge inner acceleration, high vibration, rods of light drilling though me, inner explosions from the solar plexus and heart into the root chakra etc etc etc. My eyes lately felt like crying, and some layer in me felt like melting, but I’m physically and mentally OK. I’m prompted to drink a lot of water and also eat chocolate or magnesium & potassium supplements once a day to help the heart and nerves cope with the structural upgrades. I sleep with minerals/gemstones and I walk in the nature to let the Earth take & disintegrate all those ‘toxins’ from me which were created by all those energetic transmutations. Everybody have their own symptoms depending on what the light body dies within.

I also had very clear, spiritual visits from the two men from my life with whom a spiritual connection was instant. One died in 1999 so I only meet him in dreams occasionally. He was 16 y.o. when I was in love with him back then and 22 y.o. when he died in a car crash. Lately however, thanks to dimensions merging, we have gotten into what I’d call a ‘union’, an agreement that he loves me and I love him, that it was expressed openly in the dream, and obviously had no effect on me and the twin relationship. It was my personal experience to let my soul recollect the energy which was mine and which I gave the other guy in a college. For him it was to express his old love to me. I knew if he survived and he would be in his 40s now, we would meet and he would not hide his feelings or attraction to me, but it would be too late because I’m reserved for my twin.

The other whom I’ve strongly felt lately was a one time lover who I had met way before I met my twin. Me and that guy, had an amazing one-night sexual release and healing in 2002 and we also talked about stars, the Big Dipper specifically. He was 4 years younger than me, so as old as my twin, completely not into spirituality at the time, yet  he liked surrounding himself with incense sticks, blue color, candles, fire, wood and plants, mostly thanks to his mother. Once I came into his house, I felt like ‘at home’ which was very weird as I never feel good at anybody’s apartment. But the energy there was harmonious, healing so I assume it was his mother who was some kind of angelic, yet I never met her. I can now ‘call’ out his energy and he becomes aware, he listens. So I assume something must have happened to him these days, most probably he had an awakening, his soul started communicating with all those beings he had met and verifying who was most important, and at the same time, he was ‘informed’ who I am (not as a human but deeper) and perhaps we may come from the same group of Dracos considering our sexual skills. We never met later after 2002 and I’m OK with bridges burnt as I don’t want to be tempted, yet we were completely different humans, with different lifestyles and interests so this chapter had been closed forever just right after it began. It was just very surprising to feel the guy again so directly around me after so many years passed by. This means that their divine masculine energies found me to give me back that what belonged to me, the fire, interest, healing, sexuality, parts of my original energy. If energy of men/women from your past appear again in your energy field and act as if accompanying you, it may mean the same - they came back to return what was once yours. Your gifts are being returned to help you feel more powerful within once your plasma body expands so that you no more stretch yourself emotionally between past boyfriends/lovers even if you moved on and forgot about the guys a long time ago.

The most important thing is to know that your soul/spirit had received all possible orders and directions way before you incarnated in this lifetime, and is aware of the timing like a good soldier to apply to orders when they are shouted. So you don’t have to work hard on yourself, meditate etc. Listen to your body and the higher self only, they will tell you what you need to do. Such an inner advice is always free, you don’t have to pay anybody to guide/heal you, unless you want it and can afford. I’ve never paid for any spiritual healing, any coaching, any reiki, because I have this knowledge on my own and I let it guide me. I’ve been always led by my Self and it’s only my impatience (the fire element) to accelerate things unnecessarily, yet when they finally happen, it’s always a relief and the inner yell ‘I knew I was doing it right!’ :)

I’ve been seeing 11:11 frequently lately, as much as my birth date and number 33 as well (my birth number). I had an outburst of inner power, and meaningful dreams and I wrote a few messages to my twin that I knew I’d been here to guide and protect him as I am the spiritually stronger of us two to take on discovering and awakening first. It’s the feminine who liberates the two twins (in this life time, I’m a former masculine energy who is a feminine in this life, might have happened I was also a female warrior before, a muscular type) Females are those strongest who have proven themselves, who have chosen true love (not suffering, slavery or delusions) as the only solution.

It’s not a coincidence that this female warrior/savior theme is being brought to the masses via movies these days. Main characters in the sequels of movies like Mad Max, Dr Who, Star Wars are females! This is a message to all masculine to tell them they have to listen to us (and their inner divine feminine part of the energy, we’re always 2 in one) because we, females are the liberators. We’ve sacrificed a lot and it’s time for a lasting reward. We have liberated ourselves from the mental programming faster, and we can bring the same healing to the men (because often they do not have the crown & heart channels open enough) through love because we can do it only via hearts, not brains. Yet we need men as much as they need us to become One again, to retrieve the whole original harmonious aspect of the angelic being, the two in one, acting as one. On thing to mention - the law of non-interference! This sucks, but we, human angelics are bound with this law as much as many aliens races and even our galactic families out there. We can be equipped with all kinds of solutions, tools and sneaky ways of delivering knowledge, but it’s the masculine who needs to want to open and be healed, as much as we need to open to be transmuted by the Light. Nothing can be forced out or accelerated, thus if you feel the Light works too hard on you, request it stops and returns when you are able to take it in again. It will be probing continuous, so you won’t miss it ;)

More and more of us will be convinced that we are forerunners and all we have endured so far was a smartest choice, that our souls have chosen to do it earlier than others. We’re special. As much as our progress had been observed, we’ll be watching others awakening these days but we will have our personal goals to continue with, as brought by our higher selves.

The movies I listed above resonate with certain groups of people - Mad Max with those of you, who like me came across a global catastrophe, most possibly on Mars but could be also on a parallel Earth or elsewhere in another galaxy. I don’t resonate with Atlantis, Lemuria etc, not my past. The main theme of the movie is a survival, by being smart, courageous, to fight, to win, to kill the enemy. Then Dr Who would be for, I’d say - magicians, empaths, time travellers, good spirits who wish to remove mistakes and change realities for the better, by making sudden interventions. Finally, Star Wars - a topic of a universal duality which causes damages, wars, a fight for control, good against evil, rebels and attackers. It’s for all of us who had fought in galactic battles, specifically during Orion Wars, for Sirius, for Betelgeuse, for Vega/Lyra, because the ‘above’ is reflected ‘below’ - the witch hunt, Crusades, an unfortunate colonization of Africa and Australia by white people, WWI, WWII, wars in Middle East, in Ukraine, Germany, holocaust camps in Poland, slavery in Egypt, abuses in Africa, Japanese kamikaze, nuclear bombs, these are only a few reflections of the ‘above’, the very old galactic issues. These have one source of war, the cult of blood, the destruction of the human DNA and a distortion of the connection humans have with other dimensions, beings, where they could get help and wisdom from. There is this ancient saying - ‘all roads lead to Rome’. Not necessarily for trading purposes. The destruction of humans is linked to the Vatican here on Earth (there’s a mirrored place in the galaxy too) but we’ll get to this when the time is right. Religion along with the politics, and money tame our original power, creativity, unity with the Universe and the truth about everything, a wisdom. Star Wars is another mass-wake up call for those who have an inner conviction (often supported by visions, dreams or DNA/astral memories) of being as old as the galaxy, working as a former space ship commander, navigator, mechanic, space inventor, galactic negotiator, space clipper pilot, who enjoys the speed of flying, who is familiar with the most extreme sensations like coming through a black hole, being disintegrated, exploded, but also who remember seeing planet-size spaceships. It’s for all those who have been fighting for the harmony, wisdom, truth and balance, who know about the problem of duality, who fight against cold-blooded behaviors, and manipulation - the light warriors, galactic warriors, those connected and aware of alien races, Sirians, Arcturians, Draconians, Pleiadians, Lyrans, but also Archons, etc.

If you’re a feminine, no matter of your actual sex, feel being an admired, respected, desired goddess again specially in the end of this year. This is the time for self-love, so much deserved as the self-esteem heals. This pulls not only the love of the twin, whether in spirit only or in person, but also financial opportunities related to what you have been doing so far, as I have experienced.

Happy awakening, and the winter solstice!

Update: I forgot to add that I had a meaningful dream about seeing an alien spacecraft and a message transmitted from it. That dream was on on the night of 12/12 and 12/13/2017. I dreamt of walking in some small, old English city. I was a tourist there. It was the day when I was to leave and I was with the twin in the city but he was somewhere else, busy with things so I was walking to learn about the area a little bit before we leave for good. On my way back to what was some rented apartment, I found myself in a street surrounded by old townhouses. There were a few young people standing and talking. Then I saw that the sky was filled with a fleet of small, 50-100 cm long ‘spaceships’ with lights, I saw no details however. They were flying above the street and houses in one direction. Then from what I thought was a big cloud high above the city, I noticed a part of a big mother-ship materializing. It was that saucer-like aircraft, very pro looking, with white and dark blue parts and a ball-like ‘viewing platform’ attach to one of the sides of the ship. It was really huge but I could see only like 1/4th of the entire aircraft, the rest was covered with clouds. I had dreamt of aliens before and here I got the same kind of telepathic message this time too - ‘Hello, we are on your side. We’re watching, monitoring, we know what’s going on. We are here.’ It felt like they knew what to do but they could take action only if things get out of control on the Earth or were waiting for an order from their main base. If there are positive aliens around, the telepathic message will have a frequency of peace and you will feel it. This is how they’ll communicate with us first, no words but harmonious frequencies sent telepathically, from the heart to heart, to not trigger the brain regardless what it sees and what it thinks. That’s why mastering the heart communication is crucial not only iwth the twin flame, but the rest of beings, and yet it’s the easiest thing to do because all humans were born with it. Human language, the verbal one is an official replacement for the heart communication.

[This post is copyrighted by the author of this blog who prefers to remain anonymous. My posts must not be used for commercial purposes of any kind. Respect my work - ask first before you copy, always include a link back to my site when you quote a part of my writing!]

[creightonbeatrice1994]

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A Letter To My Wife To Save Our Marriage

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[tafferling]

Canvas

Fandom: Resident Evil | Characters: Chris Redfield / OC | Rating: T | 2800 words | Domestic Cuddles

Home is where the heart is. Where your wifi auto connects, and your fridge has got a full row of eggs stocked, and none of that low-fat-bs-milk. Mostly though, home's where Chris Redfield wanders without gear on his shoulders, and I'm free to pad about in socks, sweats and something heavy, soft— and mostly dreadful if we're going to be honest about it.

I'm fond of home. How can't I be. Fond of him in his favourite grey t-shirt (one of the many variations of it, at any rate) and that pair of sweatpants with the green waistband. There's a neatly tied loop on that, one I can't not tug on whenever he shuffles by.

Yeah, temptation and me have always had a volatile relationship. Tug-tug-tug I'll go, and he'll swipe at my rump with the palm of his hand and reward me with a throaty grunt of fake protest.

Home is that, and it's worrying what's on telly— or him being a terrible backseat gamer full of bad advice and an excuse of I'm too old for this shit . Nevermind that he still beats me a good three out of five times if I'm daft enough to challenge him, so what gives?

Tonight though, home is quiet. It's him exhausted and beat from a deployment that's got him limping and aching, so the most of what he's interested in is a sum of fuck all until it's time to squash a pillow under his ear.

I plant bare feet on the coffee table, my cold toes curled together tight, and balance a pad of paper on a knee. There's a half finished sketch of some fantastic dream covering half the page. It's shoddy. Real shoddy, and I tap the black marker pen against the paper while I whistle through its cap held between my lips and wonder how to fix it. But the movie on the telly distracts me a little, my eyes idly cutting between the drawing and Toothless enthusiastically bucking through the skies with a distressed Hiccup on his back. Right then, somewhere between a half disaster and some grand aerial acrobatics of dragon and Viking, Chris huffs next to me. An amused huff, I note, and when I look at him he's got a small smile on his lips.

Yeah, who'd have thought? Chris Redfield; Veteran Field Captain of the B.S.A.A, an occasional sampler of animated movies? Either that, or he's too weary to grope for the remote.

Nah, I like to think he's full of surprises, that one. And I hope to be fishing more wonders out of this steel drum of a man for a long while yet to come. It's… nice.

Much like the gentle curl of his lips, how it lifts into the light shadow of his stubble and breaks up his hard features. And then he laughs. A small laugh, much like that smile, but that doesn't mean I don't get my heart squeezed, because those laughs come around as often as snow donuts. Or blue moons. Or good men.

He catches on to me staring and shoots me a glance. Well. There's one sitting here. A good man, not a snow donut. But my point still stands. His brow arches, an unspoken What dancing about in his muddy blue eyes. Nothing, I almost say, but then my eyes flick to my pen. Then back at him. Back to the pen. Back at him.

Hmmm— Inspiration strikes with a giddy little jolt and I'm wiggling in my seat while he looks on with just the faintest hint of alarm.  

I grab for his arm and tow myself across the couch and closer to him. Chris watches, but doesn't protest. He's the sort that makes a show of not being big on affectionate gestures. Keeps them private. Keeps them simple. Meaningful. Me? I'm not that reserved, and I know he's a fan, even if he's not about to admit it.

He smiles when I lift his arm and drape it atop my knees. The sketch pad is forgotten. Slides right off and onto the carpet. It was going shit anyway, no one's going to miss it.

While the drawing gets cosy with the floor, and he turns back to the telly, I study the hand splayed out on my knee. It's a big hand. Heavy. Scarred. The clear ridges of veins run under well worn skin beat at by time and sun and work alike, and a dusting of coarse hair tracks over the ridge and up along his arm. I flip the hand, tap my fingers against his.

I love these hands. Their texture, every rough calloused patch and the soft bits between. How they can be unrelenting. Firm. But also incredibly tender and gentle with a knack for fine details.

I'd been on both ends.

My thumb slides into his palm, has a go at divining his past and future from the landscape of deep furrows. There are horrible things written in there. But a few good ones too, except mostly I read what's for dinner: Chicken stir fry. It's right there, plain as day, in how this one intersects with that other one. I trace a path back out over the heel of his hand, right down along the dark lines of veins under his skin, and then I finally get to work. The pen flicks up and then down, and I set the tip just below the sinews stretching along his wrist.

Skånsom, I write. Careful and at an awkward angle, with my breath whistling through the cap pinched between my lips. His pulse shudders against my thumb.

Chris blinks down at the letters once I'm done, and after a slow pump of his fingers asks: "What's that mean?"

I turn my head and puff the pen cap from my mouth. It lands on the table with a few muted clacks. "Gentle."

His brows rock up while I track my knuckles under the words. My handwriting is atrocious.  

"And I've got more." The pen waggles between my fingers. When he doesn't protest, I set it down again, land the tip on the firm, warm skin of his forearm.

Unlike me, he tans easy, that lucky bastard. Though on his arms the light nutty colour of his skin only serves to make his fading scars pop out glaringly. There are plenty of them, left by god knows what or who, and I focus my attention on the discoloured patch of a well healed burn.

Skaists I write across it, whisper, "Handsome" for his benefit.

"You think so?"

"Mhmm—"

Chris breathes out a quiet, well contained laugh. "All right. Keep going."

I shoot him a sideways glance, startled. Here I'd been thinking that this'd be as far as he'd let me paint him, but if I'm going to get permissions, then who am I to disappoint?

My lips slant down in a frown. "I'm running out of space though."

"Liar."

"Nuh-huh—" The frown is hard to hold and crumbles quickly into a smile. With a drag on his arm and a light push, I swing a leg up to straddle him. My knee digs between him and the couch arm, wedges in tight.

His hands go for a bit of a hike while I'm busy wiggling myself down on his lap. They leave a trail of tender warmth along my sides, right until they come to rest on my rump. And then the bastard peeks over me and laughs at the telly.

I'll never grow tired of his laugh. Truth be told, I can't rightfully think of many things I love more than that particular sound rumbling in his chest. Well. Okay. Maybe the feel of him rocking about under me while he's chortling away comes in a close second right now.

"Nevermind me," I mumble with mock irritation while he goes on to ignore me. Least to have a good go at pretending. I grab the bottom end of his shirt, start to pull it up. Slow and steady, my knuckles dragging against the collected heat on his skin, until the collar catches on his chin.

"Work with me here?"

He lifts his arms and the shirt whispers up a little further. Not all the way. Just enough to cover his head and block out the movie. I press in closer, drawn to warmth like an eager little moth. My nose goes to look for his, plays a little hide and seek while he's stuck under the shirt. A gentle bump here. A brief touch over the bridge of his nose there. Until he pushes his legs up and I get shoved forward to bump my forehead against his.

Fine. The shirt comes off.  

Oops— He blinks. Perks a brow. His eyes settle on me, and I study the shreds of brown in the stormy blue of them as they flick left and right like he's studying me in turn. And then I give his hair a half hearted pat in an attempt to put it back in order. Though I admit I like it when that usually well behaved, short cut of his gets all ruffled. How it scatters the bits of gray in it, that hint of salt along his temples giving away the years he's carried. He's got some in the evening stubble on his cheeks and chin too.

"Oh," I say and poke a finger two inches away from his ear. "You've got a new gray hair."

He grunts. "And whose fault is that?"

"Huhm— Probably Piers?"

Chris drops his arms back down, sets his hands against my rump again. Squeezes. He mouths Yours at me, and I flick the pen at the tip of his nose. Then I bunch the shirt together and chuck it on the backrest before I get settled in better on his lap. And then I stare for a little while and sift through words in my head. They don't come easy though, because he's distracting. From his broad shoulders, the sharp lines of his collarbone, and the shadow of coarse hair that gathers on his chest and dives down in a dark line before it vanishes into the band of his slacks.

There are marks on him most everywhere I look. He's got them all over, and I've spent a lot of time memorising them. Tacked memories to them, some of them lived, others told. Most told, to be fair. They're terrifying.

"So?" he interrupts my study, right as I think of the badly scarred stitches left behind by a horrible Christmas day. Yeah. Terrifying. My eyes dart up to him, catch him once again not looking, his stare glued to the telly.

"Art doesn't like being rushed," I chide and adjust my seating with a few wiggles until I'm resting snug against his pelvis. He exhales a somewhat shaky breath in response and his hands go back to busying themselves on my rump.

Damn stubborn, that man.

Leaning forward, my hand splayed out on his wide shoulder, I let the pen get back to work.

Tendre, I write above his collarbone. His eyes flick down.

Finally, I think. But his attention is short lived. Or at least he's making an effort to get back to watching dragons and vikings do their thing, whatever that thing may currently be. His jaw flexes as he wrestles with a smile. One more shift of my weight, and an unfocused look settles in his eyes, telling me he's not really fussed about the vikings and dragons any more at all, but he'll be damned if he'll let on that fact.

It's a game he likes playing.

And a game I like winning.

So while he keeps his gaze stubbornly set forward, I go and refill my vocabulary.

I arc my back away from him, my hip snapping forward with the movement, and twist until I reach my phone lying on the table. Stretching far as I can, I almost topple backwards once, but he props me up with a gentle hand resting against the base of my spine, only to let his fingers glide back down the moment I'm sat straight again.

"Give me a sec," I mumble while I swipe the phone on and start looking for a matching word to go with the next piece on him. Hello Google translate my old friend. It doesn't take long and I've stocked up on a few, toss the phone back onto the couch, and move on to his left arm.  

Veli, I write just below the curve of his shoulder. "Brother."

He hums.

It's got two meanings, that one. Brother to a wonderful woman, one much prettier than him, which I let him know often enough. And brother in arms to those who'll trust him with their lives.

I move to the right next. Put the marker down on his biceps, and paint Fort on that particular piece of well maintained muscle. Perfect a spot as any, no? The t smudges at the end though, leaves an unwanted blotch, so I shuffle closer and lean in to wipe away the ink. For a little while, I linger there. Take a drag of air. Ink. Fabric softener. Soap. And a familiar scent of his skin. Rainy days, a promise of earthy grit and passion.

Nothing can hide it all the way. And hardly a thing is better.

Once the word is cleaned up, I straighten and ride my hip forward slightly. My reward is a slow exhale of air that almost gets stuck halfway up in a throaty sigh. Might be I'll win this yet.

Back to the canvas: the next piece of it squarely in front of me. Mutig , I write gently over his chest, stretch the word diagonally and go out of my way to have it cross his heart— and that a line goes right over a nipple, because why not. For that I get a grunt and a hearty squeeze of my rump.

"Brave?" Chris asks.

"Richtig," I say, and he gives a faint nod. He likes me speaking German, though I've got no clue whatsoever whyever he would.

But anyway. Moving on. With his chest labelled appropriately, because I don't know a man more willing to put himself in harm's way for the good of someone else, I hunch forward and lower the pen to his abdomen.

Amante, I write. The line of dark hair gets in the way though, so I have to space the letters out a little. And apparently the whole deal tickles. His muscles flex under the tip of the pen and he puffs out a quiet chuckle.

"Hold still," I mutter, since now the lines are all wonky and I have to try again. That, and the line of dark hair diving down into his trousers gets in the way. Ama   nte the word ends up reading, with the letters a bit bent. And because he's caused me trouble, I duck down and blow air at the ink. A few more twitches later, I lean back, prop my hands up on his knees behind me, and look him up and down.

And he looks back. He's staring, actually, and carries a small, crestfallen frown.

"That's it?"

I blink. "Getting a little cocky, are we?"

Chris shrugs. "You tell me."

"All right. I have one more." Scoot-scoot-scoot, and I'm almost perched on his knees so I can grab the band of his slacks and pull them down. Slightly, mind you. And careful.

"Well," he hums up there somewhere. "You didn't have to go through all the trouble just to get my pants off."

"Shush." Said pants stay on, I decide, but they hitch low enough so I can put the pen down above the line of neatly trimmed pubic hair. He looks after himself. Really, what's not to like?

What's not the like at all?

Mine, I paint, one careful letter after the other, and sign it with a flourish.

When I look up, he's got an odd smile on him. Slow and slightly lopsided. And quite weighty, his eyes heavily lidded. He steals the pen. Swipes it right from my fingers before he pulls me forward, his hands hooked into my knees. One of the hands tracks up along my spine, and settles firm around my neck. Locks me right in place. The corners of his mouth hitch up a little higher, turn the smile to an inviting grin. Playful.

And that's home too.

The comfort of things found rarely anywhere else.

A warm finger drags the collar of my jumper down, rolls it over my shoulder to bare a little more skin. He carefully twists my head back, and the tip of the pen lands a heartbeat later, a light touch on the ridge of my collarbone.

I count the letters— one, two, three, four— and a warm, scratchy kiss down the curve of my neck.

Yeah. Home is pretty damn nice.

 [I was told this should have ended in smut. Should I continue it?]