#Visions of Disfigurement

[thethcministry]

[wisepuma23]

Ya know after today’s event… imagine Tallulah gets a permanent face scar after her fight with her Dad to protect Chayanne. A constant reminder of Phil’s mistakes on his daughter’s face. No wonder Tallulah refused to get close to him after, especially after his promise that he’d never lay a hand on her only an hour earlier 🥺

Picture Tallulah, still so lanky and young, trying her best to remember Phil’s sparring tips as he’s barreling down on her. Like MAN!!!

Personally, I’m imagining a cut on her cheekbone from the brunt end of Phil’s sword, like he used the pommel to strike her. Tallulah not even bothering to stem the blood on her face, shakily kneeling, still holding her sword high.

Chayanne seeing the bruised and bleeding face of his sister, and wondering for the first time what it would be like to kill his father.

Or artists if you wanna make things even WORSE… Chayanne got a back scar from running away, while Tallulah got a matching one on her front for standing her ground :)

Always the twins…

[orelaia]

OC patron saint tag

thank you @lamortwrites for the tag !!

tagging @sybaritick @immren ,, anyone who sees this who would enjoy doing this toooo 💖 if you've already been tagged umm no you weren't

did this for my firbolg bg3 durge, Taune! (and added an ingame pic for those who have not seen her <3)

quiz link: what is your oc the patron saint of?

Taune: patron saint of relics

patron saint of remembering. patron saint of holding something close. patron saint of holding on for too long. for a saint, a relic is often a part of the body, kept for some physical memento of their holiness. they are all in your hands, now: does it feel like remembrance? does it feel sanctified? are the dust and blood as precious as they're supposed to be?

[unknownarmageddon]

GEDDON. SCALE UP/SCALE DOWN BY LOUIE ZONG, BUT IT'S KILLER

OKAY so it took me forever to get to actually listening to this because i am bad at everything ever but i am now so i will report back o7

[wizzard890]

okay so picture this.

You're a man named Jim Steinman. You are one of the most prolific songwriters of the 80s. In your spirit, output and essence, you are eternally popping a wheelie on a motorcycle while a hot half-naked woman clings to you and bats wheel in the sky above.

You wrote a song in which Meatloaf plays a hideously disfigured hunk who steals a nubile lady back to his crumbling manor and introduces her to the pleasures of magic lesbian group sex.

You wrote a song in which Celine Dion sings as Heathcliff from Wuthering Heights, dancing with Cathy's corpse on a beach in the moonlight; a scene which you, Jim Steinman, believe should have been in the book. (The moors of Wuthering Heights are landlocked, but you, Jim Steinman, are too fucking real to care about that.)

You wrote the song for the opening scene of the movie Streets of Fire, in which evil leatherdaddy Willem Dafoe leads his malefic motorcycle crew into a concert to abduct Diane Lane while she's wearing a skintight satin jumpsuit.

You wrote a song in which Bonnie Tyler wanders a haunted boarding school as literal demon twinks gyrate at her out of the fog.

There is no peak of goth camp that you, Jim Steinman, have not summited, no horny energy you have not tapped. They say that Alexander the Great wept when he saw there were no more worlds to conquer. But you, Jim Steinman, are not Alexander the Great. You, Jim Steinman, are better. You, Jim Steinman, have vision.

You take your most successful song, the song everyone knows, the most big-haired, white dress, gothic arches, doves flying, possessed choir boys chanting, bombastic song you have, and think: what if this, but with vampires.

And so you change the lyrics to be about death and infinity and a powerful bloodsucking lord seducing a girl who is ALL ABOUT IT, and then toss off a whole musical for this song to be the centerpiece to, and the musical is bad but it's also a weird hit that's been staged in fourteen countries and revived seven times, because nothing has ever whipped as campily, as ridiculously, as perfectly as this:

It never takes off in America. A prophet is without honor in his own land. But that doesn't matter. How could it matter? You are perhaps the most creatively self-actualized man who has ever lived. Look at that vampire. He's coming in hot and a hundred Venetian nuns gave their lives to make his ludicrously capacious lace sleeves. Look at that girl. She was born in a fog machine. She wore her best red velvet cape. She's down bad. She's singing Total Eclipse of the Heart the whole time.

You are Jim Steinman, and you have reached apotheosis.

[mariasont]

Could you do a story where Y/N Is taken in a hostage situation and we see more of a dark hotch? like that early episode where hotch and reid are hostages in the hospital?

TOO EMOTIONAL - A.H

a/n: thank you so much for requestin <3 i hope this is what you were wanting!

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x fem!reader

warnings: honestly yall i feel like this is way darker than anything i've written so far, not sure if its good or not but alas, mentions of blood, violence, unsub threatens reader with a knife and a lighter, mentions of sexual assualt (it doesnt happen just mentions of it), unsub cuts open readers shirt, hotch is a dick for a plot, hurt/comfort

wc: 1.4k

Your vision was blurred, you fought to focus as dried blood flaked from your lashes with each heavy blink. You swallowed a cough, the floor's cold concrete punishing your knees. The ties around your wrists and ankles were merciless, digging into your flesh. You tried to focus on the sounds around you—the drip-drop of water, the soft wail of distant sirens.

In the dim light, you caught glimpses of Hotch, his distinct cologne mingling with the warehouse's musty air. He was agonizingly close yet not close enough to touch. The unsub's footsteps were barely audible over the pounding of your heart. Panic fluttered in your chest, unwanted and insistent. Only three cases in, and it seemed the universe was conspiring to reroute your career choice.

Frantically, you attempted to wipe your face on your shirt, pulse roaring in your ears as the footsteps ceased before you and Hotch. The man was a ghastly figure, burns cutting from one side of his face to the other. You couldn't breathe.

"What a day to have feds come knocking." His voice was hoarse, fingers absently playing with a lighter.

"You know, they say the most intelligent criminals are the ones who don't get caught, yet here we are," Hotch said, his chin defiantly up, words sharp and calculated.

Suddenly, the unsub was right there, his disfigured face uncomfortably close, the heat from the lighter singeing your skin. His breath was a hot, sticky assault, and you fought the instinct to flinch.

"Smart men don't leave witnesses, and I intend to be very smart about this."

The foundations of your training flitted across your consciousness, the methodologies for keeping control of the situation, but they sifted through your fingers like said, rendering you paralyzed.

"Take her then. She's new, inexperienced. Probably more trouble than she's worth." Hotch's voice was cold, jarring like a slap to the face, his expression empty of emotion.

You strained to keep your face impassive, your eyes darting to Hotch, pleading for his attention. Your breaths were shallow, scarcely there. He had to be bluffing. You felt sick. The unsub shifted his weight, scrutinizing you both, edging closer to hotch, no doubt with suspicion.

The unsub laughed, a cold and calculating sound as he circled around Hotch. "You expect me to believe you'd turn on your own that quickly? I'm not a fool."

"Look at her and tell me what her worth is to me." Hotch's voice was even, almost bored. "She's a liability. Too emotional, too soft." 

His words were flung carelessly, yet they landed with precision, straight into your chest. Your teeth punished the inside of your cheek.

The remarks were like sharp barbs to your chest, instilling a hollow feeling as you attempted to convince yourself that the wetness on your lashes was anything but tears. His assessment was not unfounded. Your empathy, your sensitivity, traits deemed too tender for the harsher realities of your job, were now being used against you. Hotch had always been an exception, until now.

"Well, I could see her worth in other ways." The man's words oozed contempt, his gaze crawling over you in a way that threatened to turn your stomach. "I bet that's how she got the job in the first place, huh?"

"What do you think?" Hotch's laugh was a sinister match to the unsub's. He tilted his head in your direction. "Look at her. That's all she's been good for."

Your breath caught in your throat, your body turning as much as the ties would permit in Hotch's direction. You could almost hear your heart shattering, could feel it in Hotch's inability to face you. Was this a plan or had he truly discarded you?

You never deluded yourself into thinking you were Hotch's favorite--his reserved interactions with you made that abundantly clear. In fact, you were probably his least favorite. He had kept you at an arm's length, while seemingly forging bonds with the others that didn't seem to extend to you.

This was all within reason, given your inexperience and younger age, but the disdain lacing his words was unexpected, shredding through any pretense of professional detachment.

Hotch had never wanted you on the team, it was Rossi who had vouched for you. And now, look where that got you both.

Maybe this was all deserved.

"Then you won't mind if I try her out for myself?" The unsub's insinuation felt like a perverse validation of Hotch's doubts. 

A low hum escaped the unsub as he closed the distance, his gaze predatory. You stilled, breath caught as he produced a knife from his pocket, skimming your cheek just shy of cutting. You were scared and you were scared to show it. Desperately, you looked to Hotch, the blade now hovering precariously close to your sternum.

Hotch wouldn't look at you. You wanted to scream, to cry, to throw something, but that was all shoved to the bottom of your throat as the unsub sliced down the middle of your shirt, exposing your chest and compelling your gaze to it. Tears of humiliation prickled your eyes. How could Hotch let this happen to you?

The unsub's clammy grip clung to your waist, your lips trembling as you prepared for the worst. You closed your eyes, escaping to your house in your mind—tea brewing, fireplace going—anywhere but here.

A sudden splatter to your face jolted you back, eyes opening in alarm you saw Hotch's eyes, not the unsub's.

"You're okay, you're okay," Hotch murmurs. 

The words did little to comfort you, his hands moving blindly to release the binds at your wrist and ankles. Looking down, you see the unsub, knife through his back, blood pooling around him. Hotch's hands are on your wrists, his thumbs massaging away the sting. 

When your hand touches your face, you feel the splatter from earlier, coming back away with a smear of blood on your fingertips. 

Your voice felt like it was a prisoner inside yourself, words and sounds slipping past you like ghosts. A persistent ringing in your ears muffled all but the pungent scent of the warehouse, which clawed at your senses. 

You felt the jostle of hands, the motion of being lifted, a sensation so distant it barely registered. The world was a smear of lights and faces--the team showing up, the paramedics--until it slowly came into focus. 

You barely registered that Hotch was speaking to you, his words indistinct and muffled.

"What?" you asked, your speech slow to form and blurred at the edges.

You had a jacket over the front of you, his jacket, covering your exposed chest.

Hotch's eyes were pools of worry as he grasped at your hand. It was weird, the feeling of his hand in yours. You realized that was the first time you had felt it. 

"More water?"

You could only nod, and he promptly fetched a bottle, twisting it open and placing it in your hand. You took a small sip. 

"It's too loud," you mumbled, you were aware you weren't making sense.  You shifted to face him, your knee grazing his thigh. "Did you mean those things you said?"

"Of course I didn't mean it," Hotch replied quickly, his gaze intense. "You thought I meant that?"

Your gaze dropped to your lap, voice faltering. "I don't know... I wasn't sure, I mean, no, but I just... I don't feel very useful, and this whole mess, it's because of me and I--" 

Tears interrupted you, your hands fumbling to hide them. Hotch reached out, gently turning your face to his, thumb brushing away the tears. 

"Hey, look at me. Don't say that. This isn't your fault. Nothing I said back there was true. I needed to distract him, had to make him concentrate on you."

"I'm sorry, I don't know why I'm crying like this," you stammered between sobs. 

"You don't have to apologize. You're crying because you've been through a lot. Just breathe, take your time."

You managed a wobbly smile. "You hit the nail on the head with the too emotional part," you sniffled.

Hotch gave a small chuckle. "Your compassion, your sensitivity, it's what sets you apart as an agent--in fact, it makes you an outstanding one."

You were close now, your gaze inadvertently drawn to his lips. You could kiss him if you wanted. Not that you were in the right headspace or that it was appropriate. But you could've.

"Oh, my goodness, I'm so glad you're okay!" You were barreled into a hug, the familiar voice and blur of color of Penelope enveloping your senses.

Hotch cautioned, "Watch her head." 

With Penelope's hands around you, you found yourself looking over her shoulder, locking eyes with Hotch. His gaze held a new light, a recognition that maybe, just maybe you weren't Hotch's least favorite agent after all.

taglist: @hotchhner @khxna @readergf @sarcasm-and-stiles @edencherries @aurorsworld @princess76179 @malindacath @broadwaytraaaaash @sunfyyre @sleepysongbirdsings @trulycayla @crouchingapple @navia3000 @aaronlovesava @bakugocanstompme

join my taglist here!

[cripplecharacters]

The Mask Trope, and Disfiguremisia in Media

[large text: The Mask Trope, and Disfiguremisia in Media]

If you followed this blog for more than like a week, you're probably familiar with “the mask trope” or at least with me complaining about it over and over in perpetuity. But why is it bad and why can't this dude shut up about it?

Let's start with who this trope applies to: characters with facial differences. There is some overlap with blind characters as well; think of the blindfold that is forced on a blind character for no reason. Here is a great explanation of it in this context by blindbeta. It's an excellent post in general, even if your character isn't blind or low vision you should read at least the last few paragraphs.

Here's a good ol’ tired link to what a facial difference is, but to put it simply:

If you have a character, who is a burn survivor or has scars, who wears a mask, this is exactly this trope.

The concept applies to other facial differences as well, but scars and burns are 99% of the representation and “representation” we get, so I'll be using these somewhat interchangeably here.

The mask can be exactly what you think, but it refers to any facial covering that doesn't have a medical purpose. So for example, a CPAP mask doesn't count for this trope, but a Magic Porcelain Mask absolutely does. Bandages do as well. If it covers the part of the face that is “different”, it can be a mask in the context used here.

Eye patches are on thin ice because while they do serve a medical purpose in real life, in 99.9% of media they are used for the same purpose as a mask. It's purely aesthetic.

With that out of the way, let's get into why this trope sucks and find its roots. Because every trope is just a symptom of something, really.

Roughly in order of the least to most important reasons...

Why It Sucks 

[large text: Why It Sucks]

It's overdone. As in — boring. You made your character visibly different, and now they're no longer that. What is the point? Just don't give them the damn scar if you're going to hide it. 

Zero connection with reality. No one does this. I don't even know how to elaborate on this. This doesn't represent anyone because no one does this.

Disability erasure. For the majority of characters with facial differences, their scars or burns somehow don't disable them physically, so the only thing left is the visible part… aaand the mask takes care of it too. Again, what's the point? If you want to make your disabled character abled, then just have them be abled. What is the point of "curing" them other than to make it completely pointless?

Making your readers with facial differences feel straight up bad. I'm gonna be honest! This hurts to see when it's all you get, over and over. Imagine there's this thing that everyone bullied you about, everyone still stares at, that is with you 24/7. Imagine you wanted to see something where people like you aren't treated like a freakshow. Somewhat unrealistic, but imagine that. That kind of world would only exist in fiction, right? So let's look into fiction- oh, none of the positive (or at least not "child-murderer evil") characters look like me. I mean they do, but they don't. They're forced to hide the one thing that connects us. I don't want to hide myself. I don't want to be told over and over that this is what people like me should do. That this is what other people expect so much that it's basically the default way a person with a facial difference can exist. I don't want this.

Perpetuating disfiguremisia. 

"Quick" Disfiguremisia Talk

[large text: "Quick" Disfiguremisia Talk]

It's quick when compared to my average facial difference discussion post, bear with me please.

Disfiguremisia; portmanteau of disfigure from “disfigurement” and -misia, Greek for hatred. 

Also known as discrimination of those mythical horrifically deformed people.

It shows up in fiction all the time; in-universe and in-narrative. Mask trope is one of the most common* representations of it, and it's also a trope that is gaining traction more and more, both in visual art and writing. This is a trope I particularly hate, because it's a blatant symptom of disfiguremisia. It's not hidden and it doesn't try to be. It's a painful remainder that I do not want nor need.

*most common is easily “evil disfigured villain”, just look at any horror media. But that's for another post, if ever.

When you put your character in a mask, it sends a clear message: in your story, facial differences aren't welcome. The world is hostile. Other characters are hostile. The author is, quite possibly, hostile. Maybe consciously, but almost always not, they just don't think that disfiguremisia means anything because it's the default setting. No one wants to see you because your face makes you gross and unsightly. If you have a burn; good luck, but we think you're too ugly to have a face. Have a scar? Too bad, now you don't. Get hidden.

Everything here is a decision that was made by the author. You are the one who makes the world. You are the person who decides if being disabled is acceptable or not there. The story doesn't have a mind of its own, you chose to make it disfiguremisic. 

It doesn't have to be.

Questions to Ask Yourself

[large text: Questions to Ask Yourself]

Since I started talking about facial differences on this blog, I have noticed a very specific trend in how facial differences are treated when compared to other disabilities. A lot of writers and artists are interested in worldbuilding where accessibility is considered, where disabled people are accepted, where neurodivergence is seen as an important part of the human experience, not something “other”. This is amazing, genuinely.

Yet, absolutely no one seems to be interested in a world that is anything but cruel to facial differences. There's no escapist fantasies for us.

You see this over and over, at some point it feels like the same story with different names attached.

The only way a character with a facial difference can exist is to hide it. Otherwise, they are shamed by society. Seen as something gross. I noticed that it really doesn't matter who the character is, facial difference is this great equalizer. Both ancient deities and talking forest cats get treated as the same brand of disgusting thing as long as they're scarred, as long as they had something explode in their face, as long as they've been cursed. They can be accomplished, they can be a badass, they can be the leader of the world, they can kill a dragon, but they cannot, under any circumstances, be allowed to peacefully exist with a facial difference. They have to hide it in the literal sense, or be made to feel that they should. Constantly ashamed, embarrassed that they dare to have a face.

Question one to ask yourself: why is disfiguremisia a part of your story?

I'm part of a few minority groups. I'm an immigrant, I'm disabled, I'm queer. I get enough shit in real life for this so I like to take a break once in a while. I love stories where transphobia isn't a thing. Where xenophobia doesn't come up. But my whole life, I can't seem to find stories that don't spew out disfiguremisia in one way or the other at the first possible opportunity.

Why is disfiguremisia a default part of your worldbuilding? Why can't it be left out? Why in societies with scarred saviors and warriors is there such intense disgust for them? Why can't anyone even just question why this is the state of the world?

Why is disfiguremisia normal in your story?

Question two: do you know enough about disfiguremisia to write about it?

Ask yourself, really. Do you? Writers sometimes ask if or how to portray ableism when they themselves aren't disabled, but no one bothers to wonder if maybe they aren't knowledgeable enough to make half their story about their POV character experiencing disfiguremisia. How much do you know, and from where? Have you read Mikaela Moody or any other advocates’ work around disfiguremisia? Do you understand the way it intersects; with being a trans woman, with being Black? What is your education on this topic?

And for USAmericans... do you know what "Ugly Laws" are, and when they ended?

Question three: what does your story associate with facial difference — and why?

If I had to guess; “shame”, “embarrassment”, “violence”, "disgust", “intimidation”, “trauma”, “guilt”, “evil”, “curse”, “discomfort”, “fear”, or similar would show up. 

Why doesn't it associate it with positive concepts? Why not “hope” or “love” or “pride” or “community”? Why not “soft” or “delicate”? Dare I say, “beauty” or “innocence”? Why not “blessing”? “Acceptance”?

Why not “normal”?

Question four: why did you make the character the way they are? 

Have you considered that there are other things than “horrifically burned for some moral failing” or “most traumatic scenario put to paper”? Why is it always “a tough character with a history of violence” and never “a Disfigured princess”? Why not “a loving parent” or “a fashionable girl”, instead of “the most unkind person you ever met” and “total badass who doesn’t care about anything - other than how scary their facial difference is to these poor ableds”? Don’t endlessly associate us with brutality and suffering. We aren’t violent or manipulative or physically strong or brash or bloodthirsty by default. We can be soft, and frail and gentle and kind - and we can still be proud and unashamed.

Question five: why is your character just… fine with all this?

Can’t they make a community with other people with facial differences and do something about this? Demand the right to exist as disabled and not have to hide their literal face? Why are they cool with being dehumanized and treated with such hatred? Especially if they fall into the "not so soft and kind" category that I just talked about, it seems obvious to me that they would be incredibly and loudly pissed off about being discriminated against over and over... Why can't your character, who is a subject of disfiguremisia, realize that maybe it's disfiguremisia that's the problem, and try to fix it?

Question six: why is your character wearing a mask? 

Usually, there's no reason. Most of the time the author hasn't considered that there even should be one, the character just wears a mask because that's what people with facial differences do in their mind. Most writers aren't interested in this kind of research or even considering it as a thing they should do. The community is unimportant to them, it's not like we are real people who read books. They think they understand, because to them it's not complex, it's not nuanced. It's ugly = bad. Why would you need a reason?

For cases where the reason is stated, I promise, I have heard of every single one. To quote, "to spare others from looking at them". I have read, "content warning: he has burn scars under the mask, he absolutely hates taking it off!", emphasis not mine. Because "he hates the way his skin looks", because "they care for their appearance a lot" (facial differences make you ugly, remember?). My favorite: "only has scars and the mask when he's a villain, not as a hero", just to subtly drive the point home. This isn't the extreme end of the spectrum. Now, imagine being a reader with a facial difference. This is your representation, sitting next to Freddy Krueger and Voldemort.

How do you feel?

F.A.Q. [frequently asked questions]

[large text: F.A.Q. [frequently asked questions]]

As in, answers and “answers” to common arguments or concerns. 

“Actually they want to hide their facial difference” - your character doesn’t have free will. You want them to hide it. Again; why.

“They are hiding it to be more inconspicuous!” - I get that there are elves in their world, but there’s no universe where wearing a mask with eye cutouts on the street is less noticeable than having a scar. Facial differences aren’t open wounds sprinkling with blood, in case that's not clear.

“It’s for other people's comfort” - why are other characters disfiguremisic to this extent? Are they forcing all minorities to stay hidden and out of sight too? That’s a horrible society to exist in.

“They are wearing it for Actual Practical Reason” - cool! I hope that this means you have other characters with facial differences that don’t wear it for any reason.

"It's the character's artistic expression" - I sure hope that there are abled characters with the same kind of expression then.

“They’re ashamed of their face” - and they never have any character development that would make that go away? That's just bad writing. Why are they ashamed in the first place? Why is shame the default stance to have about your own face in your story? I get that you think we should be ashamed and do these ridiculous things, but in real life we just live with it. 

"Now that you say that it is kinda messed up but I'm too far into the story please help" - here you go.

“[some variation of My Character is evil so it's fine/a killer so it fits/just too disgusting to show their disability” - this is the one of the only cases where I’m fine with disability erasure, actually. Please don’t make them have a facial difference. This is the type of harm that real life activists spend years and decades undoing. Disfiguremisia from horror movies released in the 70s is still relevant. It still affects people today.

"But [in-universe explanation why disfiguremisia is cool and fine actually]" - this changes nothing.

Closing Remarks

[large text: Closing Remarks]

I hope that this post explains my thoughts on facial difference representation better. It's a complicated topic, I get it. I'm also aware that this post might come off as harsh (?) but disfiguremisia shouldn't be treated lightly, it shouldn't be a prop. It's real world discrimination with a big chunk of its origins coming out of popular media.

With the asks that have been sent regarding facial differences, I realized that I probably haven't explained what the actual problems are well enough. It's not about some technical definition, or about weird in-universe explanations. It's about categorizing us as some apparently fundamentally different entity that can't possibly be kind and happy, about disfiguremisia so ingrained into our culture that it's apparently impossible to make a world without it; discrimination so deep that it can't be excised, only worked around. But you can get rid of it. You can just not have it there in the first place. Disfiguremisia isn't a fundamental part of how the world works; getting rid of it won't cause it to collapse. Don't portray discrimination as an integral, unquestionable part of the world that has to stay no matter what; whether it's ableism, transphobia, or Islamophobia or anything else. A world without discrimination can exist. If you can't imagine a world without disfiguremisia in fiction... that's bad. Sad, mostly. To me, at least.

Remember, that your readers aren't going to look at Character with a Scar #14673 and think "now I'm going to research how real life people with facial differences live." They won't, there's no inclination for them to do so. If you don't give them a reason, they won't magically start thinking critically about facial differences and disfiguremisia. People like their biases and they like to think that they understand.

And, even if you're explaining it over and over ;-) (winky face) there will still be people who are going to be actively resistant to giving a shit. To try and get the ones who are capable of caring about us, you, as the author, need to first understand disfiguremisia, study Face Equality, think of me as a human being with human emotions who doesn't want to see people like me treated like garbage in every piece of media I look at. There's a place and time for that media, and if you don't actually understand disfiguremisia, you will only perpetuate it; not "subvert" it, not "comment" on it.

I hope this helps :-) (smile emoji. for good measure)

Mod Sasza

[bl-blades]

۵ ⁀ ✧.* 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧 𝐓𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬

Pairing: Jing Yuan x Vidyadhara!reader

Warnings: SFW, spoilers for Xianzhou main story mission, established yet vague relationship with Jing Yuan. Mild angst (?) Blood + Injury

Wordcount: 1.5k

Notes: For darling @mypillowpaper < 33

The day feels long, stretching on endlessly without rest and you’re unsure of what time it even is as your grueling work keeps you from a singular moment of idleness. 

But you’d expect nothing less given the circumstances, calm waters easily and more violently disturbed by sudden ripples. The path you tread, alongside every soul on the Xianzhou, is one stained with blood in the name of redemption and retribution; intent on ridding the great sea of stars of every abomination of abundance. 

Your hands are meant to heal, however, mend the warriors on the frontlines. 

Now operating in the stead of Lady Bailu while she runs amok (giving the realm keeping commission a headache amidst the Arbors revival debacle) but you’re equipped with all of her tutelage, employed in the Alchemy Commission since her Hatching Rebirth. You’ve learned a great many things, seen ailments firsthand that had only been studied in medical texts before now. 

But for every heartwarming and uplifting feat, you’ve witnessed more than your fair share of hefty losses as well. 

It’s taxing, tirelessly working on injured cloud nights, heartbreaking to see some begging to exhibit symptoms of Mara and some returned dead of the disfigured. Mara-struck and completely unrecognizable from the person they once were, though it felt heartless to call them abominations. You’ve seen firsthand in the field how some valiantly battle their symptoms or warn their comrades to flee from their sides. 

It’s also incredibly relieving, a rewarding sense of satisfaction, when your hands are capable of mending the broken. Mending wounds that should be grievous and mortal to a state where you could believe they were never afflicted in the first place. Enjoying your patients ragged breathing easing into painless draws, the reprieve almost outweighs the feeling of grief— almost.

But your heart sinks when dutiful medical practitioners and assistants burst through the doors of the area you’ve outfitted as a triage center hastily. Creating a ruckus just as you’ve breathed a sigh of relief only for it to stall in your chest all together as you turn on your heels. 

Horror marring pretty features when you see your galant general battered and more broken than the multitude of casualties since this calamity began. 

Alongside the exiled Imbibitor Lunae, blood staining deft digits and the intricate ceremonial you’ve only seen in depictions of the traitor until today. But you can’t focus on that right now, a million questions gathering on the tip of your tongue as your own hands come to hover over Jing Yuan’s body. Trembling now because you don’t know where to start, what to check first or what best suited elixir you have on hand to  administer. 

Growing frantic with each passing moment, chest beginning to heave with hastening draws of breath that do little to aid rational thought because how could this have happened? 

He’s powerful, he’s strong, he’s cunning and calculating. Jing Yuan, for as long as you’ve known him, has come from battles unscathed in the unprecedented era of peace he ushered and maintained during his stint as the Xianzhous general. 

Until today. 

Jing Yuan is still conscious, of course he would be, crudely bandages with his bloodstained hands pressing over the soaking material to maintain required pressure before one reaches for your hand. The contact roots you to your spot, chin jerking down to look upon his increasingly exhausted features before you lean down so he won’t have to strain for you to hear him should he speak. 

Your vision blurs with welling tears, a hiccup of a sob lodges in your chest because, even still, you can see his skin is far paler than normal. 

Someone’s talking to you now, you know that, a voice speaking directly to you amidst the heightened chatter of bustling bodies rushing to rescue the dozing general. The voice is calm, calmer than you appreciate while you attempt to ignore it and focus on your ailing lover before a hand rests on your shoulder. 

Head whipping to the source with a wild expression on your features, almost feral as your attention finally fixed to the exiled high elder, Imbibitor Lunae. The solemn and apologetic contortion to his once impassive features does little to put you at ease. 

His explanation for the state Jing Yuan is in currently only worsens the hammering of your heart, blood roaring so loudly in your ears it’s almost deafening. 

You’re ready to scream, to shove at the elegant man before a sweet and childish voice interrupts the chaos. It was a miracle you heard her at all but you’ve grown attuned to the young Dragon Ladies voice. 

“Everyone step aside, I’ll take care of him,” Lady Bailu, impeccable timing as always in her appearance. Her presence clears the way to give her room to perform her miracles and you’re prepared to do whatever she asks of you. 

Stiff as you shuffle out of her way and let her near Jing Yuan without going far before she turns to you with a sympathetic look that was certainly beyond the age she looked now. Brows furrowed and eyes soft as her small hand rests on your forearm, “I can do this by myself, please take a break, the other alchemists can tend to the wounded.” 

You’re speechless, lips parted around words that won’t form on your tongue for a solid moment, “a-are you dismissing me, Lady Bailu?” 

It’s Dan Heng who speaks next, tilting into your view with his hand on your shoulder but the gesture leaves you feeling less inflammatory than earlier. 

“I believe what the High Elder is suggesting is for you to take time to rest as well. You’ve done great work, the general is in capable hands.” 

You move to protest, refusals bubbling in your throat when another hand wraps around your wrist. Holding you tenderly not because he’s missing the strength for a firmer grip but because Jing Yuan was adept in his handling of you. 

Garnering your attention as you crouch lower so he won’t have to strain to speak, but his voice still sounds as strong as ever. 

“You worry too much, I was always stronger than our old friend in our heyday,” a friendly jibe as golden hues glitter with mirth as they slide from Dan Heng’s cool jades back to you. Your hand slipping into his own, squeezing his fingers affectionately before he chuckles, weakly with effort from his wound, “is this your way of hinting my old age is catching up with me?” 

“Never,” comes your response with your own breathless chuckle before Dan Heng gently ushers you from the room. 

It feels like hours before, hours more as you accompany his unconscious form to his chambers and stay by your generals side while he rests.  

Busying yourself as you handle him carefully so as not to rouse while changing his dressings every so often and seeing to his comfort before unknowingly dozing yourself, finally succumbing to exhaustion. 

“I believe there are easier ways to get me undressed and alone here,” his voice bears a gravel it doesn’t often bear, starling you from a necessary but light slumber as it breaks the silence and you sit up from your seat at his bedside. Somewhat frantic as you move to sit on the edge of his mattress, the plush pillowtop dipping from his weight and your hand hovers over his shoulder to keep him still. 

“You shouldn’t move, Lady Bailu said even with her elixirs and expertise you need more rest.” 

“Nobody ever has to tell the dozing general he should rest twice,” chuckling but it bids rise to a coughing fit that leaves him hissing in pain and clutching over his mid abdomen. 

“Jing Yuan, please,” your voice wavers and it garners his attention despite the demanding throb of pain that pulses through his tired body. 

A weighted silence blankets between you both as you fuss over him more than usual. Fixing his pillows and adjusting his blanket after checking all of his bandages to make sure they won’t begin to stain with crimson.

Only stalling in your ministrations at his tender touch. Broad palm cupping your cheek affectionately, his touch still warm and that should fill you with some relief but it feels as if it only worsens the well of emotions that aches in your chest. Worry still lodged firmly within your sternum and from the placating gaze Jing Yuan fixes you with despite just regaining consciousness it must be evident from your own expression. 

The pad of his thumb telling of it as it swipes over a saline droplet that begins to roll down the swell of your cheek. 

“Dragon's tears are an invaluable medicine, don’t waste them on a stubborn old general like me,” his attempt at reassurance for sure, and it works to some extent as you lean into his touch, caressing the back of his hand as he cradles your cheek. 

Sniffling softly but a smile finds your lips before the brush against the heel of his palm in a chaste peck, more tears leaking freely that threatens to furrow Jing Yuan's brow; worried he’d accomplished the opposite of what he desired. 

“Consider it a unique administration of care then, general.” 

[megalony]

Did I Fall?

This is an Eddie Diaz imagine, requested by anon, I hope you all like it. Feedback is always amazing and boosts me to carry on.

Taglist: @lunaticspoem@sj-thefanthefan@hellsdragon@im-an-adult-ish@crazylittlethingg@allauraleigh@onceuponadetectivedemigod@ceres27@avyannadawn@sleepylunarwolf@coverupps@justagirlthatlovedtoread @musicistheway @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @luula @missdreamofendless @bradleybeachbabe @woderfulkawaii  @amberpanda99 @daggersquadphantom @marvel-and-chicago-fan @angryknightstatesmantrash @minjix @lyjen @kmc1989 @itsmytimetoodream @noonenuts @hiireadstuff

911 Masterlist

Summary: While out in the storm, (Y/n) gets struck by lightning and her husband, brother and family gather round to try and save her.

Enjoy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Are you ready baby?"

(Y/n) turned around so her back was facing the ladder and a smile crept onto her face when she realised how close her husband was standing behind her. She watched the way he clamped his hands down on the handrail of the ladder, pinning her in front of him with no escape.

He leaned forward, arching his bum out as his lips rolled together and his eyes darted down to her lips. Despite the rain clattering down around them, Eddie's vision focused in on those dark lips he was desperate to touch. His tongue darted out across his lower lip when he felt (Y/n) drag her hand across his jaw and tilt his chin up so their eyes were level again.

They were on the job. He couldn't have wandering eyes because they would lead to wandering hands and they promised to be professional if they were joined up on shifts together.

"I think so." (Y/n) tilted her head back and squinted up at the sky. Why did it have to be raining and thundering when they were on shift? Couldn't this weather have waited a few hours? Their shifts ended at midnight, the rain could have held off until then.

"Alright then, Mrs Diaz, here you go." His sultry voice sent shivers running up and down (Y/n)'s spine and her lips parted when he reached up for his helmet. He took it off and slumped it down on (Y/n)'s head instead. She had cracked her helmet earlier on in the day and if she was going up the ladder, Eddie wanted his wife to have a bit more protection. Just to be safe.

He slanted it on her head a little to annoy her and when he clipped the buckle onto the harness around her waist, he used it as leverage to tug her closer. Her hands clamped down on his shoulders and her waist bumped into his as he curved an arm around her middle.

Her eyes landed on the red cable clipped onto her waist that reached down to the winch at the bottom of the ladder. Safety first.

(Y/n) leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss against his lips, feeling the salt water rain down over Eddie's nose and drip down his lips. She sunk her teeth into his lower lip and gave a little tug which earned her a slap on the bum and quiet murmur of 'be professional' against her lips.

It was a good job the night was as dark as this with the rain morphing and disfiguring their image for the rest of the team below. The last thing they wanted was for anyone to say they weren't being professional. And they both knew how Evan hated them putting on a display when he was around. It had taken Evan a while to get used to the fact that his little sister was married to his best friend.

"Go get 'em cowgirl."

(Y/n) kissed the tip of Eddie's nose before she turned around and curled her fingers around the ladder.

Her eyes rolled and she supressed a smile when she felt his hand on her bum again before he reached his foot out and clicked the lock off the winch so the rope would extend.

Eddie kept his hands on the ladder and stayed arched forwards, keeping his eyes on his wife as she slowly ascended up the ladder. The plan was for (Y/n) to climb onto the balcony, evacuate the fifth floor and Evan and Bobby would go in through the lobby and make sure everyone got out. While Chimney and Hen were working with the hose, Eddie was operating the winch and standing by in case he had to follow up the ladder too.

It was hard to see anything through the thick downpour. The rain was so heavy that (Y/n) couldn't see the ladder in front of her with the torrential downpour that made Eddie's helmet jutter on her head and drop the rain down onto the tip of her nose.

Her lips were drenched, her lashes were fighting off the rain and every inch of her skin was starting to shake from the low temperature.

"Bloody rain," She muttered to herself as she reached the end of the ladder and took a quick glance around.

(Y/n) tilted her head over the side of the ladder and let herself look over the edge.

She found Bobby rather easily despite being high up near the fifth floor and she smiled. He had been a father to her and Evan since they first joined the team. Bobby and Evan were hanging back, they were waiting to guide everybody out and they needed Hen and Chimney to put some of the fire out first before they went in. (Y/n) nodded when she saw Bobby give her a thumbs up, the silent go ahead sign she needed so she could proceed into the building.

But her body tremored and she slumped forward and hunkered down when a horrid noise tore through the sky. Her eyes lifted and her head snapped up towards the sky but all she could see was thousands of white droplets raining down from the heavens. The sky was a misty blue mixed with swirls of black like a canvas with only a few swirls of clouds to be seen through the rain.

"Was that lightning?" (Y/n) curled her fingers around her radio and leaned her head down.

If that was lightning they needed to be careful or pull back. The truck was a magnet for lightning and electricity, they had already been down to the beach yesterday when lightning struck the sand. They didn't need it getting closer to this scene and causing problems.

Eddie straightened up and tilted his head up towards the sky before he looked back at his wife.

The sky looked unforgiving, full of darkness without a single glimmer of light to guide them tonight. It made the building look like a beacon in the sheet of blackness, shining a vibrant burgendy with melted orange flames flickering at the sides. Leaking brown ash clouds up into the night sky.

"Baby, do you need a hand?" Eddie gripped his radio and raised a brow, keeping his eyes on his wife. It wasn't strictly professional but Eddie hardly ever used (Y/n)'s name anymore, even on shift he was so used to using nicknames. No one on the team minded, as long as they weren't handsy with each other, nicknames didn't cause a problem.

"I don't kn-"

Lightning broke through the clouds, a true act of God right before their eyes and Eddie swore he could see a hand throwing the lightning bolt down at them like an act of vengeance.

Eddie heard her scream. It was the howl of a banshee that tore through his heart and set off an explosion in his chest.

His eyes snapped closed and a mimicking sound left his own lips when sparks flew from the ladder and seemed to set the truck alight. He couldn't keep hold of the ladder and the force sent him backwards until he was falling through the air. All the air burst out of Eddie's lungs when his back hit the ground and the jolt it sent through his system made him shake on the floor.

Oh God, he had broken a rib, he could feel it.

His eyes couldn't focus when he managed to open them and his arm bound around his chest as he rolled onto his left side with a guttural groan. His knees felt weak and his back burned when he tried to sit himself up and take a look around.

"What the fuck was that?" Evan's voice tore through the air and he reached his hand down for Eddie's hand so he could hoist him up to his feet.

Eddie shook his head to rid the static from his ears and the pounding pain in his head. He grabbed the back of his neck and tilted his head round to click his neck into place, but once he lifted his head and looked up, his body went rigid. All the blood drained down to his feet. His arms dropped at his sides. His jaw went slack and his pupils took over his chocolate eyes that couldn't look anywhere else but up in the sky.

Eddie didn't realise he was screaming until his lungs started to burn for oxygen and he felt lightheaded.

His hand reached out and he gave Evan a shove towards the truck, pointing and gasping for him to grab the winch. His wife was hurt. Evan's little sister was in peril. The girl Bobby thought of as his daughter was hanging in mid-air, lifeless.

The buckle clip was the only thing stopping (Y/n) from plummeting through the air and crashing down on the concrete below. It suspended her in the air, four stories high above them like an omen of death. Her legs and arms dangled limp and lifeless at her sides and when Eddie looked close enough, he could see them swaying in the breeze. Her head was snapped back enough that it looked like her neck had been broken.

The helmet Eddie had plonked on her head less than five minutes ago was now laid on the floor, most definitely cracked and probably broken just like (Y/n)'s helmet had been this morning.

"Lower her down! Get her down to me she's not moving!" Eddie stumbled through the rain, crashing his boots down into puddles that splashed up as high as his shoulders. He barged past Bobby and waved his hand out at Evan who was already on top of the truck, screaming as he started to lower the winch. Eddie ran until his chest was heaving and he was stood directly beneath his wife's suspended form.

"Hen we need a gurney! Chimney back up the ambulance let's go." Bobby shouted out as he waved his hands for them to hurry. They were now in the golden time zone and if they didn't move fast enough, they could lose (Y/n).

"Faster!"

As soon as (Y/n) started to sway and jutter as the red rope lowered her down, Eddie pushed up on his toes and stretched his arms high up into the rain to reach for her. His hand pressed between her shoulder blades and his other hand cupped the back of her thigh as Hen pushed a gurney directly beneath her.

"Unhook her." Eddie took (Y/n)'s weight when Bobby unclipped the buckle and he laid (Y/n) down and slid his hands from beneath her.

He ripped off his gloves and scrunched his fingers around her florescent jacket. Without thinking twice, Eddie wrenched the jacket apart and tore the zipper that wet flying through the air. He threw the loose sides apart and moved his hands to (Y/n)'s shirt which he had no problem tearing away like it was a tissue he was discarding.

It left (Y/n) in her crimson red bra and exposed her chest and stomach that were soaked. Rain continued to patter down on her skin like fingertips drumming out a beat but her body didn't react at all. No shivers, no spasms, no goosebumps or hairs standing up on end. Nothing.

Eddie's upper lip curled when he noticed red, bubbling streaks slithering across her right arm, up her shoulder and down over her chest like a horrible rash spreading like wildfire.

But it was her stomach that made bile rise in the back of his throat.

Her scar.

The scar she got from Masie's C-section six months ago. She had only come back to work little over two weeks ago after having Masie. (Y/n) shouldn't be laid here like this. That scar was a reminder that she had people counting on her. They had two kids waiting at home for them. Eddie couldn't be the only one to walk back through that door, he had to get (Y/n) through this and get her home to their kids. She couldn't leave them, not now, not like this.

"Baby… oh God, mi amor." Eddie cupped her face in his hands and kept her head and neck straight. Her skin felt lifeless. There was no colour, no heat, not a single muscle moving or twitching beneath his touch. His right hand moved down and his fingers pressed against her neck deep enough to try and feel for a pulse.

When he felt nothing, Eddie shifted his hand lower and pressed his palm down hard on her sternum. Her chest wasn't moving.

"(Y/n)! (Y/n), fuck- tell me she's breathing."

Evan jumped behind Hen and Eddie and fell into Bobby who held him up before he collapsed down onto his sister on the stretcher. His hands fought to grab Bobby's shoulders, unsure whether he was actually trying to hold Bobby or move him out the way.

"She's not breathing… I can't find a pulse we need to move!"

Evan screamed and pushed forward against Bobby who held him back. Evan was too emotional, he could barely see due to the tears streaming down his face and he was shaking from shock. At least Eddie was somewhat composed and was ready and able to look after (Y/n).

Hen placed the medic pack down beside (Y/n)'s left thigh and opened it up but before she could even attempt to grab the defibrilator, Eddie reached out first. He slapped her hand away and gave the bag a rough shove until it almost toppled off the side of the gurney.

"You really wanna send more electricity through my wife? Look at her she's drenched! You're not frying her to a crisp."

(Y/n) was covered in rain from head to toe and their suits weren't water proof. Now Eddie had ripped apart her clothes, she was getting consumed with water. Lightning had already shocked her heart once but if they tried to do it again when she was wet, they would be executing her with no chance of revival.

Eddie wouldn't let her do that to his wife.

"This is Captain Nash, we have a firefighter down. Repeat, firefighter down who has been struck by lightning. Requesting medic team on standby at Mercy hospital, we are on our way."

"Get her in I have to start CPR or I'm gonna lose her." Eddie all but growled until people started to listen and they helped him wheel the gurney up into the ambulance Chimney had backed right over to them.

As soon as the gurney was inside, Eddie climbed up onto the metal frame and shed his jacket like a second skin. Evan jumped up in the back along with Hen and they both slumped down into the seats opposite Eddie and Bobby hopped in the front with Chimney. The other station could finish up here and get the building evacuated and the fire put out. They had to protect one of their own and rush her to the hospital before they lost her.

"You are not allowed to do this. You hear me? Don't go anywhere, mi amor."

Eddie locked his fingers together, straightened his elbows and pressed his fists against the middle of (Y/n)'s chest. He gulped and choked when he started to push down on her chest.

He'd never done anything like this on one of his own family before. He'd never given CPR to his wife.

Why did it have to be (Y/n)? Why didn't Eddie go up the ladder instead of her?

(Y/n) couldn't die.

She couldn't die here and now. Not when the whole team was here to bring her back and Eddie, Evan and Bobby would give their souls to the devil if it would bring (Y/n) back. She wasn't allowed to leave them, there was no way Evan or Eddie could cope in a life without (Y/n).

Eddie stopped his compressions when he reached thirty and slumped over the stretcher to reach into one of the drawers opposite. He didn't give Hen the chance to help and when she tried to talk, Eddie's firm expression told her not to even try. She watched Eddie place the air bag over (Y/n)'s mouth and nose and manually squeeze two breaths past her lips before he put the mask down and continued his compressions.

Evan lowered his eyes down to the gurney and reached out to curl both his trembling hands around his sister's limp hand. Her skin felt like rubber against his touch, taut and cold and lifeless and it made Evan choke. He pulled her hand to press his lips against the back of her knuckles and his blurry vision zoomed in on her eyes.

He couldn't look anywhere else.

Her shirt was ripped open, exposing her chest which wasn't a sight Evan wanted to see and he truly didn't want to watch his brother in law press down on his sister's chest so hard it looked like he was going to crack through her ribs. And Evan couldn't look at (Y/n)'s face. Not when she wasn't moving, breathing, twitching or even opening her eyes.

Tremors rattled through Eddie's chest as he tried to keep himself calm. He could feel the rain and sweat rolling down his skin, sinking beneath the collar of his shirt, beneath his arms and even through his trousers. His skin was flushed red and radiating heat despite the cold night air and goosebumps prickled over his arms as his numb fingers continued to press down into his wife's chest deep enough to feel her ribs creaking beneath his hands.

Hen silently leaned over and found some towels and flannels from a drawer. She started to wipe the cloths over (Y/n)'s chest in frantic motions to clear up as much of the water as possible. CPR wasn't going to be enough. Her heart had been shocked, she would need another shock to get it going again and soon.

She clipped a monitor onto (Y/n)'s finger and grabbed the white plastic sticker, planting it down firmly in the middle of (Y/n)'s chest before she patted Eddie's shoulder.

"Stand clear."

Spit rolled down the corner of Eddie's mouth and he heaved each breath until stars danced across his vision. He let go of (Y/n)'s chest and took a step back while Evan dropped her head and braced his hands on his knees. Evan pressed his back up against the wall and closed his eyes.

Both men winced and made gurgling, horrified sounds when the shock ignited through (Y/n)'s chest and arched her back up from the stretcher before she flopped back down; lifeless.

"Go again." Evan wiped his sleeve against his eyes before he slammed his hand down on the gurney. They had to do it again, she needed another shock. Her heart wasn't beating, the monitor was flatlining.

"No. Her heart won't stand much more. Starting compressions until we get to the hospital." Eddie braced one hand on the roof and the other on the stretched before he swung his leg over and climbed up. His knees clamped down into (Y/n)'s damp legs and he sank back onto her thighs, with a grimace. He wasn't used to doing this in such a panicked, horrid situation.

They couldn't risk shocking her heart more than necessary or else it would give out completely. She had already endured a violent shock that had likely affected her heart, lungs and probably her liver too. More shocks would only crucify her heart and ensure she was dead.

Eddie started compressions again, blinking away the tears that dripped down onto (Y/n)'s cheeks as he started to growl and gasp each time he pushed down.

He didn't feel the ambulance rolling to a stop until the back doors swung wide open and he tilted his head over his shoulder. Locking eyes with Bobby whose heart visibly dropped to his stomach when he saw that they hadn't managed to get her rhythm back again.

He and Chimney tried to be careful when they lowered the gurney down to the floor and Evan kept tight hold of (Y/n)'s hand, pulling her arm until it was pinned across his chest. He kissed the back of her hand repeatedly, freely crying as he and Hen followed them all inside.

As soon as they were inside the doors of the ambulance entrance to the hospital, Eddie held his hand out to get them to stop. He clenched his hands down on the gurney beside (Y/n)'s shoulders and climbed over the side to jump back down to his feet.

"Go again. Everybody stand clear."

On Eddie's word, Hen set the defibrilator up again and everyone held their breaths and watched the jolt rush through (Y/n)'s chest.

No one knew who made a sound when her heartbeat suddenly came back.

"I've got a pulse… but she's still not breathing. I need to intubate." Eddie pressed his palm against (Y/n)'s chest but she still wasn't breathing. Her heart wouldn't last long if she wasn't taking in any oxygen.

"We can-"

"Get the Hell off my wife! I'm intubating."

His arm flung out to the right and slapped into whichever nurse tried to pull him back. He wasn't having anyone else bustle in and waste more time. (Y/n) hated hospitals and she was his wife. Eddie was the one she trusted the most to look after her when she wasn't well so he was going to be the one to intubate her and get her breathing.

Everyone stood silent as Eddie rummaged in the medic bag Hen had left on the side of the gurney.

He cupped (Y/n)'s chin, brushing his thumb across her lower lip as he tilted her head back and wedged a tongue clamp into her mouth. He held his free hand out, keeping his eyes focused on (Y/n)'s parted lips and he clicked his fingers until someone placed an intubation tube between his fingers. The thin, clear tube slid easily down (Y/n)'s throat and as swift as the lightning that hit her, Eddie attached the air bag on the end.

He finally let a nurse get close enough to start squeezing the bag to give (Y/n) each breath until they could get her on a ventilator.

"What have we got?"

"(Y/n) Diaz, female, twenty-two, struck by lightning."

Eddie leaned to the right and suddenly took Bobby's wrist in his hand so he could check Bobby's watch. His eyes then raked down to his own watch, squinting to see through the broken glass of his watch.

"She's had no pulse for three minutes and seventeen seconds," Eddie could barely hear himself huff but those times rattled around in his head. His watch had broken when he fell off the truck and that had roughly been the exact time (Y/n) stopped breathing, give or take a few seconds. It was the closest estimate they had and it made Eddie want to be sick. He didn't want to know the exact amount of time his wife's heart had given out on him.

Eddie ran his fingers through his hair and tugged so harshly he winced and felt a few loose hairs become stuck between his fingers. What were they going to do? How were they going to take care of his wife? What did someone do for a lightning strike? Did people usually survive this kind of thing- had this ever happened before?

"She's allergic to naproxen." Bobby clamped his hands down on his hips as he watched them barely nod along with him.

"We'll take her from here," One of the nurses placed a hand on Eddie's shoulder, but she let him lean down and hastily kiss her temple.

"No, no please-"

"Buck come on, they'll look after her."

A wave of hurt washed over Evan's face and torrential tears flushed his face when Bobby held his biceps to pin him back. He didn't want them to take his sister away. If she lost her rhythm again and they didn't bring her back, that would be it. Evan wouldn't get a chance to talk to her or tell her how much he loved her. He wouldn't be able to say goodbye.

Bobby wrapped his arms around Evan and pulled him back, letting Evan press into his shoulder and start to gasp for breath. "Take care of her."

"We'll do our best."

"Do more!"

Eddie didn't want their best. He wanted everything possible and more to be done to look after his wife. He wanted to go with her and hold her hand and oversee what they were doing to make sure they did whatever they could. Eddie wanted to make a deal with the devil to save her if he could.

No one stopped Eddie when he turned around and pummelled his fists into the wall. He kept going until a dint started to form in the plaster and his knuckles split, spraying blood across the magnolia wall while a roaring scream erupted from his lips.

He couldn't lose her.

***

"Do you want to take a break, maybe go and get a drink?" Athena tentatively laid a hand down on Bobby's shoulder as she leaned against his chair. Her head tilted down so she could kiss the top of his head and her other hand moved to hold his other shoulder, but it was as if he didn't even register her touch.

He had been sat here all night, rosary beads clenched between his fingers and pressed against his lips. He was chanting something so quiet Athena couldn't be sure whether it was a prayer or a memory he was trying to retell to himself.

"No, thank you."

Bobby didn't bother to look up as he spoke, but he did finally open his eyes that instantly locked onto (Y/n).

"You need to rest. When was the last time you ate?"

"I don't remember." He wasn't sure what day it was. He didn't know if he had been sitting here all night, all day or for a whole week. All Bobby knew was that if he left and something happened, he would never forgive himself. This was his child laid here, someone he thought of as closely as his own kin and he couldn't go anywhere.

"Bobby…" That tone of voice made him sigh, but not in a horrid kind of way.

He leaned his head back into Athena's chest and dropped his hands down to his lap. He rolled the rosary along his leg but his eyes still wouldn't move away from (Y/n).

"She's my kid," He could feel his lower lip wobbling and his voice came out barely more than a quiet whisper. "She said that… that she thinks of me as her dad. She wants Masie to be my grandkid, how can I- how can I go when she might die?"

How could he leave her now?

(Y/n) told Bobby a few months ago that she thought of him as her dad, that she wished somehow, that it could be possible. He had always let Evan call him pops and more and more, Bobby acted like a father to the siblings whether they were on shift or not. They came over to his house, they went out for meals together and spoke through problems and dealt with their problems together.

When she and Eddie had Masie, (Y/n) asked Bobby to be her grandad because her parents weren't going to be involved. She thought of Bobby and Athena as her parents.

They couldn't go anywhere when she might die. If the worst was to happen, Bobby wanted to be right by (Y/n)'s side to comfort her and ease her through the transition. He wanted to hold her hand and kiss her goodbye and tell her he would keep her in his thoughts every single day. And that he would look after Evan and Eddie and Chris and Masie.

Bobby couldn't leave.

He didn't notice Athena move one hand from his shoulder to pinch the bridge of her nose. She didn't cry often. Her job hardened her exterior and made it hard to express much of anything, even joy. But all those years of experience did nothing to stop the tears from falling right now.

She had two children of her own, but when she married Bobby, she gained another two. Losing (Y/n) would feel the same as losing May and it would break Evan and Bobby completely.

"We're not leaving, okay? Do you think she would let you sit and wither away in this chair? She has some special visitors coming up so you can let me take you for some food, then we will come right back."

There was no use in arguing, Bobby knew this and he figured Eddie and Evan would want some time alone with (Y/n). They had been gracious enough to never comment on how long Bobby stayed for and they seemed grateful for his company. But he knew as much as they were thankful he stuck around, they both needed some time alone. She was Evan's little sister, he needed some time to talk to her and beg her to be okay. And she was Eddie's wife, that certainly qualified him some time to be alone with her and sit vigil by her bedside.

He figured the special visitor might be Maddie and Chimney.

Bobby pushed up from the chair and rested his hand over (Y/n)'s. He forced himself to smile as he leaned over her and kissed her temple, whispering a quiet 'I'll be back soon' before he followed Athena out.

They didn't walk far before Athena pressed her hand into Bobby's chest and stopped him just as a few people rounded the corner.

"Are you sure about this?" Athena looked across at Eddie when he rounded the corner with Chris in front of him and Masie in his arms.

His hand moved up to cradle the back of Masie's head and he pressed his lips to her temple, brushing his nose against the little wisps of hazel brown hair tufting along her head. Eddie hitched her higher against his chest, relishing in the weight she applied to his chest like a calming weighted blanket easing away his anxiety and preventing a panic attack.

But it was Chris his eyes kept going back to. The little boy was walking determinedly in front of him, keeping a slow pace in case they had to stop and wait for any nurses to walk past. Kids weren't allowed in the ICU, but that wasn't going to stop them. Chris wanted to see (Y/n) and Eddie couldn't persuade him otherwise, so he gave up.

"Yeah, we are. Could you watch Masie for a while… I don't wanna take her in with us,"

"Sure." Bobby wasn't sure whether it was the look Athena gave Eddie that made him ask or whether he truly didn't want to take Masie in with them. But Bobby answered immediately and he could feel his heart lifting in his chest when he looked at the six-month-old.

This was probably a diversion, a tactic to get Bobby to leave (Y/n)'s side and try to recooperate before he went back in. And he would accept this because he could do (Y/n) a favour and watch over Masie until she was better again.

"Go to grandad," Eddie cooed quietly against her temple as he eased her into Bobby's arms where she happily cuddled up and started to pull on his shirt.

He watched them disappear down the corridor before he opened the door and let Chris walk in ahead of him. He had prepared Chris for what he was going to see. (Y/n) wasn't going to be alert, responsive or able to communicate with him. She would effectively be asleep with monitoring stickers on her chest, a breathing tube down her throat and wires and tubes stuck beneath the covers into her body.

Eddie was surprised that Chris didn't seem affected when they walked in. He moved over to the chair Eddie knew Bobby had been in all night and sank himself down and let his crutches drop to the floor.

"Can mum hear me?"

Chris had taken to referring to (Y/n) as his mum since she had been in his life for the last four years. He couldn't remember much about Shannon, she hadn't been in his life since he was four and a half but (Y/n) had been there since he was five. She was all Chris knew and he loved her and thought of her as his real mum.

"I don't know, I hope so. The doctor said talking can help." A big part of Eddie hoped that (Y/n) could hear them, however deep her subconscious had been hidden away. He hoped she could hear them tell her how much they loved her and how badly they needed her back.

Eddie leaned against the window and folded his arms over his chest, staying in the background to give Chris some space.

"Mum, it's me. Uncle Buck said you'll wake up soon," He leaned forward, flopped his elbows onto the mattress and moved around until he could hold (Y/n)'s hand. "I want you to wake up soon… dad will look after you and make you better."

Eddie tilted his head back into the window and scrunched up his nose while he wiped his eyes. He didn't want to burst out crying and upset or worry Chris and make this harder for him. But Eddie didn't know if (Y/n) was going to wake up. He had no idea if she was ever coming off this ventilator, if he would hear her voice and kiss her lips and see her get out of that bed.

The unknown made Eddie afraid. He didn't do well being alone. He couldn't go back to being a single dad. He couldn't bring up two kids on his own. He hadn't been there for the first part of Chris's life and Eddie was doing his best to be more present in Chris's life and be there for all of Masie's. He wasn't bringing them both up without (Y/n).

"You'll be okay. I love you."

Eddie's shoulders quaked and he brought his hands up to smother his face, forcing himself not to breathe or make a single sound. He didn't want to gasp for breath or scream or cry out but he didn't know what to do with himself. He could feel a cry bubbling up and gurgling at the back of his throat.

Why hadn't it been him that went up the ladder?

***

"She's breathing fine without the ventilator now, all her vitals seem good. We just need to wait and see if she will come out of the coma okay."

How long would they have to wait? How long did they have before they knew if she was ever going to wake up? What would happen if she woke up and she couldn't speak or move or even remember any of them? What if she was changed, somehow, permanently, from this?

Eddie wouldn't be able to go through life if one of those things turned out to be true.

"Y-you're rather heavy baby… you know that?"

A quiet grumble left Eddie's lips and his eyes twitched behind his eyelids while he nuzzled his head further down and tried to keep his mind in a dreary state of sleep. But once those words- and that lullaby voice, registered in Eddie's ears, his eyes shot open and his head snapped up so fast he cracked his neck.

His hands planted down on either side of the bed and he bolted to sit up, swaying back and forth when the blood drained from his head and he couldn't see straight.

He was imagining things. He was hearing voices. He had to be. That was a voice Eddie told himself he was never going to hear again. A voice he saved for when he closed his eyes and cried until he finally blacked out, listening to that voice in his memories.

His heart started to pound against his ribs like it was trying to bruise his chest and he could barely see when tears flooded his face.

(Y/n) was awake.

She was trying to blink enough to clear her blurry vision and she hummed quietly to try and clear her throat that felt croaky and dry and hoarse and scratched. A tremble set in down her arm when she tried to curl and bend her fingers and her head hurt when she turned to see who was clenching her hand so tightly the blood couldn't reach her fingertips.

Bobby was holding her hand. Evan had his feet propped up against hers as he slouched down in the other chair. Eddie had been laid on the bed with her and had shuffled in his sleep until his head was on her chest and his arm had been draped around her waist.

"Oh my God."

Before she knew what was happening, (Y/n) gasped and closed her eyes when Eddie's hands moved to cup her face and his lips planted down on hers. Thousands of kisses fluttered against her lips as his thumbs rapidly brushed across her cheeks and his arms squeezed into her shoulders to pin her beneath him.

"You're awake, you're awake," Was the only thing Eddie could fathom to say on repeat, over and over against her lips he was going to bruise.

When (Y/n) managed to squeeze Bobby's hand, she felt him push Evan's legs off the bed to jolt him awake before all of them were leaning over her. Eddie pulled back enough for Bobby to lean down and kiss her temple and she felt Evan grab her hand and drag her arm up until the back of her hand was pressed up against his cheek. He kissed her wrist while Eddie leaned forward and pressed his temple down into her shoulder to try and stop himself from blacking out.

"Did I fall?" (Y/n)'s quiet, meek voice took them all by surprise and for a few seconds, none of them could find an answer.

Bobby perched down on the side of the bed while Evan scraped his chair along the floor until his knees were wedged under the bed frame and he could lean his head near her arm. And when Eddie pulled up to hover over her, despite the tears staining his face, he was smiling.

"No, sweetheart, you got struck by lightning." Bobby kept tight hold over her hand and smoothed his free hand up and down her arm, minding the rosary beads he still had curled around his fingers and tangled over his wrist.

It was almost endearing to see the look of wonder and surprise that pooled within (Y/n)'s eyes and how her lips parted in a round shape of shock.

"Where's Chris?" Her words took Eddie by surprise as she tilted her head forward to press her temple against his and nudge his nose.

"Maddie took him to school, mi amor. Why?"

"I thought I heard his voice…" (Y/n) trailed off and closed her eyes as a smile graced her lips. She pecked Eddie's lips and squeezed Evan and Bobby's hands. It was the strangest feeling, like she was waking up from a very lucid dream that was now fading right before her eyes. (Y/n) had heard so many voices while she had been asleep and some of them were ringing in the back of her head.

She guessed she hadn't really heard Chris after all, he must have been playing on her mind as she recovered and woke up.

But (Y/n) could of sworn she heard Chris.

[morbidology]

In 2004, Ameneh Bahrami was a 24-year-old university student in Tehran, pursuing a degree in electronics. Her life took a tragic turn when Majid Movahedi, a fellow student whose romantic advances she had repeatedly rejected, attacked her with sulfuric acid.

The attack, which occurred in broad daylight, caused catastrophic injuries, leaving her face disfigured and her vision severely impaired.

Following the attack, Ameneh endured numerous surgeries in Iran and Europe, facing immense physical and emotional pain. Her struggle for justice began as she sought retribution against her attacker through Iran's legal system. Under Islamic law, Ameneh demanded Qisas, or retributive justice, which would allow her to seek an eye-for-an-eye punishment by having acid dropped into Movahedi's eyes.

After years of legal battles, in 2008, an Iranian court ruled in favor of Ameneh's request for Qisas, sentencing Movahedi to be blinded with acid. However, in a surprising and profound act of mercy, Ameneh chose to forgive her attacker at the last moment.

In 2011, just before the sentence was to be carried out, she publicly announced her decision to pardon Movahedi. Ameneh Bahrami's story did not end with her act of forgiveness. She continued to raise awareness about acid attacks and advocate for the rights of victims.

Her memoir, "Eye for an Eye," provides a detailed account of her harrowing experience and her journey towards recovery and forgiveness. Through her advocacy, she has worked to bring attention to the prevalence of acid violence and the need for stricter laws to protect women.

[prying-pandora666]

Who is Izumi’s Mom? Copium Edition

So we all know that Bryke have refused to confirm who Izumi’s mother is. Even when they released family trees, the conspicuously left Izumi’s mom blank.

So incredibly frustrating!

So since Bryke insists on baiting us and not giving us closure, here’s a dose of copium for all shippers.

First off! Izumi’s name means “spring fountain”. Remember that.

Secondly, she looks like this:

REASONS WHY YOUR SHIP OF CHOICE COULD STILL MAKE SENSE!

Mai - She looks the most like Izumi. She canonically dated Zuko (until they broke up AGAIN). The former comics’ writer believes they will make up. She and Zuko have a history surrounding fountains. Even with all the drama, she remains the most likely candidate.

Katara - It should be self explanatory why a child named “fountain”, as in water, may be a reference to the one water bender Zuko dueled with most. The two of them clearly developed a connection by the end of the show, and Katara once even offered to heal Zuko’s scar. This one is all but debunked due to Kataang being canon, but it’s still nice to dream! And no one can deny they look great together.

Jin - Zuko and Jin shared lovely chemistry on their one date. Zuko was even willing to risk getting outed as a firebender in the Earth Kingdom and imprisoned, just to make her smile. This scene is also significant because it involved a fountain. Considering the bulk of Zuko’s redemption happened in the EK and the plot continued into the comics dealing with the blended FN/EK colonies, I can see why this would be a good thematic choice.

Toph - A rarer pair but one that one storyboard artist snuck in a reference for! Toph and Zuko have a lot in common. They both come from families of status that abused them for their failure to conform. Toph was born blind while Zuko has a disfiguring facial scar that realistically should affect both his vision and his hearing to an extent. Toph also has a friendship with uncle Iroh and was the first member of the Gaang to successfully understand and comfort Zuko as well as she did. Some point out that Zuko’s daughter Izumi has vision problems (like Toph) while Toph’s daughter Lin has a facial scar (like Zuko). The name Kanto, the alleged father of Lin, can also be written with the characters for “crown capital” so some speculate it’s an alias for Zuko. Spring fountain could be a reference both to the Earth element’s season of spring as well as to a volcano, which is like a fountain combining fire and earth. This scene is the most telling, with two doves representing Zuko and Toph. When Zuko walks away from Toph, the two doves kiss, signifying that perhaps a romance between them is destined for the future. Luckily, Toph knows how to listen and wait. Everything that applies to Jin about making peace with the EK applies even more to Toph since she’s actually from a noble house.

Suki - A bit of a wild card since she’s dating Sokka! But the comics showed Zuko and Suki getting much closer. When no one else was on Zuko’s side during the conflict in the colonies, and even Mai dumped him over his desperate visits to Ozai, Suki stayed by Zuko’s side. She never lost faith in him and tried her best to be there for him. The two have clearly developed a close friendship and bond of trust. Some even see it as romantic, which spells bad news for our boy Sokka. However, seeing as the book Legacy implies Sokka and Suki broke up, perhaps Zuki shippers have more evidence to stand on than originally thought! Everything that applies to Jin about making peace with the EK would also apply, since Suki is also from the EK. Perhaps she could fan the flames of his passion?

Sokka - Okay we all know it’s not going to happen but they’re really cute and I get it. The fountain claim applies to Sokka same as it does Katara! Hey there’s always a chance! Korrasami proved that!

Ty Lee - Not a lot to go off here but it’s undeniable that the two have a weird, unspoken tension. Why is Zuko quietly beefing with his sister’s bff? It’s never explained. Something is definitely going on there! We just don’t know what it is. In the comics, Zuko does lament not playing with Ty Lee and the other girls more as a kid.

Azula - I mean… okay I get it. The features that Izumi has in common with Mai, she also has in common with Zuko. So it’s not impossible to see why some would think she looks like Azula too. But can we please not make ATLA into Game of Thrones? This certainly isn’t helping:

Jet - He’s dead now so it’s not possible. But did Jet actually have a thing for Zuko? You know… it was really unclear.

[aaaaaaallljffourrhodri]

Thanks to @fungifanart for giving me the ok to use the promt

Yuu loved his friends they were rowdy sometimes sure but that didn't stop them for being friends.

Yuu loved his friends even when they were rude with him.

Yuu loved his friends even when they called him out for having no magic

Yuu loved his friends even when they freeloaded at his dorm

Yuu loved Grim even if he would exchange Yuu's soul for some tuna

Yuu... didn't know if he actually loved his friends anymore.

It was draining for him to deal with them.

Time passed and Yuu barely couldn't stand them anymore.

Yuu was tired to be used over and over and over AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVE-

By the headmage... or for his friends... even willing to give up his living place for their well being. But if that was true why were the photo's of them taken by the ghost camera moving less and less everyday... maybe... just maybe he could...

The first photo Yuu ever took was the first one to come alive. And as he took it out of the photo album 3 of the five people jumped out of the photo. Ace, Deuce and Grim the only two remaining in the figure were Yuu himself and Crowley.

"Yuu... what's wrong? Why are you crying?" Yuu didn't even notice he was crying.

"Hey! I can't have a sad henchman cmon smile!" Said the Grim

"Prefect don't cry... you know that crying is lame when you smile it's better!"

One by one copies of their so called friends jumped out of the photos.

They were all... so nice to Yuu... Yuu wanted to be never apart from them.

Grim was preoccupied. The Prefect exited less and less put of his room nor to lesson. The whole dorm wrapped in a inky smell. Grim sensitive nose couldn't andle it. He himself was passing more and more night at other dorms than his own.

Grim looked around in class: their henchman wasn't in class... again.

Grim was terrified of Yuu... everyone was...

As Grim and the first year group (minus Yuu) was walking to Sam store they saw the prefect searching from something.

"Prefect long time no see!" Said Epel approaching Yuu. Epel was scared when he saw the look the prefect gave him "oh hi Epel as I was saying last night-"

"Last night? What do you mean last night?" The realisation hit Yuu in the face he was talking to the wrong Epel.

Epel backed away as the magicless boy began to laugh holding his head left eye twitching while looking around in desperation. Only to run away minutes later.

The other first year's whatced the scene unfold looking lost and with a newly gained fear of the magicless prefect.

Yuu returned to his room to his RƏaŁ friends he looked happily around the room recognising the now disfigured silhouette of Vil and Rook. He couldn't here anything as the ringing in his hears got louder and his vision blurry...

A crazed laugh sounded trough the whole campus.

Riddle Roseheart was going to the library to do a quick rewiev of alchemy for the test that was happening the day after. When the laugh reached his ears. He felt goosebumps.

Trein was displeased and worried. The prefect didn't show up to class anymore. He needed to confront the prefect about this!

As he came to the door of Ramshackle Lucius meowed (Trein be carefull there is something wrong with this place) opening the door Trein found sight of no one only a black liquid dripped infront of him. Noticing the familiar liquid, Trein ran back out before calling the professor emergency line.

"Trein I swear if this is another of your lectures about hygiene I'm closing this call." Said Crewel sounding annoyed "Not this time I need all of Yuu at Ramshackle now!" Trein closed the call.

After a while the professors arrived (and Sam too) "Trein what's happening why call us at the pup's dorm!" Asked Crewel amused "Come after me" the old history teacher said firmly

After that event, even the staff was afraid of Yuu.

Idia had never found a blot concentration bigger than ramshackle dorm. So much blot that it was scary. Even if the blot couldn't make the prefect go overblot it still affected his behaviour and healt. It was also strange how all of the blot came from an objected that didn't produce blot.

The prefect was taken by S.T.Y.K.S in a cage... like a beast without reason.

The prefect was not himself anymore.

The real prefect was living in an idilliac world were everyone was always nice with him and nothing did go wrong. Then he noticed something...

Wasn't Grim tail pitchforked? Why is it normal? The world started spinning around when suddenly Yuu found himself locked in a cage with cushion walls... was he? In an asylum?

What had happened? Where did all of his friends go... then he started to remember...

That day after he met Epel, the pictures stopped moving. No more of his friends were there... only distorted figures of them. After that, the memories were a fuzzy mess. All the good things that happened... was it all a sick dream? What was he doing in the real world while dreaming of such perfect place.

Black tears streamed down his face as he started to call for somebody... anybody...

A figure appeared at the door of the cell. Idia Shroud. The look in his face was full of dread and esitation, but he still entered the cell.

"Yuu... how are you feeling?" "Idia, why am I here? I don't know where I am. I'm scared. What's happening?"

Idia expression softened before running towards the prefect, hugging him: "Yuu I'm so glad you're back... the others are also gonna be so happy..."

Little did Yuu know that no one except the shroud brothers would see him as before for the others. He would be from that moment the human who turned in a beast. Yuu wasn't told that he had MURDERED a student during his beast like state... Idia covered it up... Yuu would live from that moment encased in a piercing depressing reality in eternity searching that idilliac word he once lived in...

From that moment Yuu would fear to death the ghost camera and the dangers that come with it.

[causeimhappinesss]

His baby mama, part 1 (Corey Cunningham x reader)

Plot: Corey Cunningham gets his girlfriend pregnant. But since he's too scared of his mom, he doesn't tell her and doesn't fully take his responsibilities. Because of this, the reader breaks up with him, but… Did he really forget about her?

Pairing: Corey Cunningham x reader

Warning: stalking bitch (Corey), pregnancy(?)

Disclaimer: English isn't my native language (I'm french), so you can correct me if you spot some mistakes :) + it’s gonna be a short story, so don’t seek a full development as you would in a novel + read my author's notes at the end

PART 2

---

“Are you sure? Maybe it’s a mistake, maybe the test isn’t working…”

“Corey, I took a blood test. I’m pregnant.”

Your boyfriend’s face decomposes before your eyes. Corey stands there, his shoulders hunched under the yellowish light of the bedside lamp. Fear and indecision disfigure his usually more serene face.

“It’s too soon for us to be parents,” he replies, his trembling voice betraying his dismay. “We’ve only been together a year, and my mother… If she finds out about this, she’ll kill me.”

You watch him, your throat tight and your heart beating wildly.

“I didn’t choose this, Corey. I’m under birth control, I’m taking all my pills, you know that. But now it’s done. Maybe… Maybe it was meant to be.”

Your hands instinctively rest on your belly, a natural protection against the uncertainty of the moment. You’ve just found out about your two-month pregnancy, only the day before. Why weren’t you worried before you missed your periods? For the simple reason that you’ve never had a regular cycle, due to the stress you’ve been under all your life.

He swallows loudly and drifts his eyes elsewhere to avoid your gaze. Obviously.

“What if… What if we thought about abortion? The money I earn will go to my engineering program…” he murmurs, almost ashamed. Yet you know very well I might not be accepted in any university, given his criminal record, even if it was an accident.

The room seems to shrink around you, the walls lined with old floral wallpaper absorbing every word like a secret to be buried. Actually, this conversation was draining all your energy and you felt like it was burying you alive.

“What about the accident with Jeremy? You think that’s just going to vanish from my life? This town… They hate me. And with a baby, they’ll target you when our relationship will be exposed.”

As his voice breaks, he remains unable to finish his sentence.

The air between you becomes electric, charged with unspoken words. Your fists clench to hold back the trembling of your hands, as do your jaws. Tears burn your eyes and fog your vision. Your heart beats painfully. His words feel like a stab in the chest.

“Then go away!”

The words spurt out, sharp and irrevocable. You breathe hard, your lungs struggling against the dense air of the room. He frowns, his eyes on you, in which a glimmer of distress gleams.

“If you can’t handle it, get out! Get out!” you insist in a sharp tone.

His eyes cloud over with tears and sparkle with pain, as if he’s looking for something on your face… Perhaps a retraction on your part? A final confirmation for him to leave without looking back? He seems to be looking for something in your face, a reason to stay or perhaps permission to leave. But he finds nothing, just a reflection of his own distress.

Corey takes one step, then another, moving slowly toward the door. Each movement is heavy, as if he’s carrying the full weight of his choices and fears on his shoulders. He places his hand on the handle, his white knuckles betraying the strength of his grip.

“I…” he begins, but his voice is lost in an inaudible whisper.

With one last look, a mixture of apology and regret, he opens the door. The creak of the hinges seems to underline the finality of the moment. You stand still, staring at the empty space he’s left behind. The door slams behind Corey, a dry, final sound, bringing in the smell of impending rain this October 2021.

If only he could stand up to his crazy mother Joan. If only he could gain confidence in himself! If only he could understand that he was betraying you! After all, right from the start, you’d always opened the door of your house to him so he wouldn’t have to go back to his mother and hear her screaming, belittling him, even slapping him at times. You were the only woman in all of Haddonfield who agreed to give him a chance after the accident, even though you knew about the child’s death. You never judged him. You gave him all the love he needed, building a relationship of trust and pure love. True love.

Yet he’s just proved to you that he’s not worthy. Like father, like son, after all, since his father abandoned his mother when she was pregnant with him.

And as long as he doesn’t rebel and become a real man, no longer a scared teenager, he won’t move on with his life, you were certain. You, however, couldn’t stay stuck at this dead end.

Alone in the silence that followed, you closed your eyes, finally allowing your suppressed emotions to rise to the surface. Silent tears roll down your cheeks, each a promise of struggle and resilience. You breathe deeply, smelling the familiar scent of your great aunt’s house, mingled with the fresher scent of the rain to come. Here, in this house that is now yours, you will find the strength to face what lies ahead. Alone, but free.

*

In the weeks that follow, Corey tries to get back to you with numerous messages and calls, which you reject every time, but also by coming to your house. You never open the door for him. And as soon as you spot him in the town, in the stores, you make sure you avoid him. Better still, you’ve changed garage for your car repairs. In any case, none of his messages or voicemails indicate that he will assume his paternity, oh no. He wants you to understand his point of view. Like a little boy, he’s terrified. He doesn’t want you to stay mad.

As the months go by, his texts become rarer and rarer, until you don’t receive them anymore. From time to time, however, you find a wad of $100 bills in your mailbox, in an envelope signed “C.C.”.

You face your pregnancy and the birth of your child alone, without a father. Yet your few friends are there for you, and when your parents can, they visit you in Haddonfield. When the baby is born, you hesitate, but decide to leave an envelope with the baby’s photo and her name in your mailbox, knowing full well that Corey will pick it up. Did you do this to make him take responsibility? Out of simple kindness so he knows your daughter’s name and what she looks like as a newborn? Perhaps.

Again, the months go by and your daughter is only a few months old. Thanks to a friend, you learn that Corey has found love again in the arms of... Allyson, Laurie Strode’s granddaughter. The news hurts and stabs you in the heart. Deep down, maybe you were hoping he’d come back and finally become a real dad, not just a biological father. Especially since the older your daughter gets, the more she looks like him, with her natural kind of pout, her silky brown curls with golden highlights. Sometimes, she even seems to have her father’s eyes.

What you don’t know is that Corey never completely abandoned you.

He spied on you.

Over and over again.

You became his obsession, despite your many rejections during your pregnancy.

*

The room is plunged into darkness, subdued by half-closed shutters. Only a trickle of light from the street sneaks in through the slits. You gently cradle your daughter, her cries gradually subsiding under the effect of your comforting caresses. Her steady, soothing breath calms you, as you lay her gently in bed. An exhausted sigh escapes your lips, then you let yourself fall onto your own bed, letting fatigue fall on you like a leaden screed. Your heavy eyelids barely lift to glance at the clock, which is blinking mercilessly: 3:30 a.m. How long has it been since you’ve had a decent night’s sleep? You don’t even remember, but the dark circles under your eyes testify to the many nights of sleep cut short and the incessant preoccupations flooding into your brain. Being a single mom was hard as hell.

As you drift off to sleep, reality suddenly catches up with you. You jerk open your eyes, your heart pounding in your chest like a panicked drum. A man stands over the cradle, frozen in the half-light like a shadow, a sleep paralysis demon. He wears blood-stained overalls, his face hidden behind a white mask devoid of human expression…

Michael Myers.

Your eyes widen. Your breath freezes in your throat. A shiver of fear runs down your spine. You panic, but you force yourself to remain calm so as not to wake your sleeping daughter a few yards away. Without taking time to think, you try to throw yourself on top of your daughter, whom you try to press to your chest. Faster than you, the man pushes you away and presses his body against yours, still on the bed. His hands slip around your neck, ready to strangle you… One of the serial killer’s habits, as everyone knows, when he’s not stabbing his victims with a kitchen knife.

You try to scream, to fight against his relentless grip. Your throat tightens, unable to produce the slightest sound. Panic takes hold of you, a burning sensation that consumes every part of your being. Gradually, your strength leaves you. Suddenly, a wave of familiarity washes over you, a fragrance that takes you back to distant memories, forgotten moments of happiness. The sweetness of this reminiscence is swept away by the implacable terror of the present situation.

You try to gather your thoughts, to find a way to free yourself from the grip of this stranger who holds you prisoner in your own bed. Before you can articulate a single word, a brutal shock hits the back of your skull, a blinding explosion of pain that overwhelms you and engulfs you in darkness. Then, it’s pitch black.

“We are finally reunited…” whispers the husky male voice.

[Author’s notes]

Should I write another part? If yes, what do you want to happen next?

Sorry if it’s not developed enough. I would totally do it if I was writing one of my novels… But this story is mainly to satisfy myself lol

My Ko-fi: betrayedwriter

My AO3: BetrayedWriter

My Instagram: carolinemertz_

Want to read my novel if you know some french? Find them in my bio 😉

[lostbetweenvampiresandmusic]

oooo!! ooooo!! 30 with a ghost reader????

A ghost reader? I love it!

30. Dying ain't so bad, not if it means staying with you.

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

Being a vampire came with a lot of perks. You got to live forever, and you would never grow old. You could do whatever you wanted, have all the freedom a single living being could get. Nothing to worry about, no jobs to go to, no rent to be paid. It was simply a very relaxing existence - at least, that's what Marko told me when he first met me.

Vampires have abilities, and some of them are stronger in one vampire than the other. That's why David would always take the initiation games, being the best at mind tricks. Paul was great with manipulating prey, Dwayne was lucky enough to not be bothered by things like holy water, and Marko? Well, he got a rather unlucky gift, if I were to say so myself. Then, of course, if he hadn't had this ability, he wouldn't have met me.

Being a vampire meant you had to kill. A lot. In the younger years, when you had just turned, it could mean several kills per night. When a vampire got older, it could mean several per month. Still, the fact was that as a vampire, one killed a lot. And for most vampires it wasn't a problem. It did become a problem however, when said vampire realised that he excelled at sensing the supernatural. In such a way, that he could not only sense it, but see it.

It was a real meet awkward when we met. After all, my corpse still laid in his arms as he finished ripping out my throat.

"Was that really necessary?" I'd asked, turning my nose up at the sight of my by now disfigured body.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"You just killed me? Why would you do that? What the fuck are you? And why if you killed me -" This was the moment that I realised I was indeed dead and that I was somehow still talking.

"You're a ghost."

"What?!"

"Why the fuck do I see ghosts? Nothing against you, you're cute and all, but -"

"Couldn't you have decided that before you killed me?"

Well, that was the start of an unlikely yet very strong friendship. Marko was the only one who could see me constantly. Since he killed me and took one of my bracelets with him - a piece made of volcano rock and shark teeth - I was linked to him. Well, my bracelet really, but since he wore it, I had no choice but to be in a close vicinity.

There were days when David could see me too, although it was only ever from the corner of his eye. It annoyed him, not being capable of seeing me. Dwayne was able to see me more often, but according to him, I was literally fading in and out of his vision. It made conversations difficult. Paul, dear Paul, tried his very best to see me. He really did. He tried everything he could think of, even going as far as using an ouija bord. No matter what he tried, to him, I was an invisible presence.

For thirty years, I spent every waking moment with Marko, enjoying his company. I went with them to the boardwalk, riding with Marko, visiting the stores he did - him entering through the door and me easily stepping through the walls. We spent a lot of time together, and I knew - and so did Marko, even though he didn't like to admit it - that he regretted killing me. We worked together. We could be a thing, a good thing. But dating as a ghost, it's hard.

I couldn't make myself corporal. Every touch went right through me. As much as I sometimes longed to hold him, to hold his hand or touch his hair, to feel his lips against my skin - I couldn't. He couldn't. As close as we were, as much as we cared for each other, we were still worlds apart.

It happened one morning when I was wandering the backrooms of the cave, wondering if I'd ever find another ghost here, when I heard screaming. I heard him screaming. I hurried back as fast as I could, running so quickly that I was practically flying. I jumped through the last rock wall, landing directly beside him. He laid on the floor, a large stake stuck in his stomach, part of it piercing his heart.

"No..." I looked at him, wishing I could do something. "Please don't die, don't leave me..."

He blinked, a rare soft smile on his face. "You're here."

I nodded, hovering over him. I longed to hold him, to kiss him, to tell him I could fix this, that I could save him. The boys had run after his assailant. I was alone with him, and I couldn't do anything to help him.

"I don't want you to die," I told him softly, "there's so much more time I want to spend with you."

"Dying ain't so bad," he said softly, his voice weakening, "not if it means staying with you."

"Promise me, you'll come back like I did. Please," I cried, invisible tears rolling down my cheeks. "I don't want to do this without you!"

I got no response. His body lay still. I wept, thinking of the things I never had the chance to tell him.

"You can stop crying now," I froze as I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up, seeing the same vampire I had seen die mere moments ago.

"Marko?!" I jumped up, holding him tightly. I hugged him, finally able to hold him, to breathe in his scent, to feel what it was truly like to be with him.

"I told you I'd stay with you."

[starreyblueberry]

Timmy immediately feels horrible when he wakes up. Its the day after his 18th birthday, he wakes up right at 12:01 am, usually, he would just wish to fall back asleep, especially if it's this late, but right now Timmy doesn't care about the time. Instead, he cares about the fact his head feels like it's being split apart like there's a surgeon just removing parts of his brain piece by piece, all while he's awake. Dramatic descriptor but accurate he thinks to himself. He feels an extremely aching pain washing over all of his senses, making it hard for him to focus or ground himself back to reality. He puts his head in his hands as he tries to calm down, He can't identify what exactly is wrong- Hell it feels like he just woke up from a 8 year long Coma. His brain feels like it's foggy- he can't even remember what he did yesterday, or the day before- or. Or the past week, the past month, the past year, he can't remember anything... Did he just wake up from a coma? Is he IN a coma dream right now? This realization does not help him at all- it in fact makes his headache even worse. He tries his best to ignore the pain though, cause he just knows that the moment he stops trying, if he doesn't chase after these memories now, there will be no chance of getting them back. Something in the back of his mind tells him, that this is the truth. He needs to keep trying or else he will never feel whole again, he will never be Timmy Turner again. He pulls at the sheets of his bed, practically ripping the old blankets apart. Why did he never get new ones? He feels like he hasn't slept on this bed for years now.

He can feel a slip- a crack, his memories just one reach away, he tries to grab them- to feel the nostialgia buried deep within his mind. he can sense it- he can sense it all. He can hear the hushed, soft voices of disfigured creatures, colors flying all around his vision as he tries his best to rope them back to him. He can smell the pure sugary scent of cotton candy and bubblegum that radiates from these fairies things. He can feel the adorating- the pure care that comes from these beings. He can feel the love- The love that he can't remember. What? What love. Timmy slightly shakes his head, he can barely even remember his initial thoughts- but he has to continue his line of thinking, he knows it. He thinks back to every person in his life, trying to find where the missing puzzle pieces are, where he felt truly safe. While some people cared for him, none of them loved him. I mean- his parents haven't even said the words I love you since he was 10. Vicky hated his guts, and all his teachers were disappointed in him, I mean, sure he had his friends, but they cared about him, love is a different feeling. Its not just the care, it's the attention, the promise that you'll stay with them, no matter what happens. The unconditional love that he never got from anyone, is magical. But he's never seen it, he never had the chance to, he had no other family anyway- He blinks. He rapidly shakes his head as he feels his own thoughts fighting against each other. He...

... He Doesn't have any other family. He doesn't, his grandparents both died when he was a teenager, and his parents never had any siblings so that means no cousins, and barely any family friends. If he HAD any family they were distant, they were unreachable, they were forgotten. That makes the most sense, if there's any great aunt or something he probably forgot. He forgot and their nothing he can do about it, he can't do shit he cant- "Oh god-" he groans, he can feel it getting harder and harder to breathe, he can feel everything just fading. The senses in his fingers were slowly being lost, his whole body feeling like it was being emptied at the seams, He couldn't give up though, he had to keep going, if there was any chance at finding out what happened these past 7 years it's now or never. He tries to go back into the same memories, but- he doesn't get what he wants. Instead, he smells dark oak and flowery perfume, those are his parents' scents. That's what his parents use as perfumes, that's what he already remembers. These aren't the memories he needs Timmy's vision gets blurry, he can feel his ears ringing more and more and more, there were people- there were people who loved him. Who wanted him just as much as he wanted them, they took him everywhere, to meet their families, to see places they loved. they were his ACTUAL family. The ones who took care of him when no one else would. They promised to stay, they promised that they'll never forget him so he can't forget them. He loves them and he knows it, he loves them so much that his brain feels like its going to explode. He- He needs them or else who is he. Who is he without them, is he anyone worth remembering in the first place? is he anyone without them in his life, who is he without his godpare He saw a flash. A flash of what? he could never explain, the best he can do is say a brand new color, or a beam of light that he shouldn't have been able to see, maybe something dabbling in a new dimension? Who knows, It went away as quickly as it came, barely leaving Timmy to even question what he just saw, and it seemed to take something. It seemed to take more of who he is, and he knew it. It stole the crack, it stole what he could have done. He can't even form a single word about the event, all he can hear is a slight buzzing noise from within. He realizes that he cant remember. Timmy feels himself crying, for what? He doesn't understand why he's crying, hell why is he even awake, he looks at the time, but his vision is too blurred from the tears to even read the numbers. He feels more and more tears pour out, even though he doesn't even know why he's crying, he can't even remember when it started. He lays back down and shuts his eyes, he's sure he's overreacting, if he can't remember what he was doing how important was it anyway?

[dhampling]

sylvan gn!reader, 2.8k

THIS IS IT! THE UNICORN FIC! ALSO COINCIDENTALLY A 300 FOLLOWER CELEBRATION PIECE! THANK YOU!!! based on THIS ask, where a chance series of encounters in youth come together on one night, where everything just clicks for Astarion and his unicorn. this has plagued my brain. this is all i know now. i hope you enjoy it as much as i enjoyed writing it. wc: 2.8k c/w: descriptions of mutilation. fluff. reader WAS a unicorn. yippee.

A bed of burning coals. Belly on a smooth stone slab. 

Low candlelight as Cazador works, each measured smite into the milky flesh of Astarion’s back feels akin to a dull goring; blood a balm of cooling as it spills. 

A mouldering steak.

With each biting shovel of the gouging blade he knows this is a horribly permanent form of disfigurement. 

The pale face in the very periphery of his waning vision, flickering often to look at some tome of reference before conferring with Dufay in frequent sharp whispers. 

He wipes the skin to clear his canvas after each twist of his tool. A searing rag. He can feel the fluff, the grit, as it settles deep into the exposed sticky blazing valleys between his shoulder blades. He feels the birth of rancid infection. The prickle of each and every prick along his tendons that the debris sets alight. 

He knows little else in this moment. 

He knows his limbs are useless in tight leather binds, but that this isn’t a case of reprimand as a flaying or a visit to the kennels may be. He’s been good this month. He hasn’t pushed his luck, nor toed the line. He hasn’t even seen Godey in a four tenday. 

He knows that the gods can’t hear him down here, wherever here is. He was mercifully sedated at one point, but now all that remained were the paralytic properties of whatever was in the chalice presented oh-so-mightily to him at dinner. That his foetid, mortified carcass won’t allow him to howl, or whine, or scream. 

He thinks that he had a similar tool to this when he was young.

He remembers the cool blunt edge in the kitchens and running the tip of his small thumb along it. Feeling it in his pocket, warmed by the heat of his still-breathing body. Sitting in the forest just the other side of the fence with a small wicker basket of apples beside him. Woven blanket underneath linen tunic, woollen overcoat despite the early Kythorn sun; juices running down his little chin as he looked up at the birds singing through the canopy of trees. 

He then remembers his mother’s beckon call, leaving the cores to rot on the peaty floor; seeing the yellowing flesh dotted with twigs and brown leaves, glistening still.

-

“Are you coming?” He whispers sharply, head peering around the yawning mouth of your tent. 

You stretch and roll your wrists, freeing your eyes of sleep with a soft rub.

“Hm?”

Astarion clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes. You look at him in a daze. 

He bristles in the post-gloaming purple dusk, your amber candlelight bringing his face warmth as his eyes scan your face. Behind him you can see a tapestry of stars starting to form in the sky. 

His head shakes a little. Claps once. Incredulous.

Oh.

“Overslept.” You mumble. He sighs.

“Gods.’

Pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

‘You have five minutes before I pull you out of this foetid little pit, whatever state you’re in.”

He turns on his heel.

“Is that a threat?” You shout after him.

His head ducks quickly back in.

“A promise. Just so we’re clear.”

A nap in the thulsun heat. A day of rest. Astarion ‘knock, knock’-ing on your tent flap as you read and slinking in like a cat, perching precariously on the chair you use to throw your unwashed armour onto after battle. Several quips about the smell. You threw a pillow at him. Hard. He repostured and continued on breezily.

He’d ‘gotten wind’ of a gathering happening on the beach twenty minutes from camp. Scavengers finishing up at the Nautiloid wreckage throwing some debauched farewell to the Ravaged Beach before some bastardised mercenary force comes in to begin clean up. All the good stuff now gone, but plenty of wine; and, obviously, an opportunity for ‘a little bit of fun’.

He’d blinked at you coquettishly, leaning on the back of the chair, daring you to ask just how he’d gotten wind of such an event. 

It’s rare you’ve bounced off another with such ease since your change. You’re too intelligent for his seduction techniques - the ones you hear him rehearsing quietly to himself from his tent each evening - to work the simple way he intends. That doesn’t mean the pale elf has had no effect on you, however.

You take comfort in knowing exactly how you’ll find him every time you look, and he’ll always be ever so pleased to hear that you have been looking. 

A wink. A flash of those porcelain white fangs. 

An invite to your bedroll for the most sordid of midnight snacks. 

Chatter between friends, an ever-present whiff of flirtation; the quirk of a moonlit lip and the pleasure of mutual relief in the dead of night. 

You fumble around the darkened tent in underwear searching for your discarded camp clothes as his fire-lit silhouette lingers outside.

-

Astarion thinks about the apples from time to time.

Tough, yet yielding. Biting. Sweet flesh bursting in season, ripe and white. Scraps of red skin stuck between hungry teeth. Seeds in their hard little hollows, stalks with small dry leaves. The way the juice ran so freely down his chin in the light of the sun and dampened the back of his hand as he’d wiped it away.

His full wicker basket empty by afternoon. 

Highsun courtyard feasts. He remembers the animals; his mother joking with beaming eyes and a wine-dipped cheer about his ‘druidic potential’ as she held him close, hand on his head, the other on his chest, he stood against her legs as she wittered. Time spent watching for an opportunity to slip through the gate and sit in silence with the birds.

Cazador trenches into his back deeper this time. What Astarion assumes must be blood spatters into his hair with the force of flying blue jay shit, and he’d know. 

He remembers the first time he saw the unicorns in the forest, how bewildered he felt. Startling white in such vivid contrast to the surrounding browns and greens. 

They weren’t skittish like the deer were, nor could they have been ‘lost property’ like the horses who often roamed by. The kobolds were mean to him on more than one occasion and the boars who passed were simple creatures. 

As a decisive yank is made and the gouging tool changes direction, fully embedded in the flesh it tears, he thinks about the smallest one. 

-

Despite being fraught with innuendo and obvious peacocking, Astarion’s company is a reassuring distraction from your current tadpole predicament. A parody of traditional pursuit wrapped in genuine affection. He knows he doesn’t have to bring the bravado, because you’ll play along regardless. 

And this eventide, alongside the fallen Nautiloid; he glows.

Skin soaked in the deep gloaming ambers and yellows of the campfire. Laugh of treacle, like a dozing highsun; a dawn chant on Lathander’s day - he tips his head back in a cotton lull and the quiet threat of his smile brimming through his sharp incisors devastates you. 

You watch on from the open mouth of a scavenger tent astride a pile of pillows and blankets, surrounded in distant light and pilfered goods. A warm breeze carries the firesmoke and to your side is a newfound silver chalice full to the brim with heady Arabellan Dry. 

He looks every part the favourite of the gods. 

Sways gently in his seat. Imbibes generously. Lifts his arms wide in gesticulation with oft-rotating conversational partners and tells stories in hushed tones with the most salacious quirk threatening his brow.

Occasionally throughout your jaunt, you’ll wonder if he should be holding your mind like this. 

Then his eyes meet yours.

Gods.

It feels like they all watch as he moves to you. Adonis in the flesh; effusive as his fingers circle the rim of his glass and he sinks to crossed legs beside you. Face by face. 

“I am so fucking bored.” He mutters. Smiles widely at a passing new acquaintance before sighing a grumble.

“Which one was ‘bored’ again?” You peer mockingly into the crowds, searching with a hand resting atop your tired brow. 

He elbows you. Hard.

“You sound remarkably sour, pet.”

“I’m not sour. I’ve had a beautiful evening” You sip. A gentle breeze rolls over you. 

Astarion lolls his head back a little.

“Beautiful wasn’t really the plan though, was it?”

You turn to him. Narrow your eyes just the smallest bit.  

Astarion tilts back and looks to the sky. He opens his mouth as if to speak. Closes it just as fast.

“What?”

You picture him falling in love with every single one he’d spoken to on the beach this evening; lifting locks of hair around nimbly twirling fingers and pulling another warm body closer. Tilting his head downwards, eyes remaining forward; struggling for words in covetous gasps. Seduction. 

A small laugh. Gods.

“Beautiful. Fucking a stranger in a beach cove isn’t necessarily what I’d call beautiful, dearest.”

“That was your plan?”

“Wasn’t it yours?”

You stop for a good moment. Astarion clicks his tongue in thought. Blinks with the urgency of dripping treacle.

-

Gods. The memory alone would be enough to bring a smile to his face, and he remembers it so very vividly. 

The apples. A baby unicorn. 

One late Elient afternoon, the first time any of them had approached. His fingers stickied with juice. It didn’t appear to be cautious by any discernible means, refusing the peel he’d hesitantly offered far out on the flat of his palm.

Little thing. Just about his size, he thinks; and he was always small. 

He remembers sniffing with a cold and haphazardly wiping his sticky fingers on the front of his coat. Reaching out so it could smell him.

Chewing open-mouthed, eyes closed, smoothing his face with the back of his hand.

They’d fall about together on feeble legs, his flailing arms and gentle nudges. Days on days spent venturing into the forest where it’d be waiting for him in the same clearing as always.

He remembers easing into the apple flesh with the tool edge and gently wiggling it into the crisp white to ensure a deep enough pit. Skimming imperfect rounds of the skin. Bouncing the resulting red spiral between his thumb and forefinger. 

Cazador reaches for the dagger. A hundred-thousand molten pins.

-

The moon overhead. Unwavering in clarity. It almost feels like you’re on the precipice of a different world. 

“You’re weird, you know.’ Astarion breaks his silence. The revellers continue to drink, to dance and talk clumsily around you.

Your eyes meet his. He wavers on the edge of certainty, but the performative lowering of his lids shows you he isn’t too sure. There’s a front to the nonchalance. 

‘What are you?”

“Hm?”

“Fun. I said there’d be fun. You aren’t partaking.’ He takes a sip and swills it around his mouth whilst collecting his thoughts. The dossier. Racking through pages in his brain.

‘I can’t be completely sure, but I’ve met a lot of humans in my life. Seduced them. Given and taken like a market teller.’

His hands move as he speaks, a considered pattern of gesticulation. 

‘And you simply… you’re above it all. You don’t even smell human. What are you?”

There it is. If you weren’t inebriated you’d be tempted to laugh him off. 

Tonight, however; your bones are thoroughly wine-sodden. 

Your companion has a twinkle in his eye. A beach of prospective lovers and he has collapsed at your side in respite. If he persecutes you as they would then you’ll die with his face the last thing you see. It doesn’t feel like a bad compromise.

“Not human.” You confirm, looking at your fingernails with a pert nod.

He laughs in a slight of vindication. 

“Try me.” 

“Sylvan.”

You can’t be sure if it’s from embarrassment or underlying fear that your head falls into your sweaty hands. Astarion’s snide streak plays at the fray of your mind.

“What? Half wood-elf or something?” 

He sips. 

“Unicorn.” You lift your fingers and flutter them around the sides of your head meekly. 

Splutters. 

“Explains why there are none roaming the actual woods anymore, I suppose.”

He’s taken it surprisingly well, all things considered. You aren’t sure what you’d expected. A minute of silence. The lazy roll of waves along the shore.

“What do I smell like?”

Maybe he’s wary of the driftwood stake near your hand. 

“Apples. People don’t smell like apples. Usually sweat. Or perfume.’ He runs his tongue over his teeth and sniffs. 

‘Not apples. I should’ve -”

Apples. A softness in the way he says it, you note. Favoured fruit in the allotments running the edge of the forests.

‘I’ve not had an apple in so long.”

He finishes with a wistful smile, topping off the wine in hand and refilling it with a swift glug. 

“Do you miss them?” 

“Apples? I-’

The cogs turn slowly - he wets his bottom lip and looks to the sky once more. His brow furrows as you watch him think.  

‘I used to sit in the forest, just around the back of the garden wall. I was about- I’d have been about up to here?’ He lifts his arm to just above where his sitting head rests.

‘I was tiny. All day long. Peeling the skin, gnawing away. Ironic.”

Pauses as if in remembrance of something. Grimaces.

You smile fondly and reach for his arm. You’re willing to entertain the line of dialogue. It distracts from the situation and he seems open to indulging in it.

“Funny.”

He scoffs and taps your hand softly before taking it in his. Cool fingers lock around yours. 

“How so?” 

“Gods, a long time ago now - there was a boy I met who did the same thing. Fascinated by them. Would sit and peel them with a little tool. Strange thing.”

You take a sip as you imitate the focus of the young thing, pretending to work tunnels into the cooling air with your near-empty chalice.

Astarion whips his head to face yours.

“Two hundred years ago?” 

“Why?’

He’s watching you as if you’re holding something very fragile in your faux-gouging fingers.

‘I suppose so? Round about then. Bit longer, maybe two hundred and th-”

“Me. It was me.”

Your eyes meet.

It’s the kind of moment you’ve read about in your downtime, the way the clock stops. Everything feels silent. The sea stops rolling soft on the shore, the voices around you are naught above a whisper; the glass in the hand not clutching yours set firmly on the sand as he shuffles to face you head on.

Apples. 

You watch his eyes soften wholly. Not a single ounce of guard; no sense of hesitation. Two glimmering rubies in the moonlight.

“His eyes weren’t red.” You smile.

It takes a moment for him to react. He’s studying your face reverently, with newfound interest; mapping each of the lines and blemishes with a hand hovering over your cheek. 

And then he laughs. The most beautiful sound in all the realms, melodic. 

“They weren’t.’

He points to the scarred fang marks above his sagging collar.

‘I was also alive at that point.’

Astarion takes a few comfortable minutes to look at you as he strokes over your hand with his thumb. You’ve spent enough of the past few weeks looking over him to know him almost by heart but you’ll indulge with the context of the revelation before you. 

“Look at us now, then.” 

Your voice cracks. You didn’t realise the sheer size of the lump in your throat.

“I -’

He presses his free hand to your cheek as he did when you were both young. Soft. Jowls ablaze at his wine-sticky touch. 

The sincerity in his gaze is brutal. If you weren’t so deeply enamoured you might just vomit.

‘The longest night of my life, I thought of you. The apples. How -’

Astarion takes a moment to survey you. You obviously look nothing like you did back then, aside from the brightest eyes he’s ever seen in all two hundred and thirty nine years of life and the same softness in how they revere him. 

‘How you never came back. I waited.’

It’s then that you crumble. 

‘How happy I knew I’d be when you did return.”

It’s cataclysmic, the way he talks. The last person who was kind to you and he thought you’d left him by choice this whole time. Remembering you in his darkest moments. All you’ve both suffered and here you are, on this rancid beach in the middle of nowhere; your hand safe in his.

“It wasn’t by choice. Never.”

The look on his face suggests he’s toying with the idea of playing the fair maiden, but he sees the way you crack and almost takes to tears himself.

“Well. You’re here now, and we have a lot of lost time to make up for. It helps that I was already fond of you, of course.”

He brushes the hair from your face and plants a deep kiss on your forehead as you bring your arms around his waist, hesitantly.

It’s a start. 

One you’d never have seen coming when waking aboard the crashed nautiloid in front of you; but glorious nonetheless.