#Shores of mourning

[sshbpodcast]

Character Spotlight: Hikaru Sulu

By Ames

Have at thee! Pick up your foil and get into the proper stance as A Star to Steer Her By shines this week’s character spotlight on the Enterprise’s helmsman (and occasional musketeer), Hikaru Sulu. We may have had to get a little nitpicky with noteworthy moments from Scott last week because he’s just used less than the three main characters, and Sulu will be even tougher because he does even less and then is gone for a lot of season two while he was off filming The Green Berets (which I wouldn’t even recommend, so that’s a waste!).

That’s not to say Sulu isn’t a great presence in The Original Series, and we came up with some great (and not so great) moments from this ship’s jack of all trades. He swashbuckles, he collects pistols, he tends to plants, he quips with his Russian bestie. Check out the best and worst of Sulu below, listen to this week’s banter on the podcast (discussion starts at 1:19:43), and give us warp speed on my mark. Mark!

[Images © CBS/Paramount]

Best Moments

Someone give this man a hand… plant Sulu started the series with a passion for botany that never really came up much after it was established in “The Man Trap” (even when it would have been applicable, as you’ll see), but it was endearing to see him caring for Beauregard and worrying about his flowery friend after a salt vampire masquerading as crewman Green gave him a fright. There there, Beauregard.

Richelieu, beware! One of the most memorable moments for Sulu and also for the whole damn series comes in “The Naked Time” where we see our favorite helmsman get affected by the space madness disease and start running around the ship shirtless with a foil, provoking crewmen into duels. It’s that bonkers kind of fun episode that really worked for TOS and gave us decades of referential humor after.

Lower us down a pot of hot coffee While we gave Kirk a lot of guff about his characterization(s) in “The Enemy Within,” we’ve really got to give Sulu credit for his work in the B plot. While slowly freezing on Alfa 177, he manages to keep morale up with the occasional light-hearted room service call to the Enterprise. And this is the first we see of what we dubbed the “Sulu Maneuver,” when you heat up some rocks with a phaser! Clever!

He’s doing a countdown! Okay, this one’s here partly because of the running joke we made out of Bailey’s delivery pointing out Sulu’s rather macabre countdown, but Sulu also displays some serious chops in “The Corbomite Maneuver.” Bailey can’t handle the pressure, and Sulu has to literally lean over and do his job for him at the same time, all without losing count!

You are not of the body Mind-controlled Sulu is best Sulu and gets some really fun acting out of George Takei every time. We see it in the afore-mentioned “The Naked Time,” in “Catspaw,” and in “This Side of Paradise,” to name a few, but my favorite mind-controlled Sulu has got to be in “The Return of the Archons” because of all the extra points he gets for this ruffly outfit!

It’s Greek to me Let’s also commend Sulu for rigging up the ship’s phasers to destroy Apollo’s temple in “Who Mourns for Adonais?” Why this plan worked I have absolutely no idea. What self-respected god entity puts all of their powers in a single object? Trelane wouldn’t gaff this hard. Anyway, props to Sulu for somehow avoiding phasering the humans who were hiding only ten feet away like fools.

Lay back and thinking about vegetables Holy cow, guys. A whole episode in which only Spock, Uhura, and Sulu are featured from the entire cast? It must be “The Slaver Weapon” from The Animated Series. Only TAS could get away with giving to Sulu scenes that would go to Kirk any other day, and he owns it! He outwits the Kzinti. He avoids their telepathy by thinking about broccoli. He does it all!

Don’t call me tiny As usual, some of the best moments we’ve collected come from the films, where the characters all really get the shine. Even the minor characters like Sulu, who gets to sashay around in what we previously dubbed the Ta’cape in The Search for Spock and hold his own against a security officer who stands probably a full foot taller than him, like a small dog in a fight. Bowwow!

Special delivery While we’re a little sad that Sulu had probably the fewest character scenes in The Voyage Home (they evidently cut a family reunion scene due to bad child acting), we do have to thank this San Franciscan for obtaining and flying a helicopter around to deliver the transparent aluminum to the ship. How did he pull it off? We’ll just have to use our imagination.

Emergency Landing Plan B Wow, we’ve had more good moments from The Final Frontier than bad ones to mention in these character spotlight posts, which is kind of fascinating considering that film on the whole is among our least favorites. But when Sulu totally rocks it and manually lands the shuttle in the bay using a barricade, we have to admit that the film knew how to use its characters.

Fly her apart then! How often does Sulu get to save the day? Not often enough, I say, because when he gets the opportunity to have the Excelsior join in the battle in The Undiscovered Country, it’s positively thrilling. Your heart just wells at the love these crewmembers have for each other that Sulu would ignore orders to come rescue his friends with passion that I wish we got to see more often in the show.

Tossing a match into a pool of gasoline For the 30th anniversary of Star Trek, Voyager treated the fans with a little Sulu action in “Flashback” and he proved to be just as heroic as ever! Not only do we get to see his decision to go save his old crewmates, but we see him outwit Kang by igniting the sirillium in a nebula. Not only that, but he does the humane and diplomatic thing and makes sure it won’t destroy the Klingon ship utterly. Now that’s a great birthday gift!

—

Worst Moments

It’s a he plant – a girl can tell Ya know how we were lauding Sulu for all his great botany work before? Well, he insists that Beauregard’s name is Gertrude for some reason in “The Man Trap.” Dude, just let Janice name him Beauregard if she wants to. He’s her plant, you just feed him sometimes. And frankly, Beauregard is the perfect name for this plant, so we have to give you points off for this one.

I’ll protect you, fair maiden Another instance that’s on both our good and bad lists comes in “The Naked Time.” Drunk or not, assaulting his coworkers is not okay, pal. And Uhura can defend herself from the likes of Richelieu or whoever else. Can we do away with the constant need to protect female characters like they’re damsels in distress? Luckily, Uhura managed to own this moment, as we’ll certainly see next week.

I knew he would Here’s another example of Chris putting the same moment in both of his lists. Funny as that interaction with Bailey was, did we really need the countdown in “The Corbomite Maneuver”? Balok was already doing it for us, as we could tell when the Clint Howard–shaped alien was supposed to repeat “one minute” after Sulu, but the line was cut, and Sulu reacts to it anyway like a weirdo.

Fantasy island, er, planet Most things in “Shore Leave” are perplexing since the episode was being written on the fly and all the characters are acting entirely out of character (we postulated the whole planet was drugged, but who knows). So when Sulu is evidently thinking about samurai for some reason, we can just blame the writers if that comes across as a little racist, especially considering Takei fought to NOT be written as a samurai in “The Naked Time.”

If it were two feet from me You know how we were giving credit earlier to Sulu for caring for Beauregard and having a knack for botany? Well all that goes out the window in “This Side of Paradise” where Sulu suddenly can’t notice a plant that is literally right next to him and slowly turning to face him. I call this man’s botany skills into question. No wonder he misgendered Beauregard! 

You are away from your post, Mister We can give normal universe Sulu a pass on this one, but his parallel universe self in “Mirror, Mirror” is just a monster. While it’s some good fun to watch Takei got down with his bad self by trying to get the captain killed and all that jazz, it is just plain uncomfortable to watch him terrorizing Uhura, so it’s definitely worth a place on our list.

A literal dagger of the mind In “And the Children Shall Lead,” it’s unclear how far the mental powers of Gorgan go since sometimes the crew only hallucinates things and sometimes they are straight-up mind controlled. Sulu seeing a ton of knives in space (which is just plain impossible and he should know it) is the weirdest instance yet. Kirk has to tell him what he sees isn’t there, but does he understand that? Who knows; it’s a nonsensical episode.

I am for you, Sulu This is just a little moment, but Sulu falls (literally!) for one of the oldest cliches in horror writing: When Losira is coming for him in “That Which Survives,” Sulu backs away and trips on some rocks like a chump, leaving himself prone to her attack. And what makes even less sense is that her touching him doesn’t kill him like the others; it only disrupts the cells in his shoulder. Like a chump.

It’s Walter backwards! More of Sulu getting made to look like a chump comes in The Animated Series episode “The Infinite Vulcan” when he nearly gets himself killed after getting bitten by a retlaw: a walking planet with poisonous bite. Luckily, he gets saved by the Phylosians, but you’d think a botanist like Sulu would know better. Oh wait, I’ve already questioned his botany skills, so there’s that.

You’re a wizard, Sulu! I can’t rant enough on what a trainwreck “The Magicks of Megas-Tu” is, but here’s a taste. To test out how to use magic (not even going to start; we’ll be here all day), Sulu’s first impulse is to make himself a pretty woman and then go in to kiss her. In front of everyone. What the hell, Sulu? I expected better from you, man, but making yourself a sex doll is utterly ridiculous.

One tiny step for a tiny man One more from The Animated Series, and this one’s stupidity is compounded by the super inconsistent animation. When he’s been shrunk in “The Terratin Incident” to somewhere between one foot and one inch tall depending on the art frame, Sulu goes to turn a dial, somehow trips on it, and falls off the equivalent of a ten-story building only to break a leg. Ugh.

Like a bull in a China ship I have to give Sulu grief about something that bugs me whenever I see it in Star Trek. Did you ever notice that the crew seem to use breakable items only so they can get smashed? In any other scene, the ceramic tea cup that we see in The Undiscovered Country might be metal or plastic or the paper cups we saw at one point, but because we need to see it break, it’s ceramic, and I slowly lose my mind about it.

—

Oh my. We’re reducing to impulse speed to prepare for more of these character spotlights, so keep your eyes here for more in the series! Also, keep up with our watchthrough of Enterprise over on SoundCloud or wherever you podcast, challenge us to a duel over on Facebook or Twitter, and take a moment to smell the flowers, if you take a half a second to notice them.

[divinekangaroo]

dreams that never come true - pettiot - Peaky Blinders (TV) [Archive of Our Own]

At some point during the S6-E1 four year timeskip, a small slice of life.

Ada Thorne Presents: the Suppressed Desire Ball.

(Tommy might've preferred to be abroad, too. In the absence of drink, the thought of navigating the far-reaching territories of those taffeta skirts might get him through.)

.

Tommy Shelby/Lizzie Stark, Ruby Shelby, Charles Shelby, Various Shelby Household Maids | Fluff (or the Appearance of Fluff), Fancy Dress Party, Family Dynamics, Family Bonding, Domesticity, Foreshadowing, Gendered Dynamics, Class Issues, References to Sigmund Freud, Bittersweet, 1500 Word Flash Fiction

.

[sapsolais]

-

[whatareyoudoingwithamaserati]

can people concert tour in canada or do I have to start sacrificing shit

[kingdomkome]

i dont regret getting a tattoo but i am starting to feel the effects of not being able to go swim in the sea

[misswynters]

A Stark’s Fury

Cregan Stark x targ!wife! reader

[warning: blood, you getting cut in the arm

[synopsis: You are the wife of Cregan and younger sister of rhaenyra. You get cut in the arm and your son, Eddard, also gets hurt. Which makes cregan furious.

[note | here’s a lil something while i write the final chapter for winters embrace, just a short drabble :) also instead of rhae getting cut it’s you.

[requested: by anon

The sun dipped low over the horizon, casting an amber glow across Driftmark. Laena Velaryon’s funeral was a somber affair, filled with the mournful silence of the assembled nobles and the soft lapping of waves against the shore. Among the gathered were you, the younger sister of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, your husband Cregan Stark, and your son Eddard, who clung to your skirts, his wide eyes taking in the solemnity of the occasion.

Your silver hair flowed down your back, and your violet eyes glistened with unshed tears as you stood beside Cregan. His strong arm encircled your waist, offering silent support. Despite the warmth of the setting sun, a chill hung in the air, a reflection of the grief that weighed heavily on your hearts.

As the ceremony proceeded, you noticed the tension simmering among the children. Your son, Eddard, stood with Jace, Luke, Baela, and Rhaena, trying to comfort them in their shared sorrow. Your heart ached for them, especially for Rhaena, who had just lost her mother.

When the time came for the family to pay their final respects, you and Cregan approached the bier. You whispered a prayer for Laena’s soul, your voice barely audible over the sound of the crashing waves. Cregan squeezed your hand gently, his presence a solid rock amidst the turbulent sea of emotions.

After the funeral, you found yourself in the grand hall, where the tension between the Blacks and the Greens was palpable. You kept a watchful eye on Eddard, who was playing with the other children. However, the peace was shattered when a scuffle broke out between Aemond and Jace. The sight of Aemond taunting Jace, and the resulting fight, sent a shockwave through the hall.

Eddard tried to intervene, but in the chaos, he was struck and fell to the ground, crying out in pain. You rushed to his side, your heart pounding with fear and anger. Cregan was by your side in an instant, his protective instincts flaring as he assessed the situation.

“What happened?” he demanded, his voice a low growl.

“Aemond taunted Jace, and then the fight started,” you explained, your voice trembling with emotion as you cradled Eddard.

Cregan’s eyes darkened with anger. “This has gone too far.”

The confrontation escalated when Alicent Hightower, her face twisted with rage, advanced on Rhaenyra, who was defending her sons. You stepped between them, trying to defuse the situation, but Alicent’s fury was uncontrollable. She drew a knife, lunging at Rhaenyra, but you intercepted the blow.

The blade sliced across your arm, and you cried out in pain, clutching the wound. Cregan’s roar of fury echoed through the hall as he moved to shield you. He grabbed the knife from Alicent’s hand, his face a mask of rage.

“Enough!” he bellowed. “This madness ends now!”

King Viserys, looking frail and distressed, tried to intervene. “Peace! There must be peace!”

Cregan turned on the king, his eyes blazing. “Peace? Look at what your family has done! My wife is injured, my son is hurt, and for what? Petty squabbles and insults?”

Rhaenyra, tears streaming down her face, reached for you. “Sister, I’m so sorry.”

You managed a weak smile, despite the pain. “It’s not your fault, Rhaenyra. But something must change.”

As the maesters attended to your wound, Cregan kept a protective arm around you. He glared at the Greens, making it clear that any further aggression would not be tolerated. The hall was filled with a tense silence, the air thick with unspoken threats and unresolved grievances.

In the aftermath, Cregan insisted on returning to Winterfell with you and Eddard. “We’ll be safer there,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “I won’t risk your lives any longer.”

You nodded, grateful for his unwavering support. “Thank you, Cregan.”

He kissed your forehead, his lips warm against your cool skin. “I love you. I will always protect you.”

As you prepared to leave Driftmark, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness for the family you were leaving behind. You took a moment to say your farewells to Rhaenyra and her children.

“Please, take care of yourselves,” you whispered to Rhaenyra, holding her hands tightly. “We’ll be in touch, I promise.”

Rhaenyra nodded, her eyes filled with worry. “Be safe, sister.”

With a final embrace, you and Cregan gathered Eddard and boarded your ship, setting sail for Winterfell. The journey was long, but Cregan’s presence and Eddard’s innocent chatter kept your spirits high.

Winterfell welcomed you with open arms. The cold, crisp air and the familiar sights brought a sense of comfort. As you settled back into your home, the events at Driftmark seemed like a distant nightmare.

Cregan, ever the doting husband, ensured you had everything you needed to recover from your injury. He personally oversaw the maesters’ treatments, and his protective nature brought you solace.

A few hours later, as you sat by the fire, Cregan wrapped a warm blanket around your shoulders and handed you a cup of hot tea. “How are you feeling?” he asked, concern etched on his face.

“Better,” you replied, taking a sip. “Thanks to you.”

He smiled, sitting beside you. “I’ll always be here for you. No matter what.”

You leaned against him, finding comfort in his strength. “I know. And I’m grateful.”

Life in Winterfell slowly returned to normal. Eddard resumed his lessons and playtime with the other children, while you and Cregan focused on the responsibilities of ruling the North. Despite the distance from Driftmark, the shadow of that day lingered.

Later that night, as you lay in bed, you turned to Cregan. “Do you think things will ever be right again between the Blacks and the Greens?”

Cregan sighed, his brow furrowing in thought. “It’s hard to say. The wounds run deep. But we must try, for the sake of our family.”

You nodded, understanding the gravity of his words. “I want Eddard to grow up in a world where he doesn’t have to choose sides.”

Cregan’s grip on your hand tightened. “We’ll do everything in our power to make that happen.”

Many moons have passed, and your wound healed, leaving only a faint scar as a reminder of the confrontation. The bond between you and Cregan grew stronger, forged in the fires of adversity. Winterfell thrived under your joint leadership, a beacon of stability and strength. In the morning, as the first snow of the season blanketed the ground, you stood on the battlements with Cregan, watching Eddard play with the other children.

“He’s so happy here,” you remarked, smiling at the sight of your son’s laughter.

Cregan wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. “Of course he is, this is our home. He’s meant to be here.”

You nodded silently, feeling a deep sense of peace. Your eyes went to the scar on your arm, being reminded of what happened. You looked at your husband, with sadness in your eyes.

“I hope my family will stop this infighting, i wish for all of this today end” Your thoughts began to wonder of all the possible outcomes this conflict can end with. This could very well mean that death will linger in your family. Something no one will ever be prepared for, war costs everything.

The quietness of Winterfell enveloped you as you drifted into a fitful sleep beside Cregan. The room was cold, and the memory of the somber events—the funeral of Lady Laena Velaryon, the sharp sting of your wound—still weighed heavily on you.

In your dream, the landscape was bleak and foreboding. A storm raged over a desolate battlefield, its fury tearing at the very fabric of the sky. You wandered through the chaos, a spectral figure in the storm’s heart. Amidst the destruction, you saw a vision of a great dragon, its scales a dim and faded silver, bound by chains of ice that slowly constricted around its body. The dragon’s eyes were filled with a profound sorrow, as if it sensed the end drawing near.

A shadowy figure emerged from the storm—a man cloaked in shadows, his face obscured but his presence undeniably menacing. His voice cut through the tempest, speaking directly to your mind, “The chains of fate are not easily broken. A great loss is coming to your house.”

As you reached out to free the dragon, a dark prophecy formed in your mind, clear as day. “Cregan will face a treacherous choice,” you heard yourself say in the dream. “A betrayal will come from within. Death will follow.”

You awoke with a start, the remnants of the dream lingering like a cold shiver down your spine. Your breathing was rapid and uneven, and a profound fear gripped you. You turned to Cregan, who was lying beside you, his face furrowed in concern.

The sudden movement and your distressed state had startled him. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice rough with sleep as he reached out to steady you. His hand found yours, his grip warm and reassuring against your icy fingers.

“My dream,” you managed to stammer, your voice trembling. “I saw... I saw something terrible. A dragon in chains, and a warning about you—”

Cregan’s eyes narrowed with concern, but he quickly sat up, his arm wrapping protectively around you. “What did you see? Tell me everything,” he urged, his voice steady despite the worry etched on his face.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. “I don’t know all the details, but it felt so real. I fear that something dark is coming, and it will bring pain to us and our house.”

Cregan nodded, his expression resolute despite the alarm in his eyes. “It’s okay,” he said softly, pulling you closer to his body. “For now, try to rest. You need it” He cradled your body as you leaned towards him, the warmth of his body bringing you comfort.

As you lay back down, you could feel the storm of fear inside you slowly ebbing, but the weight of the dream’s prophecy remained heavy in your heart.

taglist: @benjicotblckwood @travelingmypassion @shoxji @thornsandtulips @spn-obession @giovanna-hyt @r-3dlips

banners: @cafekitsune

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

pkay! so i was wondering if u could do a jace x reader where after the funeral she takes him and comforts him and looks after him in the bedroom to help him calm down because he had to act strong infront of his family but in the contents of his own chambers he could let himself cry on them!

Another one for Jace because this scene broke us all. This will be the last one about this scene. I have written three versions of different moments, I think all has been said

Warnings: mention of death, grief, panic attack

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

You stood alongside Rhaena and Baela during the funeral. Behind you stood Corlys and Rhaenys, all mourning the loss of Lucerys. 

Along with the remains she found on the shore, the Queen threw in the pyre her son’s clothes. Jacaerys stepped up next and threw the baby swaddle their mother used when he was a baby. And lastly, Jacaerys picked up Joffrey, who threw the horse toy Lucerys had when he was little. It had been handed to him when he grew out of playing with it, but it was still Lucerys’.

Your heart ached at how Joffrey clung to his big brother, who himself had his eyes filled with tears threatening to spill. You wanted to go up to him and hold his hand, but the time was not right. 

When the flames of the pyre finally extinguished, everyone retreated inside. The Queen had withdrawn to her chambers with her youngest sons. Losing one had only intensified her need to keep the others close.

Your eyes searched the hall for the one who was promised to you, but Jacaerys was nowhere in sight. To your left, you noticed Rhaena and Baela, who had just parted from their grandmother. You approached them, and Rhaena, who had lost her betrothed, welcomed you with a brief but heartfelt hug.

‘’Have you seen Jacaerys?’’ you asked them.

Rhaena shook her head, but Baela nodded. ‘’I saw him taking the stairs minutes ago.’’

You thanked her and followed her lead. 

Upstairs, you knew exactly where to go. 

Inside your chamber, you found Jacaerys pacing the room with frantic steps, one of his hands gripping his chest. His breathing was ragged and shallow, and his face contorted with panic. He pulled at his doublet, feeling like it was choking him and stopping air from getting into his lungs. 

You rushed to his side, alarmed. ‘’Jace,’’ you called out, your voice tinged with concern and confusion.

His head snapped in your direction, his face filled with fear and tears. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He didn’t know what was happening, and neither did you. 

‘’Should I fetch the maester?’’ you asked, your heart clenching with worry.

‘’It... hurts... can't breathe…’’ he managed to gasp, his voice strained with desperation. Sweat beaded his forehead, and his breath came in ragged, uneven gasps, as if the air was somehow refusing to fill his lungs.

Jacaerys pulled at his doublet again. 

You tried to remain calm, knowing that panic would only make the situation worse. You reached out and undid the buttons on the front of his doublet, hoping to loosen the constriction around his chest. But even as the tight fabric released its grip, it didn’t seem to help. His chest continued to heave and shudder, each breath sounding like a painful struggle.

‘’Let’s sit.’’ 

He nodded, his eyes wide with fear as he allowed you to guide him to the settee. With every step, his breathing only seemed to get more and more erratic, each gasp sounding like a strangled sob.

Once he was seated, you knelt in front of him, your hands gently gripping his trembling ones, offering what little comfort you could. His chest continued to rise and fall rapidly, each breath sounding as if it was being wrenched from his lungs. His eyes were fixed on you, panic still evident in his gaze, but there was also a glimpse of vulnerability there, as if he was silently pleading for your help.

It was heart-wrenching to see him in such a state, his normally calm and collected demeanor completely shattered.

You squeezed his hands gently, hoping to offer some small comfort. ‘’Focus on me,’’ you urged him, your voice soft but firm. ‘’Listen to my voice. Try to match your breaths to mine. Inhale.’’ You breathed in deeply, exaggerating each inhalation and exhalation, hoping that Jacaerys would follow your lead. ‘’Exhale. In through your nose, out through your mouth.’’

He tried, his eyes locked onto your face as you breathed in and out. At first, his breaths only seemed to become more shallow and labored, but gradually, they began to match the pace of yours. Each gasped inhalation slowly started to become less frantic and more controlled.

After a moment, he calmed down and you wiped his tears. 

‘’Thank you for helping me. I don’t know how this happened. I…I thought I was going to die.’’

You rose to your feet and wrapped your arms around him. 

He buried his face in your shoulder, still shaking from the intensity of the experience. He wrapped his arms around you, clinging to you tightly, as if holding on for dear life. 

‘’I was so scared,’’ he whispered, his voice still shaky and raw. ‘’I thought I was losing control. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think... It was like everything was closing in on me.’’

You held him tightly, one hand rubbing soothing circles on his back. His body was warm and solid against yours, his muscles tense with lingering fear.

You hushed gently, kissing his shoulder. ‘’You're okay now. You're safe with me.’’ 

—

House of the dragon taglist: @khaleesihavilliard @domoron @ididliquorice @lover-of-helios @lover-of-helios @shine101 @tanyaherondale@mikariell95 @serrendiipty @lantsovheiress @gilliananderfuckme @shine101 @tetgod @clayzayden@memeorydotcom @tnu-ree @futuregws @blackravena @winxschester @mysteriouslydelightfulchaos @xxlaynaxx @secretsthathauntus @pilarxxxaguayo @emmavan39 @stargaryenx @erylilly @bbblackmamba @rainedrop97 @dreamer087 @gothicgay14 @ashlatano7567 @superkittywonderland @justaproudslytherpuff @evesolstice @buckysmainhxe @padfootsvixen @scarletmeii @evesolstice @dkathl @kaywsworld @tetgod @padfootsvixen @domoron  @weird-addiction @angeliod @xjennyx2 @adaydreamaway08  @mymultiveres  @secretsthathauntus  @puffycreamcakes @thirsty4nonlivingmen @naty-1001 @katiepie67 @moshpot24x @hc-geralt-23 @lovelynerdytraveler @saturn-sas  @zgzgh @sssjuico10 @tabloidteen @timetoten @deekaag @wondxrgurl @aerangi @strmborns @astridyoo15 @daemonslittlebitch @queenbeestuffs @severewobblerlightdragon @agentstarkid @msliz @vane1999-blog @fairyfolkloresposts @todaywasafairytale07 @otomaniac @zgzgzh @thebeardedmoon @golden-library @kikyrizuki @hnslchw @camy85 @winxschester @armstrongscommentsection @withfireandbl00d @randomstory56 @JudgmentDays-Girl @darylandbethfanforever9 @darylandbethfanforever9 @aegonswife @dakotapaigelove @jays-bullshit

All and more taglist: @kenqki@hawkegfs@gillybear17@black-rose-29@fudge13@cece05@laylasbunbunny@gemofthenight@beautyb1ade@mellabella101 @vxnity713  @bisexualgirlsblog@queenofslytherin889 @thatbxtchesblog @softb-tterfly @ethanlandrycanbreakmyheart  @xyzstar  @graceberman3   @mikeyspinkcup @jackierose902109 @daisydark @laurasdrey @mischieftom @fanatic4niall @peterholland04 @idkwhattonamethisblogs  @lexasaurs634  @notasadgirlipromise @zoeynicolas @thejuleshypothesis @multi-fandom-bi-bitch @lexasaurs634  @notasadgirlipromise @thejuleshypothesis  @katherinejess  @rafesgirlstuff   @lafleshlumpeater @iamluminosity  @Anouknani-2305 @books0fever @papichulo120627 @qardasngan @ghostlyvoidydragon @M0rgans1nterlud3 @dahlia-blossom21

[namizc]

tag dump

[littlerequiem]

we mourned the sea ˚⁎⁺ chapter 1

> Crossposted on AO3

Levi hasn't seen you in a year, and he wonders how you will find him. Changed, perhaps. Lost, definitely. Or: After the war, you and Levi learn to live in this new world.

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 - Levi Ackerman / Female Reader (Attack on Titan)

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 - Rated Explicit (18+). Post-Canon, Post-War, Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Domestic, Fluff, Angst, Slow Burn, Explicit Content, Mutual Pining, Grumpy/Sunshine, Friends to Lovers, Flashbacks, Grief/Mourning, Chronic Pain, Panic Attack, Depression, Ambulatory Wheelchair Use, Switch Levi (WC: 6.7k)

( Next chapter / WMTS' Masterlist )

-

The first time you see Levi, whispered-about-thug and recently-enlisted Scout, you think he doesn’t seem as scary as everyone paints him to be. Sure, he has a hell of a glare, but that’s not the thing that sticks out.

No, what is most striking is the loneliness.

How alone he looks, shadows like bruises under his eyes.

.

.

.

Levi is lost.

He’s not lost in the physical sense, of course.

Levi very well knows where he is. He has repeated these words to doctors so many times he’s starting to sound like a broken record: My name is Levi Ackerman. I come from Paradis Island. I live in Marley.

No, Levi isn't lost physically.

Rather, Levi is lost in the ways often described in novels. Those cheap-thrill books Erwin liked to read so much, the kind that ensured suspense and chest-clutching moments. Usually, it involved a character going on a journey and finding the thing they lost.

“It’s all a metaphor, you see?” Erwin once pointed out.

But Levi did not see the point of metaphors back then, and he certainly doesn’t get it now.

Levi was a soldier for most of his life: so that he could aid the fight against titans, so that Erwin’s vision to help humanity could come true, so that Hange would not be alone in shouldering the weight of it all, so that the world would not crumble under Eren’s actions.

Now, three years after the Battle of Heaven and Earth, his body is changed, and his mind… well, that's the thing that’s lost, isn’t it? He’s still sane, he knows that, but… there's ways he feels himself slipping.

The first two years after the Rumbling were by far the hardest. There was so much to rebuild, so much to do. Levi spent most of his time in makeshift hospitals and infirmary tents. Refugees all around. People who had lost everything, who were in search of a new home, but who lacked the means to do so (Levi never thought he’d have to witness the sight of starving children all over again).

And then, one day, a new start.

Onyankopon was the one who discovered Mare a year ago. He told Levi that it would be the perfect place to retire from his soldiering days. "Mare," Onyankopon said, "is the town where sky meets the sea."

Levi isn’t sure what to make of that idiom; there’s no such thing as a place where sky and sea connect. Another metaphor, perhaps—another thing that flies right above his head.

But he decided to take Onyankopon's proposal there and then. Levi had been idle for far too long, and there was still fire in him, a will to push on.

To keep going, just as he had in the past.

A month later, Levi moved into his new home.

His one-story cottage is located by the edge of town, overlooking a cliff that descends into sandy shores. It is far enough from the crowds, just the way Levi likes it, while still remaining close to all necessities—just ten minutes away from Onyankopon's home.

Aside from that, everything else is just… strangely ordinary.

Because Levi now has a roof over his head. He has a garden, where he grows herbs. A patio, where he watches sunsets. He gets money from Marley for his so-called war accomplishments (accomplishments is a strange word for murder, he thinks). He sees doctors, all kinds of doctors—specialists that didn't exist back on Paradis.

What keeps him going through it all are his routines. Levi has always been a creature of habit, and that much hasn't changed in his new life.

There’s tea, for one. Despite all the special blends available here in Marley, Levi still prefers the tea he drank back in the Underground, made from cheap black tea leaves—over-extracted, with no added sugar. Piss water, Kenny used to call it, and maybe the old geezer had a point. The tea is bitter to its core, much too strong for anyone to stomach (“I’m going to be on the shitter for days after this,” Hange once declared after trying it.). And yet, Levi likes it this way. 

There’s his knife, the one Kenny gave him decades ago. Levi still keeps it in his boot or tucked under his pillow. He doesn’t hold it out of sentimentality per say; Levi just doesn’t see the point of throwing it away.

As for other patterns in his life, Levi likes to keep busy. Levi sees his doctor on a weekly basis. He works part-time at the local carpentry shop. He tries to improve his body on a daily basis, even when his mind fights him against it. His leg hurts some days; it’s at its worst when it rains. Over the last year, Levi's regained some of his mobility, enough that he can sometimes walk using a cane when his legs aren't too stiff, though most days, he uses a wheelchair. It frustrates him, sometimes, his reduced range of mobility—he misses pushing his body to the limit—but the physiotherapist ensures him that he is just where he needs to be. He feels coddled, and that annoys him.

Then, there are the people in his life. Scarce as they are, they are all that is left of his past and Levi clings onto scraps of conversation where he can find them.

Most of the brats of the 104th are living their own lives. Levi is relieved to see that. When the war ended, he worried that they would linger too much, but they never did. They moved on.

Falco and Gabi, rowdy kids they are, travel from Liberio to see him. They tell him how Falco is taking flying lessons, how Gabi is part of a youth association that’s going to make Marley a better place.

Onyankopon is another familiar face—a talkative one at that. Every time the man stops by Levi's house, he brings something new to show Levi. Sometimes, it feels like Onyankopon is on a personal mission to get Levi up to speed with the new world. Coffee, typewriters, vinyl players… there doesn’t seem to be a thing Onyankopon doesn’t want to show him.

All these machines are met with a somewhat lukewarm reception on Levi’s part.

All except one.

Because if there's one invention Levi is inclined to think is useful, even if a part of him equally loathes it, it's the telephone. Onyankopon was ecstatic about it, and his enthusiasm eventually rubbed off on him too. It's not that Levi likes to use it—the sound waves, the grated voices… they remind him of the sound of planes and machines, of war and guns, and that gets his heart palpating to the point where he sweats (because Levi’s learned that with his growing age, his body sweats faster than ever before, so much so that Levi sometimes has to wash twice a day).

But the first time Levi hears a familiar sound—your voice—on the receiving end of the telephone, his breath stops. His clammy fingers tighten around the phone, and he glances at Onyankopon, who only gives him a thumbs up in response, two dimples appearing on his lifted cheeks.

Levi decides then that the telephone might not be so bad after all.

“Levi,” your distorted voice sounds from the other side. “Can you hear me?”

At first, Levi doesn’t know what to say. He’s seen phones, of course; he remembers Hange using them to communicate with Zeke and the Azumito clan. But he never thought he’d use them personally, and that makes his brain go blank.

“Shit, I think I lost you,” you say, the sound of crumbled papers resonating across the line, “Jean, I think the tele-thing you gave me isn’t working properly. Can you—”

“Hey.” Levi’s voice bleeds into the machine, rough like sandpaper. “I can hear you.”

“Oh, good, I thought I wasn’t using this correctly. Gee, isn’t this just unbelievable? Onyankopon promised me he’d work to set up a phone line in your house, I’m so glad it worked! I know these things are costly but, you know, at least we get to talk, even if it’s brief. Of course, I’ll still write you letters on top of that! And hey—Levi, are you still with me?”

“Yeah, dumbass. You’re the one going on a monologue.”

“I’m just excited! Can you blame me? I haven’t heard your voice in… a long time.”

Levi’s heart jolts in his chest, clinging to the fact that you’re excited to hear him, but mourning the time passed since he last heard your voice. He’s all aware of how long it’s been (347 days, by his account).

“I can’t wait to see you next month,” you add in a lower voice, as if you were trying to whisper into the phone, words only meant for him to hear. “I’ve… missed you, 'Vi.”

Levi’s throat feels thick when he hears your familiar nickname for him. His mind buzzes with words, words he has long thought about, words he wishes he could tell you.

I’ve missed you too. I want to see you again. Please come back to me.

All things he thinks to himself, but doesn’t say out loud.

Instead, he manages a breathy, “Mhm,” because more feels impossible right now, especially with Onkyankopon so close by.

“How are the brats doing?” Levi asks instead.

“Oh, they’re good! Armin cut his hair recently. He looks like a blonde mini-you or err… I suppose he’s taller than you now.” If you were standing by his side, Levi would definitely have glared at you. But you chuckle, oblivious to his souring mood. “Guess he always did admire you a lot; I think he’s learned a thing or two from your leadership style.”

“That so?”

“Yeah, he’s cool. Doesn’t glare at everything that moves like you, though.”

Levi clicks his tongue. “Still haven’t lost your shitty sense of humor, I see.”

“Hey, you always found me funny.”

“I never laughed.”

“But you always found me funny—I could always tell.”

“Delusional thinking can get you a long way.”

“Anyway.” You huff with an indignant tone. “Aside from that, Reiner and Connie have changed a lot too! Reiner is still pining over Historia…”

“Disgusting. She’s a married woman.”

“Yeah… weird, right? I keep telling him to move on, he’s got so much going for him now. But he’s hopeless like that, they all are. Besides that… well, Jean grew his hair! Think he’s secretly trying to impress someone. He’s applying pomade and everything.”

He hears the sound of muffled protest, “I am not, Doc,” blending with your sentence. It is followed by your hearty laugh as you seemingly tell Jean to scram.

“That aside, they’re all good. Growing into real adults, you know? It feels like yesterday I was doing their first medical checks... just stupid teenagers. Your old Levi squad, huh?”

The second Levi squad, he wants to correct.

“Yeah, sounds like they’re still a real handful,” Levi mutters.

You chuckle. A comfortable silence follows, one that reminds of old times—you and him sitting in front of the fireplace; him reading his reports, you drawing. The cracking of the phone lines almost sounds like splitting logs now, and Levi feels warmth spread from his lower belly to his torso.

He hears your breath through the phone, like you were leaning closer. “Hey, so… less than a month, yeah? You’re sure you don’t mind?”

“I told you already, didn’t I?”

“Because if it’s too much, you can still say no.”

“Adler, I promised I’d take care of you all, and that’s gonna be the case until I’m buried below ground.”

“Don’t speak like that, Levi! It’s morbid.” Levi hears the sound of your laughter again. He wonders if your eyelids are crinkling, the way they always do when you laugh too loudly. “But, hey, thanks. I really appreciate your help, you know.”

“Yeah.”

“I wonder what it is like, your new life.”

“S’nothing special.”

“Sounds to me like you’re still selling yourself short.”

“And sounds like you’re still talking nonsense.”

After a year of not seeing each other, you are finally coming back to Marley.

You are finally coming back to him.

Levi wonders what you will think of all the ways he’s lost.

.

.

.

Section Commander Erwin Smith seeks you out in the infirmary one day. He tells you that there’s a wound he wants you to check, one he supposedly got during the last expedition.

“I have the new recruit’s file with me. You might have seen him around,” Erwin says as you inspect the wound. "His name is Levi."

In lieu of a response, you give him a nod, not thinking much of this observation. This is probably just trivial small talk. 

You should have known better. Erwin Smith isn't known for triviality.  

“I’d like for you to keep an eye on him.”  

You pause at Erwin's words, eyes shifting away from the stitches. “What do you mean by that, sir?” 

Erwin leans back in his chair. His gaze is clear. “Presently, Levi is flighty and hot-headed. He’s just lost his friends. He refuses to get a medical check. As it stands, this won’t work—I need to know that his condition is stable to place him on my squad. I need him operational.”

“With all due respect, most of these duties you’ve listed fall outside my medical jurisdiction.”

“I know.”

You raise a brow. Erwin shoots you an eyeless smile. You finish the stitch. Erwin pulls his hand back, admiring your work, and shifts his focus back on you.

Waiting on your answer.

“I’ll... I'll see what I can do, sir,” you finally say. 

Erwin stands, interlinking his arms to the back. “I should tell you he’s from the Underground. Will that be a problem?”

“No, sir…" You rise to your feet as well. "Though, knowing this, permission to speak my mind?”

“Please.”

“May I ask what’s so… special about him? If rumors are to be believed, you went through quite the trouble to get him.”

“I didn’t think you listened to gossip, Dr Adler.”

“I don’t. But if that wound on your hand speaks for the labors of your efforts… well, I think I have cause to worry.”

A low hum vibrates out of him. “What’s so special about Levi, you ask?” Something lights up across Erwin’s face. The intensity of the pendulum swinging his way. “Why, I believe Levi can alter the fate of humanity.”

.

.

.

Today is the day.

The morning shines brightly over the little town of Mare, an endless cerulean that speaks of summer and new beginnings. The sun peaks over the horizon, lingering where the sky meets the sea, a ripple of lavender and peach glimmering over the reflection of the water.

At this time of the day, the wind is at its strongest, a breeze that blows the long strands of grass to one side. Beyond the valleys, there's footsteps dotted across white beaches, only to be ushered out of existence as the waves roll in.

Mare. This little town was nothing but fire and dust three years ago. Today, everything has changed. Houses have been rebuilt, trees replanted, and life has begun sprouting again.

Levi wonders what you will make of it.

He spent the first hours of the day cleaning his house from floor to ceiling—a painful undertaking. The cleaning material stings his bad eye; the positions he has to adopt to clean makes his leg hurt. But cleaning has always helped to ground him, and that much hasn’t changed here.

Luckily, he wasn't alone in his task.

“Yo, Levi! You ready?” Onyankopon calls out. The man came early to help Levi get the house ready, and he's now driving Levi to the train station.

“Yeah.”

Levi grabs his favorite cane, an elegant stick made of thick wood from up north. For the occasion, he’s wearing his nicest navy suit, silver cuff-links, and a matching hat—a gift from you, something you bought him the day the Survey Corps first set foot in Marley. You thought it suited him and Levi’s inclined to agree: he doesn’t look half-bad.

The drive to the train station is uneventful and quiet. Onyankopon asks him if he is nervous, which Levi denies. He's not nervous, not really. He just needs silence to gather his thoughts.

After a year of not seeing each other, he wonders how you will find him. Changed, perhaps. Lost, definitely.

Will you be happy to see him?

It’s ridiculous, really, all this uncertainty. In all his years as a captain, Levi never stopped to linger on hesitations, on regrets. No matter what it was—grief, rough expeditions, political coups—he trusted his comrades, he trusted Erwin. Levi trusted himself.

That it would be you, now of all times, who makes him this agitated, seems a strange twist of fate. Perhaps it is his growing age that has turned him into a sentimental fool, perhaps it is the knowledge that it is you, perhaps it’s because Levi doesn’t quite know what to make of the uncertainty... but Levi feels restless.

It took Levi by surprise, your letter. Three months ago to the day. Can I stay with you, Levi? you'd written. Just for a little while, until I figure out what it is I want to do next.

You were gone for a year, helping the Alliance become delegates of peace. Now, Armin and the rest are ambassadors, and Levi no longer needs you letters—he gets to read all about their exploits in the newspaper.

And yet, you never stopped writing to him. Levi's glad of that.  

Following all of this, it was decided: of course you could stay with him. Yes, he would help you. When it came to you, there was little Levi wasn’t prepared to do.

And so, with Falco’s and Gabi’s help, he made sure everything was well-suited for your arrival. He purchased a bed, a night table, and a wardrobe. He built you a desk, with the help of his boss at work. All of it was arranged into the spare room in his house.

Levi remembers Gabi teasing him. “Is she your sweetheart, Mr Levi?”

Levi had just finished hanging a mirror on the wall when she said this; he scowled at the teenager. “No.”

“S’just, it’s an awful lot for an old comrade.”

“Shut up, nosy kid.”

But Gabi raised a point. What were you to him, exactly?

Levi doesn’t know the answer to that question, not exactly. He considers all the people he’s cared about in his life, and he still falls short in finding the right word to describe what you are. He cares for you, that much he knows—he’s cared for you for a long time. It isn’t the same care that he feels when he thinks of his mother, of Isabel, of Furlan, but it’s just as deep. Love, some might call it, but Levi has seldom witnessed it, so he doesn’t know what to make of his feelings.

He supposes if he had to label what the two of you are, it’s connected. Remnants of an old system, a memory of a past when all that mattered was reclaiming the Walls. Two survivors who carry the legacy of those who sacrificed themselves for the cause.

Not that defining it truly matters. Levi’s long accepted his role as the one to carry the torch. He has found stability and peace this way.

Only, Levi wants more for you, even if it means being far away from him.

Yes, it will have to mean being far from him, won’t it? He’s too lost for it to be any other way. He knows that. And yet, it doesn’t stop that tiny wisp of something he sometimes feels in his heart at the thought of you—like air, it fills his lungs, begging to be ignited (if you would choose him, he thinks it might).

But Levi’s life was always that of water, and he knows he will drown you if you come too close, like everyone else he has cared about.

.

.

.

You glance at the injury on his forearm, gushing red. Those damn cadets, ganging up on the new recruit. Erwin’s gamble won’t pay off if everyone else is hostile to his new prodigy.

“Hey. It’s Levi, right?”

Levi’s gaze flickers to yours and you realize it's the first time you're up close to him. His eyes are striking. Freezing gray, like pale moonlight.

“Who the hell are you?” he mutters with a deep baritone.

You give him your full name. “But I actually prefer to be called by my last name, Adler, if you don't mind.” His face stays blank. You sigh. “Listen, Levi, I don’t want to butt into your private affairs... But I just came to tell you this: any injuries you sustain from now on, come to me directly, alright?”

"Please. Those cowards were outclassed. They only landed a hit 'cause they played dirty."

"Even so. Don't let that deter you from seeking help; it's important to take care of injuries before they worsen." A pause, one where you weigh each thought carefully. "That said, you also have my word. Those cadets will be punished for what they did to you."

“Yeah, whatever.” Levi glances at your hands for some reason— transfixed by the way you press on his wound with a clean cloth. “So, what are you, some kind of doctor? You heal people?”

Your lips tug into a half-smile. “I certainly try.”

.

.

.

The train groans as it comes to a stop. Levi knows you dislike trains; even on Paradis, when Hizuru helped to install train tracks across the island, you  blanched at the idea of riding in one.

So Levi isn’t too surprised to see you step out of the train carriage on wobbly feet, your face a little grayer than he remembers it to be. He takes a step forward, walking into the smoke hissing from the train, avoiding the throngs of travelers passing by. He removes his hat, just to make it easier for you to recognize him.

As soon as you do, your expression lifts.

That smile.

Levi could see your smile for the rest of his life and never tire of it. He hasn’t seen it in a long time, and it tugs at his heart, like a bird flapping its wings.

That you choose to run towards him—your travel bag swinging against your hip, arms dangling by your sides—is no great surprise. If there is something he knows about you, it is your never ending supply of excitement. It makes him want to smile back, but his mouth slightly parts instead.

“Levi,” is the first word that greets him, that swirls through the air and fills his lungs. You seem to catch yourself just a breath away from him, rooted to the spot in front of him. You dip your head down, coy amusement on your features. “It’s really you.”

Levi swallows loudly. He can hear his heartbeat climbing to his head, and he wonders if you somehow can hear it too.

“Your hair has grown,” you say. In the last month, Levi's only kept up his undercut; the top is getting longer now. He knows he should get a haircut, but he's experimenting letting it grow. “It looks good… it suits you.”

The coil in Levi’s stomach tightens. He shields his expression by tilting his head and placing his hat back on his head. 

“Hey, um…” 

“Just spit it out, Adler.”

His peripheral catches a crooked smile. “Would it be alright if…if I hugged you?”

Oh.

That certainly isn’t what Levi expected you to ask. No, he expected many things just not... that.

In his stupor, Levi can't think of the right words to say to you, so he manages a nod instead.

(He’s grateful you ask before you touch him—you always ask.)

And unlike your earlier display of excitement, full of frenetic energy, your hands treat him with more care. They interlace gently around his back. Levi feels his chest lock as your fragrance sweeps across his brain. The scent can only be described as one thing... Home. Levi grows stiff, not knowing what to do with his hands, so he just lets them dangle along his body. You stay put just for a few seconds longer, and when you break apart, there’s something akin to relief on your face.

(Relief for what, he doesn't know.)

Your hands briefly linger on his forearms. “Just needed to do that. My brain can’t make sense of the fact that you’re really standing in front of me. Like you’re not a figment of my imagination, you know?”

Levi’s gut reaction is to glance down. He doesn’t want to see all the ways you inspect him, all the ways he falls short of the portrait you have of him.

His face hardens and he takes a step back, sheltering himself. “C’mon, we’ve been standing here long enough.”

“Alright,” you answer in a tone that’s no less bubbly than before. “Show me home.”

As you walk in tandem, away from the train tracks, Onyankopon comes to greet you. He envelops you into a hug where he lifts you off your feet. You chuckle, patting his shoulders, and when Onyankopon’s eyes find Levi’s, there’s a glint in them that Levi swears is speaking volumes of Onyankopon’s thoughts.

A look that seems to indicate: Should’ve kissed her, you damn fool.

Levi promptly ignores that look. Instead, he sets his glare in an altogether different direction.

The walk back towards the car is painful and slow. Levi tries not to let it show, but coming with his cane instead of his wheelchair really was not his brightest idea. He grits his teeth, trying to ignore the throbbing sensation shooting up in his leg; his knuckles turn white the more he leans on his cane.

You take notice.

“Is your leg hurting?” he hears you ask.

Levi dismisses your concern with a one shoulder shrug. “S’fine.”

It’s not fine. Levi overexerted himself with cleaning today. The sun is too strong. His leg is throbbing.

Despite that, Levi has no intentions of telling you all about that, because you have a tendency to care, to shower him with attention he doesn’t want, and right now, he just can’t deal with it.

You stop right in front of him. “Hey, are you sure? I can—”

“I said it's fine, didn't I?”

Levi's ears are ringing as he steps past you.

Shit, shit, shit. He didn’t mean to snap at you just now. He’s just no good at this, don’t you see? Already five minutes in, and he feels like he fucked up.

(It's like there's poison on his skin; Levi wants to peel it off.)

But you don’t even seem to pay his temper any mind; you hum and turn to look at the train station’s newsstand instead. From the corner of his eyes, he watches you purchase three lemonade bottles, a hand-out for this summer day. 

The drive back is filled with more words than the journey here. Onyankopon and you engage in easy conversation, talking about all manners of things—how the 104th brats are doing, how the world is looking three years after everything that transpired, how Onyankopon’s husband and family are faring.

Levi sits in the passenger seat next to Onyankopon while you sit in the rear. That doesn’t stop you from leaning forward, your hands resting on the head of the seats as you talk (“Put your seat belt on, Adler.” “It’s on!”). Occasionally, your fingers even tap his left shoulder, a heads up for you to point to interesting things you notice outside. Levi tries to ignore the sparking sensation that’s engraved in his skin.

(Sometimes, Levi wonders if your touch is actually electric.)

“What about you, Levi?” Levi feels your attention settle on the back of his head, drilling heat into his nape. “What do you make of your new home? Mare, the town where the sky meets the sea.”

“It’s fine,” he replies. And he means it—the town is just that. Fine. “The townsfolk are nosy, you’ll fit right in.”

“Consider my interest piqued. I can’t wait to see your new life.” You hum. “I’ve never started over. Not like this. I mean, I suppose I did, once. The last time was when I first enlisted for the Survey Corps a decade ago… phew, that brings back memories. I remember the looks I got from everyone then—they all thought me very strange to enroll.”

“That’s because you were a suicidal maniac, enrolling to save the lives of soldiers who’d soon be titan fodder. Normal civilians usually have safer aspirations, Adler.”

“I’m not sure if you’re one to talk, Ackerman.”

Levi huffs at that. The portrait that flashes through his mind is vivid, as were the words that went alongside them: Him, an ex-thug from the Underground and you, the crazy doctor. A pair of strange misfits, the Survey Corps' gamble in every sense of the word.

“Oh, Walls!” You’re gasping at something behind him, and Levi glances up to see what you’ve seen. It’s the sea—all shades of blue and as mesmerizing as ever. “This is where you’ve been living? Your descriptions in your letters do not do this place justice.”

“What? You expected me to turn into a poet?” Levi grumbles.

“No, but look at this—ugh! It’s everything. The valleys! The beaches! The bay! This feels just like…” you let your voice trail off, not finishing off your words, but Levi knows what you meant to say.

This feels just like the way it was when we first saw the sea.

And yeah, Levi sees your point. The sea here truly does glimmer like jewels, the way Armin always described it, and the breeze does carry that scent of salt that feels like it’s cleaning the air out of his lungs.

Just like it felt to witness it the first time.

“This must be what paradise looks like,” you say.

And just as they pass a curve of the road, something new comes into view: between the soft clouds, a flying boat appears—not one carrying weapons, but instead, carrying with it the tale of a youth whose only sin was a passion for flying.

.

.

.

The medical check is done in silence.

Levi is underweight. His lack of sun exposure has left his skin and eyesight sensitive. You prescribe things to help, though you think some ailments might be a lifelong battle.

When it comes to checking his heart rate, however, that’s when you realize the full extent of Levi’s upbringing. Levi undoes his shirt and your eyes take in the cost of his survival—Levi’s torso, marred with scars. Some of them seem recent, while others are old, stretched-out skin that tells you enough.

These come straight from his childhood.

Just how much violence has Levi witnessed in a single lifetime?

.

.

.

“So?” Levi asks, looking directly at you. He leans his weight against the door’s frame leading to your bedroom, crossing his arms over his chest. “You can redecorate if you like.”

“Why would I do that? This is perfect.”

Levi thinks you might be touched, but he isn’t sure—he was never good at reading your more subdued emotions. Anger, sadness, happiness: those, he can read. Everything in between becomes more complicated.

You continue to step around the furniture of your bedroom, inspecting it like you are discovering details of a new kingdom. Your fingers fumble over the bed frame. ��These bed sheets are my favorite color.”

Levi knows. He picked them for a reason.

(He’ll never tell you as much.)

“There’s drawing supplies in the desk drawers,” he says.

He hears it then, the way you suck-in your breath, catching it in the back of your throat. He swerves his attention onto you, only to find you fixing the desk with a stupefied expression.

“You remembered?”

There’s bewilderment in your tone.

Why do you seem surprised? Isn’t this the least you deserve? Levi almost says that there is even more—that he has all your sketchbooks from Paradis, that they were recently delivered by his request. But he abstains from it. He thinks it might be too much right now, though whether it’s too much for him or for you, he’s not sure.

Instead, he just replies gruffly, “It was hard to forget.”

You take a step towards him, eyes softening. “Levi, thank you so much.” You gesture at the room. “For all of it.”

Somehow, those words make Levi want to look away. It isn’t that he doesn’t appreciate you expressing your gratitude, but he’s never known what to do with it served on a silver platter. He prefers to ignore it when he can.

“S’not a big deal.” He shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans, glancing towards the carpet on the floor. “Couldn’t let you starve on the streets, now, could I?”

“Hah, I don’t know,” you say softly. You've moved to the windows, your fingers feeling the beige curtains. “You might be underestimating me. I can be very persuasive; I’m sure I’d manage to survive out there.”

“Please. You wouldn’t last a day out there.”

You scoff at him, feigning offense. “And why not?”

“You’d want to help some poor fucker giving you puppy eyes, and they’d just end up mugging you.” Or worse.

“Well, alright. You got me there.” You glance away, raising your fingers to run along the scar on your cheek.

Levi follows your movements, studying the way your hands conceal your old injury. He wonders if it still hurts, if you forget it is there only to be reminded of its existence when you catch your reflection in the mirror.

It happens to him, sometimes.

“Seriously, thank you.”

The gentleness in your tone cradles his ears. Levi takes a step back.

“No need to get emotional on me.” he mumbles.

You chuckle. “Still. Sometimes, it’s good to say things out loud.”

“If you say so.”

Levi turns around, fumbling with the handle of the door. 

But just as he’s about to head out, to leave you to unpack, there's a distinct sound that comes from the other side. Levi hears that familiar "Meow," before he sees the tabby cat sliding in between the cracks of the door.

“Oh..." you say, "what's this?” 

Right. Levi probably should have mentioned this minor detail in his letters.

“Scout,” he supplies, eying the kitten currently rubbing her head against his right leg, a loud prrr vibrating against his calve.

“You… you got a cat?”

"Yeah."

"Like a pet?"

Levi crosses his arms over his chest, tapping a rhythmic beat of five counts against his forearm. “Do you need to get your eyes checked or what?”

You ignore his surly attitude, the same bafflement still present in your tone. “And you named him Scout?”

“Her. She's a female cat.”

You look down at the cat for a moment, your eyes wide like saucers. Then, with a low, hushed tone, you let out a strangled, “Walls, you're a cat dad,” before pinching your lips tightly, like you were trying very hard not to burst out in fits of giggles.

Levi’s jaw instantly clenches. “Stop laughing.”

“I wasn’t laughing!”

“You were about to.”

“Yeah, alright, I was about to.” And then, as if saying those words out loud gave you the right to do as you please, you stifle out a snort, shooting up a hand to cover your half-contained laughter.

This time, Levi doesn’t bother hiding his glare.

Paying this interaction no mind, Scout looks at you with a quizzical stare, her big, green eyes taking you in. Just like you, the feline creature is now discovering the new room and the furniture that goes with it, and she now seems to want to understand what to make of the new occupant that is to share this space.

And so, with a last parting mrrp, the cat skitters towards you, her fast steps tiptoeing against the oaken floor. In response, you crouch down, outstretching a delicate hand in Scout's direction.

With a combination of grace and suspicion that only cats are really able to muster, Scout sniffs your fingers, her slit pupils observing your every movement. Whatever she was looking for must have pleased her, because not a moment later, she lets out a high-pitched mewling sound and rubs her cheeks against your digit.

A smile forms on your lips.

And when you look back up, there’s a sparkle in your eyes that makes Levi’s heart skip a beat. "Oh, she's cute," you coo, scratching Scout's chin. "How old is she?"

"I don't know."

"You didn't ask?"

"I don't speak cat, Adler."

"She didn't have an owner?"

"No, she was alone when I found her."

"Oh."

Levi had found the kitten half-dead under some debris less than three months ago; no one in town knew where she had come from, or how old she was. Most likely, her mother had abandoned her, but it was hard to know for sure.

All he knew is that the kitten had been alone, and that was enough for him to want to help the frail thing. Taking her in was only meant to be a temporary thing and yet, here she still was. 

"Well," you interrupt his thoughts, head tilting as you inspect Scout, "I reckon she can't be more than four months old."

Levi lets out a grunting sound, not really knowing enough about cats to refute or agree with your observations. Instead, he half-turns away, grumbling parting words, “I’m gonna make us some tea while you unpack.”

“Your bitter old tea, huh?”

He means to ask if you’d prefer something else, but it comes out all wrong, again. “Got a problem with that?”

Shit.

Your eyes lock with his.

And your smile widens. “Not at all. This feels like being home.”

Levi clears his throat, turning away. Home. Is it really like that?

No, of course, it’s not.

Home doesn’t exist anymore.

And he’s not the same man you once knew.

-

A/N: This story has been in the works for the last year, and it's been a very precious project for me. This fic seeks to shed some light on Levi's life after the war, with its ups and down - but ultimately, it's a story of love and healing <3 Furthermore, English isn't my mother tongue, so you know the spiel - don't hesitate to let me know if you spot mistakes, but pls be patient!

( Next chapter / Join my taglist )

[the-dumpster-fire-of-life]

(got bored and decided to write this so enjoy and please tell me if you would like more HTTYD in the future in the comments!)

The Gates Of Valhalla

Hiccup couldn't do anything but stare, wide eyed at you in front of him.

He could feel the world blur around him, his breathing picking up as he looked down at you, laying on the sand surrounded by the blue ice, eyes closed.

Chest never moving.

Hiccup could hear people talking, people like his mother and father, his father's hand on his shoulder as Hiccup tried his best to wake up from the nightmare.

He didn't.

"No…no, no, no! Oh, gods, no!" Hiccup cried out, quickly falling to his knees as he grabbed you, bringing you closer to him.

Almost on his lap, Hiccup checked for any sign, anything, that you were still in there.

He could feel the dread, the tears pricking his eyes and the hand of his father, his mother's stare at him as he checked for anything.

He looked for the small twitch in your face he saw every morning he woke up to you. He looked for the pattern your chest rose and fell, a rhythm he loved to feel while his head laid on your chest.

Hiccup cried, a tear falling down his face as he never found one movement.

He still prayed, putting his head to your heart to listen to the familiar best he used to calm down, only to find absolute silence.

You were gone.

Drago and his own dragon, a self proclaimed Alpha, owned by him, had sentenced you to your death.

Or rather, they had sentenced Hiccup to his death, but you being you, jumped in the way to sacrifice yourself, saving Hiccup's life, and forfeiting your own.

But all they did was sentence Hiccup to something far worse than death.

A life without you.

And they used Toothless to do their dirty work.

Hiccup heard the small growl of your own dragon, the way they nozelled their snout against your arm, trying to nudge you awake like they did every morning

You never moved.

Your eyes remained closed, Hiccup's eyes remained on your face, his hand cupping your cheek as he cried, crying for you to come back.

This wasn't how it was supposed to be.

Everything blurred into thin lines, all Hiccup could do was watch as just mere minutes, or an hour he didn't know, Toothless was taken by Drago, along with your life.

Hiccup and the rest of the dragon riders, your friends, Gobber and his mother and father, Valka and Stoick the Vast, all stood alongside the shore.

Hiccup had to be pried away from you, crying and clinging on to the love of his life, in order to place you on the shop, a sheet over you to send you off to the Gates of Valhalla.

Hiccup watched as his friends mourned. Never did he think he would see the day his own father cried, mourning the loss of a child who wasn't even his, but one he watched grow up alongside him.

Hiccup starred as the ship slowly sailed off, a bow and flaming arrow in his hand, limping held with a heavy heart as he watched you leave.

This wasn't how it was supposed to be.

You were supposed to come home with Hiccup. You were supposed to get older, beside Hiccup and your dragon.

Hiccup was supposed to be the cause of the laugh and smile wrinkles on your face as you got older.

Hiccup was meant to stand before you and reiterate an oath he did when you guys stood in the woods as mere seven year olds, promising to marry and to stay by each other's side.

Hiccup couldn't help but be angry at himself and you. It was meant to be him. Not you. He was meant to be lying under that sheet. Not you.

The anger didn't last long, the sadness and heavy feeling in his chest overpowering it.

With a small nudge from his mother, Hiccup let one more tear fall, before his trembling hand lifted his arrow, notching it back.

Hiccup closed his eyes, turning his head away as he let it go.

Hiccup only opened his eyes once more when he heard every arrow stop, looking up to see your ship engulfed in flames.

It was the burial of a viking. One you would have wanted.

But Hiccup would've rather had you standing beside him, rather than leaving him behind with your memory.

"...Hiccup."

Hiccup barely looked at his father, his hand now coming back to rest on his shoulder. Hiccup didn't answer, looking back as your ship was almost engulfed in the fog, the flames growing bigger.

Hiccup had to say goodbye, with a heavy and hesitant heart, anger, fear and sadness creeping down into his gut.

It should've been him. Not you.

He shouldn't mourn the love of his life at a mere twenty years old, and even if he spent those twenty years with you, he would have to go on, grow older, as you were forever twenty.

"...I pray to the gods I will find you waiting at the gates of Valhalla, (Name)."

[singswan-springswan]

ficlet under the cut

The crate tipped with a sudden lurch and broke open on the ground. Zuko spilled unceremoniously with the motion. Inelegant. Graceless. Normally his movements held much more regality, but he'd been kidnapped and stuffed in a scratchy box and out of the water for some indeterminable length of days, so cutting himself some slack here felt appropriate.

It wasn't much brighter outside the stupid box. His scales were dry, his head was killing him, and the floor held a pleasant cool against his mounting fever. He really needed water soon. Every part of his body felt... scratchy. Discomfort would escalate into pain, and then asphyxiation. He would suffocate if he dried out. Idly, he wondered how long it would take. The humans seemed to know. They hadn't acted worried yet.

"Our latest bounty." The voice looming over Zuko was muffled in weird places. "I thought it might spark an interest. You collect fire fish, isn't that right?"

Zuko bit down a hazy groan and fumbled to prop himself up. The loss of the tile's cool against his cheek was one he mourned, but there would be time for relaxing when he found a way out of this mess. He could barely think straight. The humans—the pirates who'd ransomed him from the girl in blue—were standing guard around him now. He could see their boots. They were facing all the same direction, same way the voice was talking towards, and Zuko turned to observe.

The surrounding space was large, a room, and very dimly lit. This wouldn't normally be an issue, being that he was a mer, but his headache made his eyes lazy and bad at adjusting to the dark. If he squinted, he could see the ripple of light along the walls. Blue. Weird. In the direction of the pirates' attention, something like the outline of a table was visible—as large and imposing as the room itself. A single shadowy figure occupied a seat on the far side. He looked weird with the backlight. Zuko's vision was getting spotty.

He didn't get much chance to scan the rest of the surrounding space, because the pirate captain decided to be a jerk and grab his hair. It'd long since escaped its neat topknot, now bunching and sliding strangely in dry heat. The pain and the change in angle made Zuko rapidly lose sight of the shadow man.

"This one's quite a specimen." The pirate tilted Zuko's head back, baring his throat—maybe as a joke; it was always hard to tell if humans knew the significance of such a display—and lifted him enough to catch the light. So their potential buyer could get a better view.

Zuko would like to rip the pirate's skin off and feed it to him, but he was weak with dehydration, and his previous struggles against the man's crew had left him exhausted. All he managed was a low hiss. If humans could understand mer speech, he’d be cursing them as soundly as possible. Someone was standing on his tail. Not that it made much difference. He doubted he could have swung it if it wasn't pinned.

"I've seen a lot of the fire mer in my day, but this one's real pretty. Don't feel bad turning the offer down. We'll keep 'im if you won't." His crew laughed. Bastards. Zuko could hear the leer in the pirate's voice. It made him dizzy with anger.

Then a low grind echoed softly, and the humans cut their chatter short. Zuko distantly registered the shadow at the table moving. What made that noise? Was it his chair? He stood, rounded the massive table, and drew closer. All Zuko could see was a dark, unfocused blob. Vaguely humanoid.

"Yeah, don't be shy! Come get a closer look!"

The fist in his hair tightened. His scalp burned. The fins all down his back shuttered, and a stinging ache began to form in his gills. He needed water. He needed to get out of here. He shouldn't have wandered so close to the shore, even if that pretty girl in blue seemed so friendly at first glance. She did sell him out to these pirate scum. He should have known way better.

Even standing an arm's length away, the lighting continued to cast shadow on the pirate's potential client. It could be reasoned, then, that Zuko and the humans around him were washed in the room's best luminance. Certainly his scar could be seen clear as day. Maybe his tail was pretty, but there were parts of him imperfect. Maybe the stranger wouldn't want to buy him for that. Maybe Zuko would be stuck with these idiot pirates forever.

A smooth voice came from the stranger. "Release him."

"Sure, sure."

The pressure on Zuko's scalp vanished. He collapsed to the cool tile with no more grace than before, even further disoriented, and with a worse headache. He grit his teeth in frustration. That bastard was still on his tail.

Cool fingers tilted his chin up before he could lift his head on his own again; he hadn't seen the shadow man crouch down. Startled, Zuko yanked back and hissed a second time. He made sure to reveal far more fang and fan far wider with his fins; he just wanted these stupid humans to stop poking and grabbing him however often they pleased. Was that too much to ask? He wasn't an ornament. And he sure as heck had no intention of being a pet.

The stranger's face was close, and shadowy, and out of focus. Zuko's head was killing him. The room spun.

"The shape of the fins—” The stranger’s voice began.

“Really something, isn’t it? Never seen a mer so fancy before.”

There was a beat of silence, then the cool fingers returned to Zuko’s jaw and held him firmly in place. He growled. It didn’t make a difference. He was exhausted and hot and vulnerable, and everyone could tell. There was no way to stop them from doing as they pleased. 

“There’s a scar.”

“Wasn’t us, mate. Looks like the beast’s had it for a while. I think it adds to the aesthetic, don’t you agree?”

Zuko glared. It was the sort of one-sided remark he’d only accept from Uncle Iroh, though Azula had made attempts to express similar sentiments in that weird way of hers. He’d always hated the scar. At least the monster who put it there was dead now.

The stranger gave no comment. He reached another hand out and pushed Zuko’s hair aside, away from his eyes. Zuko did his best to meet the unfamiliar gaze as steadily as possible, despite the awkward backlight. He was being stared at. He refused to show how unnerved it made him. His trembling and fever didn’t help much in that regard.

Finally, after a dreadful length of scrutiny, the shadow man spoke. “How much do you want for him?”

Zuko could hear teeth in the pirate’s smile. “How much are you willing to pay?”

“Ten-thousand.”

Zuko didn’t know how humans calculated their currency. He’d assumed mer in general to be expensive, but they called him a stupid something fire fish, and it sounded like exotic. Even so, the pirate captain seemed shocked. He let out a high chuckle.

“Well! Show me the gold and you’ve got yourself a deal!”

The stranger waved an uninterested hand over his shoulder, and another grinding sound reverberated through the floor. Zuko couldn’t see the source of the sound with multiple different shadows clouding his vision. Judging by the pirates’ hushed tithering, their payment had been offered.

“Excellent! Pleasure doing business with you, as always.”

“Zaheera will see you out.”

The group broke formation around Zuko and floated away, whispering excitedly. Though they’d been awful to him, he couldn’t help a flicker of fear at their absence. At least with the pirates, he knew they’d avoid causing permanent damage. He knew they’d want to sell him for the highest price possible. Now, he had no idea what to expect. This stranger could have any number of sinister plans in mind; Zuko had certainly heard the horror stories. All young mer were warned about the brutality of humans, and now he was at the mercy of someone who really wanted him. This was bad.

The stranger let him go, and the world tilted as Zuko crumpled. He was very dizzy. And angry. And he really wanted to sink his fangs into human flesh.

But when he turned (against his better judgment) to snap at his new captor, a firm hand was already pushing down the back of his neck. The same way one might handle an unruly pup. Zuko was too tired to be insulted by the gesture. He wasn’t a pup anymore, but a move like that with the human’s advantage was enough to subdue even a full-grown mer.

“Watch out with that one!” The pirate’s faint voice called back. “Quite a monster at full strength. He killed two of my men when we—”

“Get out.”

The heavy thud of the door confirmed their absence, though the human didn’t seem to pay any attention to it. He ducked another snap of Zuko’s teeth, and ignored his crackly snarl, and slid his arms beneath scratchy scales. The world tilted again. Zuko would consider puking if he wasn’t so close to blacking out. The human was carrying him. Impressive. Zuko was heavy outside the water. His fins trailed the floor as they moved, but he was very much in the air, solidly in the man’s grip. Almost cradled, even if he was too big for the pup-hold to have effect a second time. The use of such familiar techniques should have rung a bell in his mind. Zuko’s headache and exhaustion wouldn’t let him dwell on it.

After a dizzying stretch, something wonderful happened. Zuko heard water. The noise was still muffled, and it faltered clarity with every stray tilt of his head, but Zuko knew what water sounded like. He’d been fantasizing about it for the past few days.

There was a splash, and with distant elation, he felt his fins trail. He wasn’t lucid enough to hold back the happy trill.

“I know.” The man huffed, and it rumbled through his chest. “I know—those bastards.”

The water rushed up around him, deliciously cool, salty, clean. It took Zuko up to his gills to realize he’d been lowered into a pool of some kind. It was shallow, but not cramped. He drew a deep breath. That felt very nice. The hands were gone. 

He didn’t bother confirming he was alone before passing out soundly.

<~><><~>

Zuko was alone when he came to, and his headache had finally retreated to the realm of faint discomfort. Incredible what a good long sleep in water could do for one’s health. The pirates hadn’t put him in a tank. They were mad about what a fuss he caused the first time they brought him aboard, and they’d rightly concluded he’d be easier to handle if he was dehydrated and exhausted and dizzy. They’d doused him with lukewarm buckets every few hours, just to keep him from dying. Zuko was relieved to be back in water now. Even if trepidation about the uncertainty of his new circumstances wouldn’t let him relax.

The pool he’d been placed in was shallow; he couldn’t move without some part of his tail skimming the surface. It was still comfortable in spite of that. The edges spanned a decent length, so he could turn with ease, and the basin interior was cut from smooth, white stone. His fins shone stark against it. The pool itself seemed to be laid into the ground, flush.

Zuko scanned his surroundings while he waited for something to happen. He still seemed to be indoors. The walls here weren’t as high as the one from before—from the sale pitch—and most of them were made of a clear material. It shone with sunlight from outside. The rest of the space was occupied by greenery. The taller ones reaching the ceiling had been planted in beds in the ground, surrounded at the base with bushy, leafy shrubs, and brilliant flowers, and crawling vines. The faint sound of water also trickled through the maze, but Zuko couldn’t see the source of it from where he was. It was peaceful. Uncle would love this place.

But Zuko hadn’t forgotten how he ended up here, and he had no illusions about being treated fairly, even if he’d been left undisturbed in such a pleasant area. He had to keep his guard up. He was being held against his will. He was trapped on land with no way to escape or get home. He didn’t have much experience with humans, but so far they’d only beaten him, used him, or treated him like a pretty ornamental object, and he had no reason to believe this behavior would change soon. He had to be prepared for the worst.

In truth, he really wanted to murder someone. The urge had become so intense during his captivity with the pirates, and he hadn’t had a real outlet, being close to dying of dehydration. Now that he was rested, his jaw nearly ached to bite through bone.

He spent the time waiting for an opportunity by pacing around the pool. The space didn’t allow for much more than tight circles. Still, it was better than sitting around stewing in all his problems. 

Mother was probably worried by now. Him being an adult with a life of his own didn’t stop her from worrying that he wasn’t home every day. Azula didn’t feel the same. Azula would kill for him though; she’d done it before.

Eventually, after what seemed like an hour of thinking to himself and going crazy for it, the faintest vibrations thrummed through the water, and Zuko froze. Footsteps. Someone was approaching. 

He lifted his head above the surface. The sound drew closer, brushing through the plants with a practiced gait. Zuko coiled his body. There was deliberation in the person’s movement. They knew he was here. They were coming to see him. The likelihood that he’d be attacking an innocent servant or something alike was low, and that brought him a hint of reassurance.

When the human came into view, bathed in green filtered sunlight, stepping out to the pool’s edge, Zuko took an entire second to appraise the figure. Tall. Male. Dark hair, luxurious silk robes in green and pale yellow. When he spoke, it was the same smooth voice from the shadowy stranger that paid for him.

“Hello.”

Zuko didn’t wait any longer. He launched himself at the human with a vicious snarl. His vision was red. His heart was pounding. How dare they treat him with such contempt? He wasn’t some prized bounty. He wasn’t an ornament for some rich knave’s garden. He wouldn’t take this insult and abuse lying down, and if these humans continued to assume so, they were in for a shock.

To some degree of satisfaction, the man did seem shocked to be bowled over. The air left his lungs in a massive wheeze, and his eyes went very wide. He was also—however—quick. He reflexively shoved Zuko’s head away when Zuko tried to bite, and he managed to lurch free enough to dodge an elbow to the face. 

“Wait!” The man yelped.

But Zuko had a size advantage, and the man was on his back, and Zuko really wanted him dead. He slammed his shoulders into the grass, pinned his legs with his tail, made another attempt to remove the throat with his teeth. This time, the man brought his arm up in a hasty block. Zuko was too busy biting down to be upset he’d missed his target. Blood and the creak of bone filled his mouth.

There was a shout of pain. “Wait wait—Zuko, stop!”

The words pierced his hazy red anger like ice through fresh snow. Zuko froze. Even being slightly feral at the taste of blood and festered indignation, he rapidly came to his senses and dropped the arm. His mind spun. 

How did this man know his name? The pirates didn’t know. The pretty girl in blue didn’t know. And he wouldn’t be able to tell them if he wanted to (which he very much had not). It wasn’t a lucky guess. No one shared his name that he’d ever met. So why—how could a random human—

“Get off!” The human fumbled to shove Zuko’s face away. His sleeve was ruined, and rapidly turning red.

Zuko slowly obliged. The man didn’t seem angry. He only seemed annoyed, even as he bled profusely from an arm that might be broken. There was something unnervingly familiar about the twist of his scowl. He shuffled sideways and sat up.

“Spirits, kid, you’ve got a strong jaw.”

“I’m not—” Zuko cut himself off before he could complete the retort. The human wouldn’t understand him. The human knew he wasn’t a kid. Zuko was very obviously a full grown mer. 

“You could have let me explain myself before trying to kill me.” Why did his scowl look so familiar? The man untied a sash of his fancy outfit and wrapped his arm with clinical efficiency. Then he looked up to meet Zuko’s eye, and his scowl faltered. “Are you okay?”

What.

Zuko stared. Was he seriously… asking if Zuko was okay? There was blood in the grass and in his robes and he might have a concussion and his ribs might be bruised and Zuko would at worst have a sore jaw. He shifted back warily. In his experience, crazy men often did cruel things. 

When he made no move to respond, the man sighed roughly and looked away. “Guess I should have waited on that tea. Zaheera will be by with some shortly.”

“What?”

What on earth was he talking about? Tea? Of all things? How did he know Zuko’s name and why was he so relaxed about the bite on his arm and why did the slope of his nose look so familiar and why was he talking about tea in the blood and the grass?

“You were always more civil with it around.”

Okay, now Zuko was thoroughly weirded out. He wished he had an exit. An escape route. He was stuck on land in an unfamiliar house and the closest thing he had to sanctuary was a fake pool of water barely deep enough to sleep in. This was freaking him out just the slightest.

“You’re nuts.” He said. Just to say it. The man wouldn’t understand the words or the insult in them, but Zuko was sick of just sitting around not saying anything, waiting for stupid humans to come to the right conclusions.

For his effort, he was rewarded with the faintest thaw of the man’s grumpy expression. It looked amused somehow. “And why is that?” He asked.

What.

A trace of alarm made Zuko flinch. “...Because you’re… talking to me.” He probed. Just to see. Humans weren’t supposed to understand.

“Why would that make me crazy? You’re real, aren’t you?” He glanced at his sleeve, now mostly red. “I’m pretty sure you are.”

Zuko blanched. He considered backing away, back into the pool. The safety it offered was purely psychological, but it would be something at least. It’d be better than lying vulnerable on the ground next to a crazy person. His fins twitched.

“What—but—you understand me?”

“Of course.”

“But humans aren’t supposed to understand.” From what he’d heard, humans interpreted mer speech as primitive and animalistic: nothing more than a series of harsh vocalizations strung together. Zuko had demanded an explanation for the phenomenon when he was younger. After all, mer understood human speech just fine. No one was able to give him a satisfactory answer.

“Well, I’m not human.” The human said. “Technically.”

“Then what are you?” Possibly a witch? Zuko had heard of their strange abilities. Or maybe he was a spirit. In which case Zuko was screwed. He probably couldn’t get away with attempted murder on a spirit; he’d totally be cursed or something. It could also be a shapeshifter of sorts, from the myths.

But the man quickly dispelled any outlandish theories. For the first time that Zuko had seen, a flicker of hurt crossed his features. It made him look older than he likely was. Haunted.

“Wow Zuzu, you don’t remember your favorite cousin?”

No.

No, he definitely didn’t mean that. Zuko didn’t have any cousins. Not for eleven years. And there’d only been—one. Just one. Now there weren’t any.

But looking closer, Zuko could see why the scowl looked so familiar. He saw the same face in the mirror. And this man wasn’t human, clearly, even if he had legs in place of a red streaming tail. In place of the gold ribbon fins their family shared—that he must have recognized when he first saw Zuko. 

He knew Zuko’s name. Zuzu. Azula tried to call him that—maybe out of nostalgia—but it belonged to them both, and Zuko hated to hear her say it because there was only one person who tried to bring them together like that, and hearing her say it reminded him of… of… a dead man.

Except he couldn’t be dead. He was right here. His blood tasted very real.

“Lu Ten?”

He looked so much like his father when he smiled. “Yeah.”

Zuko gaped. That felt like the only appropriate thing to do. Maybe the dehydration actually got to him, and this whole series of events was an elaborate hallucination. Maybe Azula spiked his tea with a psychedelic for her weird sense of humor, and he was hallucinating. It was too strange. This didn’t make any sense. Zuko’s cousin was dead, and if he wasn’t, wouldn’t Uncle know? Would Uncle have cried so hard so many private times if this was real? It felt so real.

“How did you get that scar?”

“How are you not dead?” Zuko’s head was spinning, though thankfully not from dehydration. He wasn’t sure if this was worse, actually. “Uncle thinks you’re dead.”

The comment earned him a flinch. “There’s actually a good explanation for that.”

“Which is?”

“I’m cursed.” Lu Ten squinted into the middle distance, looking uncomfortably close to being emotional. “To live as a human. And I can’t… go near the sea. I tried. It almost turned me into sea foam.”

Zuko dropped his head into his hands and groaned.

[saetoru]

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩。08:00 PM — AL-HAITHAM.

idk i just felt like. writing haitham grieving his grandmother. it’s also a slight character study ig. idk if anyone will read this but if you do. just know that he is the core of my heart. his grandmother too i mourn her death so much sobs

“hey,” you say gently, sitting next to him. al-haitham only grunts in acknowledgment, slumped on the couch. “d’you want dinner? i made your favorite.”

“not hungry,” he mumbles.

his grandmother’s death anniversary is a sore spot. it’s a day you tiptoe around carefully every year. you don’t know much about his family—just that he was orphaned very young and raised by his father’s mother until the ripe age of 16. you’ve seen the dainty handwriting inside the covers of books, and you’ve even seen a small, framed photograph that he keeps stowed away.

sometimes, you wish he’d tell you. you wish the far away look and the clenched fist around the fabric of his pants would ease with your presence. you wish he’d tell you about her, that you’d know the woman who raised the man you love—even if only through hushed words and old stories.

“you hate sleeping on an empty stomach,” you hum, placing your hand over his clenched one.

his fist loosens a little—progress.

“i…” he pauses, let’s out a heavy sigh before letting his head fall back. there’s tension in his shoulders, in his neck, in the jaw he keeps so tightly clenched. “i won’t be sleeping for a bit. sorry,” he tries to sound apologetic. you don’t hear much in his tone besides defeat. “you can head in without me.”

“that’s okay,” you shrug, forcing his clenched fingers apart to weave yours in with his. “i don’t sleep well without you anyway.”

“suit yourself,” is all he says.

and it’s silent for a bit. he seems to be thinking deeply—or reminiscing, maybe grieving. maybe all three, but you’re not too sure. you’re never too sure when it comes to how al-haitham feels about anything.

he’s hard to decipher—but he’s easy to pull apart. you don’t understand how someone as hard and calculating as him is so gentle with love, but it’s hard not to notice how soft his touch is, how it lingers, how the tips of his fingers long for you. you don’t doubt he loves you—he never gives you the chance to.

but sometimes….sometimes you wish he’d let you love him properly. to kiss the scars. to admire the parts he thinks are ugly. to shelter the thoughts that have no home besides his own head.

it’s silent for a bit—until it’s not. you break the silence first, like you’re holding a hand out for him from the shore as he drifts aimlessly.

“baby?” you ask quietly. he grunts again in response. “what was she like?”

“who?”

al-haitham is a smart man. probably the smartest you’ve ever met. you don’t think you’ve ever met someone who read physics books as a pastime, and you’re pretty certain he’ll always be the only one. you know he knows exactly what you’re asking and you know he’s avoiding it.

but it doesn’t stop you though—it’s been long enough, you think. you’ve known him long enough. craved him for a few summers and loved him for enough winters that he has pieces of you that fall through the cracks of your resolve.

you think you deserve a few pieces of him too—even if your fingers have to reach past the cracks themselves, even if they have to slice against the jagged edges and bleed a little in the process.

you’ll bleed for him—like the sun rises from the east and sets in the west, your heart beats for al-haitham. and it’ll bleed for him too.

“your grandmother,” you whisper. “you’ve never told me about her.”

“there’s not much to tell,” he shrugs. “she died right before i enrolled in the akademiya and she raised me after my parents died.”

“i’m sure there’s more,” you say gently—his grip has tightened on your hand now. you don’t think he realizes—in fact, you don’t think al-haitham realizes half of what he feels when it comes to vulnerability.

it’s why he realizes he loves you so late. it’s why you fall first and he falls after. but he falls harder—it’s not hard to see.

“she was a kshahrewar scholar,” he offers blankly.

your thumb brushes over his knuckles, and it’s almost like your hand reaches past the shore just a little further—you don’t mind risking the fall into the water if it means pulling him out.

“haitham,” you sigh delicately. he swallows. it’s hard to keep composure for long—even for someone like him.

grief is an evil thing. it’s a familiar friend—one you wish you never made and one you’ll never shake away. it dances with you under the moonlight, when the stars are bright but the sky is heavy. it barely grazes your skin some days but weighs into your bones on others. it’s a cruel thing really—and it hits you harder some moments than others.

“she was kind,” he starts slowly, his hand reaching out and grabbing yours over the shoreline. maybe, just maybe, sometimes he can get tired of drifting too. “she liked to bake. her hands got too weak to knead dough when i got older, though. you would have liked her tarts. she couldn’t read without her glasses and she always forgot they were on her head. she said my father looked like her husband and that i look like my father. she used to ask me to read to her sometimes so i’d sit on her lap and read my books out loud. she loved the sunrise but was never good at waking up on time to see it. she used to drink tea during sunsets. she liked hers extra sweet and i liked mine more bitter. i…” he pauses, voice shaky as his fingers dig into your hand. you squeeze, and he sniffles. “i haven’t had tea since she passed.”

“she sounds lovely,” you whisper. “i would have loved to meet her.”

“she’d have loved you,” he cracks a small smile, shaking his head as he thinks. “probably more than she loved me.”

“i’m sure i’d never compare to her darling grandson,” you chuckle, bumping arms with him. his head drops to your shoulder—you hesitate for a moment before deciding to pull him into your chest. and when he doesn’t protest, when he buries himself into you instead of pulling away, you thread your fingers into his hair.

“i miss her,” he croaks quietly.

“i know,” you soothe. “i know, baby.”

al-haitham has only ever known love twice in his life. one is gone but it lives through the other. the gentle touch against his scalp and the warmth under his cheek is familiar—it feels like the lap he slept on when he was six. it feels like the delicate hands that cupped his cheeks when he was eight. it feels like the soft kisses against his temple when he was ten.

al-haitham has only ever known love twice in his life, and he’s glad that one of them is you.

“you’d have loved her too,” his voice breaks. you kiss his head as you feel your shirt dampen.

“i already do,” you murmur, “she raised you well. i have her to thank.”

his breath hitches at that—and then he pulls you closer, grasps you tighter, falls in love with you harder. his grandmother’s death anniversary has always been a sore spot—but somehow, you numb the ache even if by just a little.

gently, your hand clasps his and pulls him to shore. he’s grateful he doesn’t have to drift alone anymore.

there is nothing i’m more obsessed with than al-haitham’s childhood. i have so many thought about it. and him. and his character. and his inner thoughts and feelings and most of them revolve around his grandmother and more importantly her passing. and idk. he’s just sosososo important to me i wish we knew more about his grandmother. i love her so much i grieve her passing even though we’ve never even met her 😭

[rosyblooom]

blooming season🌷 (1) | ln4

"grief is just love with no place to go”

PAIRING: lando norris x fem nepo!reader WORD COUNT: 2.6k WARNING(S): mentions of death & blood, swearing SUMMARY: four years after she fled monaco, y/n is back on the anniversary of her father's death. however, an unexpected encounter with an f1 driver disrupts her plans. A/N: my first time doing this, so probably has errors. if you've got any thoughts or requests pls let me know xoxo hope u enjoy! :)

part 1 <- | part 2

The scent of salt still lingers in the air, but now it feels different, not as welcoming as it used to be. It's a painful reminder of days gone by, days filled with joy and warmth that now seem distant and unattainable. No matter how hard you try, you can't shake off the memories, replaying them in your mind like a scratched vinyl record that refuses to play properly.

Today marks four years since your father's passing, and four years since you left Monaco. You were just eighteen then, fresh out of high school, when the news of your father's tragic car accident hit you like a ton of bricks. In a desperate attempt to escape the overwhelming sorrow, you packed your bags that very night and left before the weight of it all drowned you.

You couldn't bring yourself to attend your father's funeral, clinging to the hope that maybe, just maybe, it wasn't real. But deep down, you knew the truth—your father was gone, and nothing could change that. Even as you threw yourself into your studies, pursuing a nursing degree, the pain never truly went away.

And now, here you are, sitting alone on this deserted stretch of beach, watching the waves crash against the shore in a steady rhythm.

This spot holds a special place in your heart, known only to a handful of locals—a fact you couldn't be more grateful for. Here, away from the watchful eyes of tourist crowds, you find solace as you simply listen to the earth rotate.

You exhale slowly, leaning forward to brush the sand from your palms before reaching into your bag for the bottle of red wine nestled inside. It takes a bit of effort to uncork it completely, but the satisfying pop is worth the wait. With careful precision, you fill a wine glass to the brim with the rich, maroon liquid—something to take the edge off.

"Welcome back, Y/N," you whisper to yourself, lifting the glass in a silent salute. "Thank you, thank you. I can't imagine anything worse."

A bitter chuckle escapes your lips, a stark contrast to your usual composed demeanour. It's been 1,460 days, yet it feels like your world only just came crashing yesterday.

Needing calm now, you take a sip of the wine, savouring its sweetness, when the sound of approaching footsteps catches your attention, pulling you back to the present moment.

"Seriously?" you think to yourself, feeling your heart plummet like a stone sinking into deep waters. You took every precaution to keep your return under wraps—after all, you paid good money for that privilege.

Arriving just last night, you made it a point to rise at the crack of dawn, a time before the world awoke; a time when it's just you and no one else. You couldn't bear the idea of facing the prying eyes that would surely accompany the day ahead. For once, you didn't want to be known as the daughter of one of Monaco's wealthiest families; you simply wanted to be yourself, stripped of titles and expectations—a daughter mourning her father.

Feeling like a trapped animal, you become acutely aware of every sound and movement, your gaze locked on the figure approaching.

A man.

His brown curls bounce with each step until he comes to an abrupt stop just a few feet away from you.

With a small wave and a nod, he greets you with a simple "Hey."

It takes a moment for you to register that the greeting is directed at you, causing you to tear your gaze away without a response. Your eyes flit between the gentle ripples of the sea and the man settling down uncomfortably close, prompting an annoyed grunt to escape your lips.

“Fuck spatial awareness, huh…,” you mutter under your breath, though not quiet enough to evade his notice. He slips off his black headphones, eyebrows raised in curiosity. "Sorry, what?"

You clear your throat, then sit up straight and gesture expansively. "All this space, and you have to sit right next to me?”

He smiles.

Your gaze narrows.

"But I'm not right next to you," he retorts with a playful grin. "You're all the way over there." He points towards you and then at himself. "And I'm right here."

"Well, it's still too close," you snap.

"Sorry, did you buy this beach or something?" he counters, his grin widening. "Last time I checked, it's open to all members of—."

Growing increasingly frustrated, you interject, "No, I didn't buy anything. I just want some personal space. But clearly, that's lost on you."

With a scoff, you spring to your feet, snatching up your towel and cramming it into your bag, sand and all.

"Wait, you don't have to leave," he insists, his footsteps drawing closer. But you pay him no mind, tossing your phone into your bag and hastily gathering the rest of your belongings from the ground.

Once everything is crammed into your bag, you snatch up your half-empty glass of wine and stand upright, only to feel a foreign warmth enveloping your hand and glass. The man now stands directly in front of you, invading your personal space completely; you have to tilt your head back slightly to meet his piercing green gaze.

"Look, I'm sorry if I did something wrong, but—" he begins, but you cut him off sharply.

"Way too close now," you snap, attempting to pull your hand away, but he refuses to release his grip.

"You do realise I'm trying to apologise, right?" he asks, confusion evident in his eyes.

"I don't care."

His grip remains firm. "There's plenty of space for both of us here."

"It doesn't matter anymore," you respond, your patience wearing thin.

The struggle continues, your voice growing louder with each tug. "Let go of the fucking glass!"

Suddenly, a sharp yell pierces the air, followed by the hollow thuds of broken glass hitting the ground. Shock washes over you as you barely register the sticky liquid trickling down your hand and onto your toes.

"Ah, shit," he exclaims, snapping you out of your daze. You quickly assess the situation, noticing the shattered remnants of the wine glass scattered on the ground, staining the sand crimson.

Panic sets in as you frantically check your hand and feet for any injuries, your eyes wide with fear. After several anxious moments, you breathe a sigh of relief.

I'm okay.

The tranquillity is abruptly shattered by deep groans echoing through the air, drawing your attention to the man's slumped figure with his back turned to you. His face remains hidden from view.

Though he's clearly in pain, you're tempted to slip on your shoes and make a hasty escape. Today is already burdened with its own weight; you're not sure you can handle any more. You even take a step back, ready to flee, but then something stops you.

A pang of guilt washes over you, weighing you down like heavy bags strapped to your legs. With a heavy sigh, you reluctantly admit to yourself, "I can't believe I'm about to do this."

"Okay, fine. How about you put on your big boy boots and let me take a look at that?" you say, crossing your arms expectantly.

There's no reaction from him, not even a response.

Rolling your eyes, you drop your bag onto the sand and cautiously circle around him until you're face-to-face with his unruly brown curls.

"Hello?" you tap his shoulder, frustration creeping into your voice. "Earth to the stranger who doesn't understand personal space?"

"Seriously?" he retorts, his tone sharp.

His eyes meet yours as he straightens up, his expression guarded, but you simply shrug, maintaining a neutral demeanour, and extend your hand.

"Let me see," you say calmly.

For a moment, he simply stares at you in bewilderment, but then he tentatively extends his hand towards yours.

"I see," you breathe, examining the large cut in his palm with care, mindful not to dirty it with your fingers. Despite the blood seeping from the wound, you release a relieved sigh after a thorough inspection—it's not as deep as it initially appeared.

"Alright," you announce, dropping his hand and clapping your hands together. "Go home, make sure nothing touches that hand, clean the cut, and bandage it. Keep it dry for a couple of days, and then reassess."

Without waiting for a response, you turn towards your bag, sling it over your shoulder, and shoot him one final glance.

"This has been... unpleasant," you remark dryly. "I really hope our paths don't cross again. Goodbye."

"Wait!"

You shake your head and ignore him, determined to continue onward.

"Wait!" he calls out again, desperation evident in his tone. "I don't have any bandages!"

You stop walking, considering his words, but still don't turn around.

"And... I don't have any sanitising stuff either," he adds, his voice trailing off slightly.

Slowly, you turn around and wave your hands dismissively in the air, shouting back, "That's what supermarkets are for! I guess it's time for a shopping trip!"

Just as you're about to spin on your heel and leave again, his voice cuts through the distance.

"Look, you seem like you know what you're doing. Can't you just help me out here?"

Shielding your eyes from the harsh glare of the sun, you squint at him as he begins jogging toward you. "That advice," you shout back, "was me helping you out. Trust me, I wanted to leave way earlier."

For a moment, neither of you speaks as you watch him closing the distance between you. When he finally comes to a halt in front of you, you instinctively take two steps back—you need your personal space.

"So?" he says between pants, waiting for your response.

You furrow your brows, deep in thought. "Well, I don't have anything on me, sorry to disappoint. But like I said, there are shops around here."

You resume your walk, but to your dismay, the guy falls into step with you almost immediately.

"So, what? You have nothing at home?" he presses, his gaze burning into the side of your face.

Refusing to meet his eyes, you increase your speed.

"Right, because I'm just going to invite a stranger," you emphasise, "who I didn't want to be around in the first place, into my home."

His hand suddenly grips your arm, causing you to instinctively rip out of his grasp, both of you coming to an abrupt halt.

"What?" you bark, irritation seeping into your tone.

"You can google me," he offers, his voice calmer now. "Lando Norris, Formula One driver. Search my name up. You'll see pictures—every single detail about me, you'll probably find on the internet. Now I'm not a stranger anymore, right?" he suggests, his gaze pleading.

You remain silent, shifting your focus toward the calm waters as you breathe in and out. It feels as though the world has paused, waiting for you to come to a decision, to reach a conclusion.

Today, the anniversary of your father's death, is a day you've been dreading yet anticipating for so long. Its disruption unsettles you, but deep down, you know you can't simply ignore it. As much as you wish to skip over this chapter of your life, tear out its pages, and never look back, you can't. It's not healthy.

Still, that doesn't mean you can't delay it for a little while longer.

"Fine," you sigh, relenting to the situation, and begin rummaging through your bag until you locate your phone.

Quickly, you extract it and raise it to Lando's face, snapping a photo of him with the flash on.

"What the hell?" he exclaims, blinking rapidly.

"For my protection," you state matter-of-factly. "Just because you're famous doesn't mean you can't be a bad person."

Once his gaze meets yours again, he runs a hand through his hair and offers a sheepish smile. "Fair enough."

You nod, acknowledging his words, and continue your walk toward the car park.

"I'm not a bad person, though," he adds quickly, catching up to you.

"Colour me convinced," you reply dryly.

*********

As you approach the car park, annoyance bubbles within you at the sight of it: filled with cars and swarmed by dozens of people.

"You said you're a Formula One driver, right?" you ask, tilting your head up at Lando.

"Yeah, why?" he responds.

Instead of answering, you grab the hood of his jacket and pull it over his head.

"Why did you do that—" Lando begins, but you cut him off.

"The last thing I need is a mob of your fans, okay?" you interject firmly. "The quicker we get this done, the sooner we can go our separate ways."

Lando chuckles as he adjusts the hood. "I'm really that bad, huh?"

"Worse," you deadpan.

"...Right."

With your raven car in sight, you quicken your pace, relief flooding through you. The last thing you want is for people to realise you're back, especially not today.

However, as if your luck has run out, a woman steps in front of you, blocking your path. You immediately turn your focus to Lando, motioning for him to take a picture with his fan and hurry up.

But instead of the attention falling on him, a weight suddenly falls onto your shoulder, catching you off guard. You clear your throat, preparing to speak, but the woman beats you to it.

"Oh my goodness, Y/N. It's you, isn't it?" the woman exclaims, her voice filled with recognition and sympathy.

You can't reply; your mouth feels dry, your tongue heavy with unspoken words.

No, not today. Please, not today.

"I'm so sorry for your loss, Y/N," she continues, her expression radiating pity. It's uncomfortable—the way she looks at you, the way she touches your shoulder so gently. It feels like you're being burned alive, yet you're immobilised, just as you were four years ago when you first heard the news.

"Your father was such an amazing man. And you, I mean, you've been missed. My daughter loves you—"

Suddenly, you're being pulled forward, jolting you out of your trance. You struggle to keep your balance as you try to comprehend what's happening—the woman is gone, and Lando's hand is firmly clasped around yours, pulling you closer to him.

Your personal space has been completely invaded, yet you don't feel the usual urge to pull away. Even if you did, you're not quite sure Lando would let you.

"Your car's the black one, right?" you hear him ask, but the words don't immediately register.

"Huh?" you mumble, still reeling from the encounter.

"That black car over there," Lando points and leans in close, his gaze locked with yours, "that's yours, right?"

You nod, still not quite ready to speak.

Lando releases your hand and holds out his palm to you. "Okay, car keys, please?"

"What? No," you shake your head, rejecting the idea. "There's no need for that."

"Come on, I'm a Formula One driver, remember? I won't crash it."

"It would be irresponsible of me to let you drive in this state," he adds, his voice firm.

"And what about your hand?" you nod toward the injury.

"Like I said," Lando smiles slyly, cocking his head to the side, "I drive race cars; I think I can handle driving with one hand."

Rolling your eyes, you relent, "Okay, fine."

With a sigh, you fish out the car keys from your bag and hand them over to him.

4:05 ───────────ㅇ─ 4:28

[tidewalker77]

In ocean waters no poppies blow. No crosses stand in ordered rows, their young hearts sleep beneath the waves. the spirited,the good, the brave. But stars a constant vigil keep, for those that lie beneath the deep. Tis true you cannot kneel in prayer, on certain spot and think, "He's there." But you can to the ocean go... see whitecaps marching row on row. Know one for him will always ride, in and out with every tide. And when your span of life has passed, he'll meet you at the "Captain's Mast". And they who mourn on distant shore for sailors who'll come home no more, can dry their tears and pray for these who rest beneath the heaving seas... For stars that shine and winds that blow and whitecaps marching row on row. And they can never lonely be for when they lived... they chose the sea. In Waters Deep By Eileen Mahoney

[favefandomimagines]

Aftermath (r.c)

Summary: the direct aftermath of JJ Maybank’s murder

AN: this takes place during loml, my fic about JJ’s death

loml

The boat rocked gently as it cut through the dark, endless stretch of ocean, the distant horizon a blur where the water met the sky. No one spoke.

The only sounds were the lapping of waves against the hull and the occasional creak of the boat as it swayed. The Pogues sat scattered, their usual camaraderie replaced by an oppressive silence that wrapped around them.

Y/N Maybank sat curled in the corner, her knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her tear-streaked face was angled downward, hidden behind a curtain of blonde hair. Every now and then, her body would tremble, as though another wave of grief threatened to drown her.

Rafe Cameron sat just a few feet away, watching her from the corner of his eye. He hadn’t moved since they’d set sail, glued to her side like a shadow.

He knew better than to touch her or try to say something comforting—words felt meaningless now—but he stayed close, his presence steady, a silent promise that she wasn’t alone.

He hated JJ. Or, he had hated him. The kid was everything Rafe found annoying: loud, brash, and always itching for a fight. But as much as he’d wanted to punch JJ more times than he could count, it was impossible to ignore the gaping hole left behind by his absence.

Rafe glanced back at Y/N. She hadn’t made a sound since they left Morocco but her grief was palpable, radiating off her in waves that Rafe could feel in his chest.

She wasn’t just mourning a brother. She was mourning her other half, her twin, the person who had been with her through every moment of her life.

John B sat at the helm, his jaw clenched and his eyes focused on the horizon. Kie and Pope were huddled near the bow, their expressions distant, lost in their own thoughts.

Normally, the Pogues were a loud, chaotic group, but now they were eerily quiet, each of them retreating into their own private pain.

Rafe’s gaze returned to Y/N. Her fingers twitched slightly, brushing against her knee as if she were trying to ground herself. He shifted closer, not enough to invade her space but enough to remind her he was there.

“How are you feeling?” he asked softly, his voice barely audible over the hum of the engine.

She didn’t respond. She didn’t even look at him. Rafe didn’t take it personally. He knew there was nothing he could say or do to fix this. JJ was gone. Nothing would change that. But he couldn’t bring himself to leave her alone, not when she looked so broken.

He leaned back against the wall of the boat, his knees bent and his arms resting loosely on them. The ocean stretched endlessly around them, the water so dark it looked black, a mirror for the hollow ache in his chest.

“Rafe,” Y/N’s voice cut through his thoughts, soft and shaky.

He turned his head sharply, surprised she’d spoken. Her eyes were red and swollen, her lips trembling as she struggled to form words.

“Yeah?” he said, his voice gentle.

She shook her head, letting out a choked sob before burying her face in her hands. Rafe’s chest tightened, and without thinking, he moved closer, his hand hovering near her shoulder before finally resting on it lightly.

She didn’t pull away, so he wrapped his arm around her and pulled her into him.

“I’m here,” he murmured. “I’m not going anywhere.”

||

The dock loomed closer, a hazy outline against the muted blues and grays of the early evening light.

The weight of exhaustion bore down on everyone as the boat slowed to a crawl, the hum of the engine fading into an eerie quiet.

As they approached the ferry dock, the group noticed the figures waiting on the shore—familiar faces etched with worry and frustration. Kiara’s parents stood side by side, their arms crossed, their expressions a mix of anger and relief. Heyward was there too, pacing with his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets.

Sheriff Shoupe stood off to the side, hands on his hips, watching the approaching boat with his usual air of quiet authority. And then there was Luke Maybank, leaning against his rusted truck, his eyes scanning the group as if he were counting heads.

Luke felt a sense of responsibility for this group of kids having left for a foreign country. He told JJ and Y/N who their parents really were and they got wrapped up in something that was, unknown to him, fatal.

The boat docked with a soft thud, and the Pogues climbed out one by one, their movements slow and deliberate, as though every step drained what little energy they had left.

Rafe stayed close to Y/N, his hand holding hers as they stepped onto the dock. Her eyes remained fixed on the ground, her face pale and hollow. But she wasn’t letting go of Rafe’s hand. It was probably the shock, but she was gripping onto him like a lifeline.

As soon as they set foot on land, the flood of questions began.

“Do you know how worried we’ve been?” Mrs. Carrera’s voice was sharp, her worry manifesting as anger. “Running off to God knows where again?”

“You could’ve been killed!” added Mr. Carrera, his voice booming.

Heyward joined in, his frustration boiling over. “What were you kids thinking? This ain’t a game!”

The Pogues stood silently, letting the scolding wash over them like a wave. No one had the energy to fight back. Y/N’s head hung low, wishing she could physically shield herself from the weight of their words.

“Do you have any idea what—” Mrs. Carrera started again, but her voice faltered as she finally took in their faces.

The shift was palpable. The adults’ anger dissipated as they noticed the heavy silence, the grief radiating from the group like a physical force. It was Heyward who first noticed the absence. His brow furrowed, his eyes scanning the group more carefully.

“Where’s JJ?” he asked, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

Luke, who had been leaning against his truck, straightened. His gaze zeroed in on Y/N. “Y/N, where’s your brother?” He asked.

The question landed like a blow. Rafe felt Y/N stiffen beside him, her shoulders jerking slightly as though the words had physically hit her. She took a shaky breath, her hand trembling as she raised it to wipe at her face. For a moment, it seemed like she might not answer.

“He’s…” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard, trying to force the words out. “He’s gone.”

“What do you mean, gone?” Luke’s voice was sharper now, his eyes narrowing. “Where is he, Y/N?”

“Groff killed him, Dad,” she said, her voice breaking on the last word. “He’s not coming back.”

The dock went silent. Even the sound of the waves seemed to fade into the background. Luke stared at his daughter, his face twisted into something unreadable—shock, disbelief, maybe even guilt.

“Gone?” he repeated, his voice barely audible.

Y/N didn’t respond. Her body trembled, and her lips pressed into a thin line as she fought to hold back another wave of tears. Before Luke could say anything else, Heyward stepped forward.

“C’mere, girl,” he said softly, pulling Y/N into a tight embrace. She collapsed against him, sobbing into his chest as he rubbed her back soothingly.

Heyward had always been more of a father to her and JJ than Luke ever was, and in that moment, his presence felt like a lifeline.

Rafe stood nearby, his hands clenched into fists at his sides as he watched the scene unfold. He wanted to comfort her, to take her pain away, but he knew this wasn’t his moment. He stayed rooted to the spot, his jaw tight as he struggled to keep his own emotions in check.

Shoupe cleared his throat, breaking the heavy silence. “Where’s Groff now?” he asked, his tone businesslike but tinged with a quiet anger.

He should’ve never let them go after Groff. He should’ve handled it himself or the boy that he worked so hard to look out for wouldn’t be gone.

Rafe stepped forward, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him. “He mentioned something about Lisbon. I’d start there.”

Shoupe nodded, scribbling something on his notepad. “We’ll handle it,” he said firmly. “You kids need to go home. Be with your families. Let us take it from here.”

No one had the energy to argue.

||

Sarah took Y/N’s hand gently, guiding her toward the deputy’s car that would take them home. The atmosphere outside the dock was heavy, the kind of weight that pressed down on everyone, leaving them emotionally drained.

Y/N lingered by the car, her hands shaking as she tried to wipe away the tears streaming down her face. John B stood with her, saying something before the two hugged.

Rafe stood a few feet away, his shoulders tense as he wrestled with the pull to go to her and the knowledge that he couldn’t force his presence.

Sarah’s hand landed lightly on his arm. “Rafe,” she said softly, drawing his attention. Her tone was gentle but firm, and she didn’t need to say much more for him to know what was coming. “She needs space.”

“I know,” he muttered, running a hand over his buzzed hair in frustration. “But look at her, Sarah. She’s barely holding it together.”

“I am looking at her,” Sarah replied, glancing toward Y/N, who was now leaning against the car, staring blankly at the ground. “And I know you think you can fix this for her. But you can’t.”

Rafe’s jaw tightened. “I’m not trying to fix anything. I just… I don’t want her to be alone tonight.”

“She’s not alone,” Sarah insisted. “She has us. She has me. She has Pope, Kie, John B—”

“They’re not what she needs right now,” Rafe cut her off, his voice thick with emotion. “I know her, Sarah. She’s hurting in a way they can’t touch. I can.”

Sarah crossed her arms, studying her brother. There was something different about him now, something uncharacteristically vulnerable in the way his usual bravado was stripped away.

She sighed, her voice softening. “I get it. You care about her. But I know her too, Rafe, she’s my best friend. And caring means giving someone the space to fall apart.”

Rafe looked at Y/N again. Her shoulders were trembling now, barely perceptible, but enough to make his chest ache. The urge to rush to her, to pull her into his arms, was almost overwhelming. But Sarah’s words stuck in his mind.

“Let her fall apart,” Sarah said quietly. “Let her cry, scream, break if she has to. She’ll come to you when she’s ready. But right now, you have to let her take the first step.”

Rafe closed his eyes, exhaling sharply. “And if she doesn’t?”

“She will,” Sarah promised. “But only when she knows she can. Don’t take that from her.”

The sound of the car door opening brought their conversation to a halt. Y/N was climbing into the backseat of the deputy’s car, her movements slow and robotic. Sarah touched Rafe’s arm again. “Go home, Rafe.”

He nodded, though every fiber of his being screamed against the idea. “Yeah. Fine.”

||

The door to Tannyhill creaked open with a soft, hollow sound as Rafe stepped inside, the familiar surroundings of his home almost feeling foreign. His shoes made no noise on the marble floor as he moved through the foyer, his footsteps heavy with the weight of the past few days.

The light from the entryway cast long shadows down the hallway. He dropped his keys onto the console table, the metal clanking loudly in the quiet house. Sofia was sitting in the living room, an unfamiliar figure in the corner of a room that had once felt like a sanctuary.

Sofia’s face was set in a delicate mask of emotion—part anxiety, part guilt. But Rafe wasn’t in the mood for her presence. Not today.

He paused, his brow furrowing. He had been hoping for some peace, for the chance to decompress, to let the exhaustion settle into his bones, but the sight of her—waiting in his house, uninvited—was a reminder that not everything was as it should be.

"I thought I told you to leave." he said, his voice flat, emotionless. Sofia stood slowly, her lips parting as if she were about to say something.

She hesitated, clearly unsure of how to approach him, but there was a quiet urgency in her eyes. “I just… I needed to talk to you, Rafe.”

Rafe exhaled sharply through his nose, the frustration already building. He didn’t have the energy for this.

His mind was still spinning from everything that had happened—JJ’s death, Y/N’s cries echoing in his head,—and the last thing he needed was to deal with Sofia and her betrayal.

“I’m not interested,” he said as he turned to walk past her, heading toward the back door. He needed air. Space. He needed to escape for a moment from the suffocating reality of everything pressing down on him.

But Sofia stepped in front of him, blocking his path. She looked hurt, though Rafe couldn’t bring himself to care. He was done with her games, done with the mess she had caused.

“Please, just let me explain,” Sofia urged, her voice cracking slightly as she took a step closer. “I know I messed up, but I—”

“No.” Rafe snapped, his voice loud and sharp, cutting her off mid-sentence. His anger flared up suddenly, burning hot like a fire that had been smoldering beneath the surface all day. “I’m done with the explanations, Sofia. I’m done with the lies. You sold me out.”

Sofia flinched, her eyes wide with regret, but Rafe wasn’t finished.

“You knew what Groff was doing. You knew he was using me, using both of us. You helped him, betrayed me, and then you act like everything’s okay? He killed JJ.” His chest rose and fell with each breath, his heart pounding.

"I just had to pry someone I really care about off of her brother’s dead body, and you think I’m in the mood for your sob story? For your ‘explanation’?"

Rafe’s words hung in the air between them, heavy with emotion and anger. His hands clenched into fists by his sides, the nails biting into his palm. He wanted to keep his voice steady, but the more he spoke, the harder it became to control the rage that threatened to bubble up.

Sofia’s face crumpled at his words. She looked vulnerable, torn between regret and the need to defend herself. But Rafe wasn’t interested in hearing it. Not anymore.

"You broke my trust, Sofia. There’s no going back from that," Rafe continued, his voice cold now. "I’m done with you. Leave the ring and get out."

For a long moment, Sofia just stood there, her eyes searching his face as though she were waiting for some sign, some indication that he hadn’t meant what he said. But Rafe stood still, unmoving, his gaze hard and unyielding.

She took a small step back, and without another word, she turned, took the ring off of her finger, placing it on the console table and walked toward the front door, her footsteps echoing through the quiet house.

Rafe stood in the middle of the room, his breath slow and deliberate as he tried to calm the storm within him. It wasn’t just the betrayal that stung—it was everything. The lies, the manipulation, and how it all led to this. How it all led to nothing.

Rafe didn’t feel relief. He didn’t feel satisfaction. He felt numb. Empty. He had been so sure of what he wanted from Sofia, of what they had shared, but now, in the wake of everything that had happened with JJ and Y/N, he realized that all of it had been a distraction. A poor substitute for something real.

Sofia had been his way of hiding from the inevitable. The consequences of his own choices. The fact that JJ was gone. The fact that Y/N was now left to pick up the pieces of her broken world, and Rafe—he couldn’t fix that. He didn’t know how. He had nothing left to give.

Rafe stepped outside onto the back patio, the cool air washing over him like a balm to his soul. He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply as the quiet evening settled around him. The house behind him was still and silent, and for the first time, it felt like it might collapse on him.

Reaching into his pocket, Rafe pulled out his phone, his fingers lingering over the screen as he swiped through the photo album.

It was the one he had hidden from Sofia—the one full of late-night selfies, candid photos of Y/N, snapshots from their secret beach dates, moments when the world had seemed just a little bit brighter.

He opened the album. Y/N’s face stared back at him from the screen, her smile a little shy but full of warmth. It felt like a lifetime ago.

Rafe’s chest tightened as he gazed at her, remembering how everything had been before this nightmare started. Before JJ’s death. Before the broken pieces of everything they had once shared.

But that was before. Now, the world felt like a place he didn’t recognize, and Y/N was a person he couldn’t even reach anymore.

It was then that he made a decision. As much as he hated the thought of it, he knew what he had to do. He couldn’t fix her pain.

But he could be there for her. When she was ready, when the dust settled and the grief didn’t feel so suffocating, he would be there.

He would wait.

With a deep breath, Rafe closed the album, his thumb lingering over the picture of Y/N for a long moment. She wasn’t ready yet, but when she was, he promised himself he’d be right where she needed him.

And that was all he could do.

[breelandwalker]

Frost Moon - November 15 2024

Grab your scarves and mittens, witches - it’s time for the Frost Moon!

Frost Moon

The Frost Moon is the name given to the full moon which occurs in the month of November. In temperate zones in the Northern Hemisphere, November is the month during which the first frost or first hard freeze of the season is usually observed.

Like many full moon names, this is an English translation of a traditional name used by one or more North American indigenous groups, in this case the Cree and the Assiniboine. Similarly, the Anishinaabe and the Ojibwe also called this month the Freezing Moon or Freezing Over Moon respectively, as indigenous naming conventions usually refer to the entire lunar month and not just the full moon itself. Other indigenous names include Deer Rutting Moon (Dakota and Lakota), Whitefish Moon (Algonquin), Leaf Fall Moon (Catawba), and Digging (or Scratching) Moon (Tlingit). The latter refers to the habit of deer and other creatures scratching up the ground to find hidden food caches, as well as bears digging their dens for winter hibernation.

Another very common name for this month’s full moon is the Beaver Moon, due to the increased sightings of these busy little creatures shoring up their dams and food stores before the first hard freeze of winter. (Unfortunately, it’s also a reference to the peak days of the North American fur trade, signaling the optimal hunting time for beaver pelts.)

In some modern pagan traditions, particularly those claiming Celtic lineage, the November moon is also called the Mourning Moon. This occurs when the November moon is the final full moon before the winter solstice. In 2024, the November is not a Mourning Moon, as the December full moon falls on the 15th, several days before the winter solstice. (I was not able to find an original source for this claim, but given the celebration of the beloved dead in October, a subsequent period of mourning and remembrance makes sense. It may also be a reference to the Catholic All Souls Day, but that’s just speculation.)

This particular Frost Moon will be at peak fullness in the afternoon hours of November 15th (4:29pm EST). This is the final supermoon in the four-month consecutive series of supermoons for 2024, so make the most of it!

What Does It Mean For Witches?

This is the month when migrations are finishing up, animals are finishing their cold weather preparations, the temperature starts to plummet, and fall descends rapidly into winter. If you haven’t finished your preparations for winter, mundane or magical, this is probably your last chance to do it. (Don’t forget to prioritize and delegate!)

With the days getting shorter and the nights getting colder, the temptation to hunker down and hibernate is STRONG. But we have to remember that just like the eponymous Beaver, humans have to stay active during the cold months. Start stockpiling ways to keep yourself busy and motivated, since that Seasonal Slump is on the horizon for many of us.

Consider also the beaver’s dam. You’ve spent the whole year working towards all kinds of goals. Is there still something blocking your way? What might it be and how can you best address and remove the obstacle? Or, alternatively, is it time to stop and rest and see if that roadblock will clear itself with a little time and patience?

In keeping with the Mourning Moon moniker, this could be a good time for reflection and remembrance. Think back on what you’ve built this year and take time to be proud of yourself. Remember what is dear to you, take a moment to miss someone who is gone, and consider rekindling bonds that may have lapsed or grown tenuous during the hustle and bustle of daily life. It’s always a good time to tell someone you love them.

On a practical note, if you have pets that regularly stay outdoors overnight, start bringing them inside or make sure they have a shelter that is properly warm, clean, and secure against human or animal intruders. If it’s too chilly for you to be out without a coat, it’s too chilly for the critters, fur or no fur. PLEASE do not leave your furry friends out in the cold!

What Witchy Things Can We Do?

As we prepare for winter, this is an excellent time to shore up those magical protections. Check on your longterm spells to see if they need refreshing, or just go ahead and do a quick cleanse-and-reclaim as a proactive measure. Even if everything is solid, practice your technique by shoring up points of egress or adding a new layer to the existing wards or trying a new visualization or method for personal protections. Create a new charm or talisman to carry you through the winter or make something festive and decorative that could be given as a gift.

On the subject of cleansing, this is a good time to clear out any stale or disruptive energy that might be lingering from the recent change of seasons. Solstices can be times of transformation, but change is rarely a calm or peaceful process and it brings its’ own set of challenges and upheavals. If things have gotten a little more chaotic than you’d like, take a moment to put your house in order, metaphysically speaking.

If you’re partial to jar spells, consider putting one together to help maintain safety and abundance through the winter months. If you’re going to be traveling for the upcoming holidays, a bit of luck and protection for the journey wouldn’t go amiss either.

If you've been working any longterm magic over the past few months to coincide with the abundance of supermoons, this is the time to bring your working to a culmination. Finish setting things in motion, tie up loose ends, close loopholes, and send your magic out into the world. Be sure to document what you've done and when and what methods you used, as well as any indicators of success to look for later if (and hopefully when) tangible results begin to appear.

Try a frost divination. If your area is starting to see overnight frosts, take a moment in the morning to examine the patterns that the frost leaves on the windows of your home or vehicle. Do you see any patterns or images in the ice crystals? Check the weather forecast and whisper a question into the wind when the overnight temps will drop below freezing. Then in the morning, see if there’s an answer waiting for you!

Happy Frost Moon, witches! 🌕❄

Further Reading:

Additional Lunar Calendar posts

Beaver Moon Magic: November’s Vibrant Moon Meaning in 2024, The Peculiar Brunette.

Beaver Moon: Full Moon in November 2024, The Old Farmer’s Almanac.

Beaver Full Moon in November - Buckle and Hocken, TimeAndDate.com.

Everyday Moon Magic: Spells & Rituals for Abundant Living, Dorothy Morrison, Llewellyn Publications, 2004.

Image Source - ABC News.

(If you’re enjoying my content, please feel free to drop a little something in the tip jar or check out my published works on Amazon or in the Willow Wings Witch Shop. 😊)