#YOU STAY QUIET WHILE A WAR RAGES WITHIN.

[fandomhcs]

dating malenia would include:

good luck getting her to admit her feelings!!

however, if you succeed in wooing the goddess of rot? you may never find a softer hand, or a more gentle love than hers.

malenia, first of all, would NEVER in a million years believe that she was worthy of love, of a relationship. romance is, and may always be completely foreign to her.

her life has been nothing but duty, war, and rot for so long she never dreamed she would find love.

and yet here you are, standing your ground and proving to her time and time again that your feelings for her are true and pure. you break her, at first. you tear apart the world, the life she saw as her future. you shook the very foundation of her.

miquella would never let her hear the end of it. she could hear him laughing at her, even now.

while the beginning of your relationship with malenia would be rocky, full of doubt and fear, if you can get past that with her? if you can stay by her side? you will see a side of her no other being ever has.

she is naturally quiet and reserved, more keen to stay in the background and observe you rather than be involved in conversation. only a select few can get her to speak, much less hold a full conversation with her.

you come to learn that she is not at all as scary as she seems. sure, there is a great passion for violence within her. but that passion for violence, her confidence in battle, did not stem from rage or hatred. she fights because she wishes to protect those that she loves. she fights because she feels like she is the only thing standing between this world and her beloved brother.

the two of you often sit and read under the haligtree, enjoying the peace and quiet of each other's company.

you braid her hair, hushing her whenever she complains about the rot touching your skin. if you were scared of the rot at all, you wouldn't be with her now would you? she concedes, and over time does become used to your touch.

you may never need to tell her when you are angry, sad, or scared. she'll know. she is attuned to you in a way no other person may ever be. you can always confide in her, can always expect her reassurance and advice if wanted. she will never leave you to deal with your own problems alone.

whether you need her to be a shoulder to cry on, a knight in brilliantly gold armor, or a steady hand to strengthen your resolve, malenia will fulfill that duty. she make it her top priority to make your life as easy and peaceful as she can.

she'd never ask you to stay out of a battle, or tell you that you aren't able to leave the haligtree. but she lingers, she stays by your side more than she should. the idea of something harming you turns her stomach more than the rot. fear isn't something she is used to, but the first time she sees you hurt in a fight she panics. the threat is dealt with in short order, and she is beside you in a blink of an eye. her hands roam your face, your arms, your stomach. when she finds your wound the hiss of pain you let out feels like a sword through her gut.

it takes no time for her brother to heal you, but she cannot let you go for hours after. her fingers stay wrapped in yours while her other hand smooths back your hair. she doesn't allow herself to speak for a long time, until finally you hear her beg your forgiveness.

you know, that even after you reassure her it will take days, weeks, for her to feel safe to leave your side again.

she tries not to coddle you, but does sometimes fail. she knows your are capable. she knows that, she swears. but she cannot stop herself from standing vigil at your side whenever you leave the safety of your shared home.

her insecurity, her fear, can take a toll on your relationship. but if you talk it out with her, if you convince her that you are here to stay, and that you are safer with her than without, eventually malenia will bloom. (NOT THAT WAY.)

with time, and patience she becomes your strength and you her joy. she lets you drag her to the capital for visits with her parents, to sweep her up in a silly dance with music drifting through the haligtree. she smiles more, laughs more, and finally feels content in a way she never imagined.

her bad days may never fully go away. there will be days where she cannot fight the rot writhing within her, where she cannot move for the pain. there are days where she cannot let go of your hand for fear she may never feel you again. but those days get fewer and far between as time goes on.

the two of you become a team, a power couple feared by her siblings and respected by her people.

and random side note, occasionally you may or may not be able to convince her to let finlay join your bedchambers.

[aynavaano]

Tech is always right

Hunter x F reader

Rating: Explicit

Wordcount: 5k

Summary: After you became part of the crew Hunter noticed your nightmares and offered comfort by letting you sleep in his bunk. But it soon becomes clear that you both want more.

Notes: I wanted to write wet Hunter for so long and here it is. This is basically porn with very little plot, I know we all want that, we thirsting, we hungry little bitches. We have oral (f and m receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, mention of creampie. All for our favorite sergeant

You've been running with the crew for a while now, and the way you all crossed paths still feels like something out of a holovid. It started in the midst of chaos. The mission they were on went sideways and Wrecker was down. After the war you tried to make your way on your own and now you found yourself tending to Wreckers wounds who got hit by an explosion right in front of you, just as the Empire started orbital bombardment on the city. It was a close call, but the Batch wasn't about to leave you behind, not when the sky was raining fire, Hunter pulled you and Wrecker onto the Marauder just seconds before they took off.

As the battles raged on and the injuries piled up, it became clear to them that they really needed someone who could provide medical support and technical expertise—a role you seamlessly filled. Your skills not only helped Tech with the ship but also ensured that the team stayed in good shape despite their frequent injuries.

Nightmares had plagued your sleep for weeks now, leaving you restless and weary but shortly after you became part of the crew Hunter offered you comfort by letting you sleep in his bunk.

It is another one of those sleepless nights, where the darkness of the ship seems to echo the darkness within your mind. The dim glow of the cockpit lights illuminate the Marauder and you sit alone, bathed in the soft hum of the ship's systems. Fingers absentmindedly tapping on your datapad, you glance around the cockpit, the quiet solitude amplifying the weight of your thoughts. Everyone else appears to be asleep in their bunks, their breathing steady and even. Yet, for you, sleep remains elusive, a distant dream slipping through your grasp.

But eventually, exhaustion creeps in as always, dragging you into a shallow slumber. Nestling into the co-pilot's seat, you hope for some respite from the scenes that normally haunt your nights.

Contrary to your belief Hunter is awake, attuned to the subtle shifts in the ship and its crew. He hears your restless movements, the faint whispers of distress that accompany your troubled sleep. Without hesitation, he rises from his bunk, silent footsteps carrying him to your side.

"Another one of those nights?" his voice is soft, laced with concern as he gazes down at you.You nod silently, unable to find the words to articulate the turmoil within your mind.

"Alright, let's get you in bed," he says gently, scooping you up in his arms with practiced ease.

Carrying you to his bunk, Hunter lowers you down onto the mattress, his movements careful and deliberate. Slipping in beside you, he pulls the sheet over your bodies, the warmth of him against you a comforting anchor in the darkness.

For many weeks now, this had become routine. You would find solace in the safety of his arms, your back pressed against his chest as he holds you close. It was a silent understanding, an unspoken agreement that offered both comfort and companionship in the dead of night.

Rarely did you sleep on your own bunk anymore. Instead, you would seek refuge somewhere aboard the ship trying to fall asleep, and Hunter would always come for you.

In the morning, when the rest of the crew stirs from their slumber, Hunter would be the one to wake you. A cup of caff in hand, he would gently rouse you from your sleep, his touch gentle and comforting. And if Wrecker's snores still echoed through the ship, he would wake him too.

Already from the first moment you laid eyes on him, you couldn't deny the pull he had on you. There was something magnetic about him, something that drew you in with an irresistible force. And now, to have this connection with him, to share these intimate moments in the quiet of the night, felt like a dream come true.

Of course, there were moments when your mind wandered to more... spicy thoughts. Fantasies of what could be, of what you longed for deep down. But you dared not to act on them, fearing the repercussions of crossing that line. The bond you shared with Hunter was precious, and you couldn't bear the thought of losing it.

Unbeknownst to you, Hunter harbors his own desires, his own yearnings that mirror your own. He is completely wild for you since the first night he carried you to his bunk, consumed by the scent of your skin, the warmth of your touch and the feeling of your heartbeat against his chest. But he is trying his best to conceal it.

Tonight feels no different you are snuggled up to Hunter after he picked you up from somewhere on the ship as usual, but this time, your dreams take a steamy turn, leaving you wet and needy.

In your dream, Hunter's kiss is urgent, his lips pressing hard against yours as his tongue explores your mouth hungrily. With a primal need, he slides his hand beneath the waistband of your panties, his fingers finding your wetness and circling your clit with delicious pressure.

Pinned against the Marauder's wall, you feel the cold metal against your back as Hunter's body presses firmly against yours. His hardness throbbing against your thigh, aching to be released from the confines of his pants.

With a low growl, he continues to ravage your mouth, his kisses fierce and possessive. His fingers work tirelessly, stroking and teasing your clit until you are trembling with desire.

As pleasure builds within you, Hunter's touch pushes you closer to the edge. With each flick of his fingers, you feel yourself teetering on the brink of ecstasy, your body on fire with need.

Finally, unable to hold back any longer, you shatter into an orgasm and you wake up to your heart beating rapidly and your walls clenching around nothing but the memory of Hunter's touch, leaving you empty and soaking wet for him. After you catch your breath and calm yourself down you make sure you didn’t wake anyone. Content that all is quiet and Wrecker’s snoring steady as always, you snuggle into Hunter’s embrace, his strong arms wrapping around you as you drift off into a peaceful sleep, safe in his presence.

The next morning, Hunter wakes to the lingering scent of your arousal, driving him completely wild, making it increasingly difficult to control himself around you. You pretended to be still asleep but you feel his hard bulge pressing against your back as he carefully gets up, not wanting to disturb you. But before he can make it to the fresher, Tech intercepts him, eyeing the obvious bulge in his shorts.

"When exactly are you planning to do something about that?" Tech asks, pointing to the obvious erection with one hand and realigning his glasses with the other.

Hunter hesitates, unsure of how you feel about him. "I'm not sure if she's into me like that," he admits.

Tech isn’t buying it. "I've analyzed her body language and observed the way you two look at each other and I have come to the conclusion that there is mutual attraction between the two of you. From my calculations it is appropriate to make a move," he urges.

Hunter's mind reels at Tech's words, his heart pounding in his chest. Could it be true? Normally Hunter could tell if someone was attracted to him by the subtle raise of their heartbeat or other signs that he could easily pick up with his heightened senses. But around you it cost him all his power to remain calm, your scent alone made him almost loose control a few times already. So he tried to shut himself off whenever possible and wasn’t paying attention to the subtle signs of your body.

But before he can respond, Tech presses on. "And besides," he adds, "we could really use the extra space if we can get rid of the extra bunk that is not in use since weeks."

With a scoff, Hunter brushes past Tech and continues his way to the fresher, his thoughts consumed by the weight of Tech's words. Could it be that you felt the same way about him and he hasn’t noticed? Nobody has ever made him loose his composure the way you did.

Meanwhile, you slumber on, completely oblivious to the conversation that has just happened. It isn’t until Hunter returns with a cup of caff that you stir from your dreams, the scent of your arousal still lingering in the air.

"Did you sleep without nightmares?" he asks, his voice soft with concern. You nod, a faint blush rising to your cheeks as you recount the dream that had left you breathless last night. As you speak, you notice a subtle shift in Hunter's demeanor, the way his eyes linger on you a fraction longer than usual.

His hand reaches out, gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear, and in that moment, your heart skips a beat. Hunter's gesture was purposeful, a subtle attempt to validate Tech's observations and he immediately sensed the subtle shift in your heartbeat at his touch. He decides to carefully explore your reaction to him further later on but for now the lingering sweet scent of your arousal fills his senses, threatening to overwhelm him and he once again feels his cock straining against his cod piece, longing to be unleashed. Before it makes him loose control completely he gets up “Alright, I’ll leave you to your morning routine” he says softly “The fresher is all yours and Tech asked for your assistance on a difficult repair later” You nod, casting a dreamy smile at him. And as you slip from the bed and make your way to the fresher, you catch a last glance at him, marveling at his dark locks loosely falling over his shoulders, before he enters the cockpit and disappears from your sight.

The rest of the morning passes in its usual routine, with you and Tech tackling repairs on the Marauder over way too many cups of caff. But your mind keeps drifting back to Hunter, who is repeatedly casting glances at you, his intense gaze lingering a bit too long, almost as if he is trying to decipher your every thought and feeling. It made for some strange interactions between you and Tech, his eyebrows raising in curiosity as he notices the tension between you and Hunter and questions your unusual distraction from your task.

You manage to brush off most of his uncomfortable questions and as the afternoon rolls around, the whole crew ventures out to gather rations and stock up on some essential supplies. Preparing for your departure planned for the next rotation, you decide to stay behind to complete the repairs. Shortly after they set off the sky grows dark, ominous clouds looming overhead, and soon enough, the heavy downpour begins.

Just as you are engrossed in your work, lost in the sound of the rain hailing down on the Marauders hull, the hatch of the ship swings open, and Hunter stumbles inside, drenched from head to toe. With a weary smile, he closes the hatch behind him, pressing a button on his forearm piece to seal the entrance.

"I figured I'd better make it back," he explains, his voice slightly breathless from the dash through the rain. "In case this storm decides to get any worse. Didn't want you to be stuck here all alone." You can’t help but feel a flutter of warmth in your chest at his words, grateful for his unexpected return.

Hunter swiftly sheds his armor and his drenched clothes, stripping down to the bottom of his blacks to rid himself of the wet fabric. Your gaze flickers hesitantly, catching a glimpse of his exposed form. Heat surges through your veins, pooling between your legs as you watch the water drops cascade down his toned body and his tattoo stretching across the entirety of his left chest on full display. His hair, now slick with moisture, clinging to his forehead and temples, emphasizing the feral allure that draws you in.

As he reaches for a towel to dry off, you sense his attention shift, his focus momentarily diverted by something in the air. The tension between you crackles with anticipation, his heightened senses no doubt picking up on the rapid beat of your heart and the subtle scent of your arousal building between your legs.

"Mesh’la, you smell so good," he whispers, turning to face you, his voice low and rough with desire, his eyes fixated on you with an intensity that sends shivers down your spine. "So good for me" he adds, finally succumbing to the effect you have on him.

You blush because you instantly know what scent he is referring to, but before you can respond, he closes the distance between you, his lips crashing against yours in a hunger fueled kiss that leaves you breathless and wanting more. It is primal, passionate and a silent admission of the desire that has been building between you for far too long. You manage to muster a question amidst the haze of arousal, seeking some semblance of clarity in the whirlwind of sensations that threaten to overwhelm you.

"Where are the others?" you murmur, your voice barely a whisper against his lips, your heart pounding in your chest with a mixture of anticipation and nervous excitement.

"They stayed in town, getting everything from our supply list" he replies hastily between heated kisses, his voice thick with longing, his gaze locking with yours in a silent promise of what inevitably is going to happen. "Got the Marauder all to ourselves for a while."

His words send a jolt of electricity coursing through your veins, leaving you wet and needy. You can’t deny the raw desire that pulses between your legs anymore, urging you to surrender to the intoxicating pull of him. With a hesitant nod, you invite him in and you feel the heat of his touch as his hand slides under your shirt, his fingers tracing along your curves rising up to hungrily cup your breasts. The sensation of his bulge pressing against you sends another surge of heat pooling between your legs, your body responding instinctively to his unspoken invitation.

Hunter's voice is a husky whisper against your ear as he murmurs , "I want to taste you." The words send a shiver of anticipation through you, and you find yourself nodding eagerly in response. With a sense of urgency you wiggle yourself out of your leggings and get rid of your shirt all at once, thoughtlessly throwing it to the floor. He drops to his knees before you, his hands gently parting your thighs and he lifts your leg slightly up to let it rest on his shoulder. With one hand he pulls your panties to the side and his fingers carefully slide over your wet folds, index and middle finger parting your outer lips to expose your delicate core dripping with wetness. “So wet for me” he whispers in awe, savoring the sight before him.

As he buries his face between your tights the sensation of his warm breath against your sensitive skin sends a wave of arousal crashing over you, and you gasp in pleasure as his tongue leaps out, sliding through your slit, finding your throbbing clit and tracing teasing circles around it.

He eats you with a voracious hunger, his mouth working tirelessly to elicit the sweetest moans from your lips. Each flick of his tongue sends sparks of pleasure coursing through your body, building the tension in your core to dizzying heights. He savors the taste of you, his mouth watering as he laps at your swollen folds, his movements growing more urgent with each passing moment.

But Hunter isn’t content to rely on just his tongue alone. With skilled precision, he slips two fingers deep inside you, curling them just right to stroke that elusive soft spot deep within your core. The sensation of being filled by him is overwhelming, the dual assault of his tongue and fingers driving you to the brink of ecstasy. “I’m close Hunter” you moan as he quickens the pace.

“Cum for me mesh’la” he whispers against your wetness gazing up at you, before he leans back in to deliciously suck on your clit thrusting his finger in and out, massaging that soft spongy spot inside you. That was all you needed and with a loud moan, you feel your climax cresting, the waves of pleasure crashing over you with an intensity that leaves you trembling in his grasp, his arms supporting your weight against the wall. Hunter's lips work tirelessly against your swollen flesh, coaxing every last drop of ecstasy from your trembling form as you surrender to the overwhelming feeling.

After sending you into a frenzy of pleasure, Hunter withdraws his fingers from your pulsating core, glistening with your essence and with a hunger still burning in his eyes, he brings them up to his lips, his tongue darting out to lick them clean with an almost reverent fervor, his eyes locked on yours.

As the aftershock of your orgasm subsides he slowly gets up trailing soft kisses up your body, cupping your breast on his way until he reaches your neck. He softly bites into your flesh and you feel his bulge pressing against you again. One hand wrapped around his neck, you reach out with the other one to trail over his bulge and as you feel his thick cock twitch under your touch a soft moan escapes his lips. “This is what you do to me” he whispers in your ear. “Do you know how many mornings I had to get up before you and slip into the fresher to take care of that. You drive me crazy, you know that?" Hunter growls, his eyes dark with desire as he pins you against the wall, his hands roaming over your body pressing himself closer against you. "I want to be inside you, to feel you clenching around me as I make you come undone again." You gaze up at him and reach out, slipping your fingers into the waistband of his blacks to pull them down and finally give his cock the attention he is aching for.

“Not here” he whispers and lifts you effortlessly into his arms, carrying you to his bunk with a tenderness that belies the raw desire burning in his eyes, while the storm outside is raging and tearing on the Marauders hull. Gently laying you down on your side, he quickly strips off his blacks and positions himself behind you, his strong arms wrapping around your waist as he pulls you close into the position you’ve been sleeping in for the last weeks.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he lifts one of your legs, positioning it just right as he guides his throbbing cock to your slick entrance, teasing you and coaxing a few moans from you already. “Are you ready to take me?” he asks softly, his voice laced with desire.

"I've been aching for you," you admit, your voice coming in shallow gasps “I want to feel every inch of you Hunter”

The sensation of him sliding into you is nothing short of euphoric, every inch of him filling you to the brim as he buries himself deep inside your welcoming heat.

“Fuck," he groans, his voice rough with need as he begins to move slowly, thrusting deep inside you. "Do you know how many nights I have fantasized about taking you like this?" he confesses.

You arch your back, meeting his thrusts with eager anticipation. "Show me how much you want me," you gasp, your voice a breathless plea as you urge him on, your hips meeting his with each powerful thrust.

Hunter responds eagerly, increasing the pace as he drives deeper into you, his movements becoming more desperate with every thrust. One arm wrapped around your waist, his other arm reaches out to find your clit, trailing circles around your pearl to increase your pleasure. You can feel the tension building in your body again, the familiar coil of pleasure tightening in your core.

"Please," you whimper, your voice filled with need as you chase your release. "Let me cum."

With a low growl, Hunter redoubles his efforts, his movements growing more urgent as he drives you both towards the brink of ecstasy. The intensity of his thrusts sends waves of pleasure crashing over you, the sensations overwhelming as you fully surrender to him. “Come for me cyar’ika” he groans in your ear, pulling out of you until only the tip of his cock rest within you, only to slide back in even deeper than before reaching that extra sweet spot deep within you.

Crying out his name, you tumble over the edge, the intensity of your second orgasm crashing over you like nothing you’ve ever felt before, your walls desperately clenching around him. “Where do you want me to cum?” he asks his breath ragged. “Inside” you moan and as the last waves of your orgasm wash over you, you feel his cock tighten with each thrust until he fills you up with his hot, pulsing release, his cum spilling out around his length and onto the sheets beneath you. You feel the warm, sticky wetness coating your thighs and oozing out of you, his cock still inside you, as you cuddle up closer to him. As his cock softens and slowly slips out of you, he savors the sight of his milky cum seeping out of your core, planting gentle kisses along your thighs. 

For a blissful moment, you lie entwined in each other's arms, the world around you fading into obscurity as you bask in the warmth of your connection. But soon, reality intrudes, and Hunter's voice breaks through the haze of your afterglow.

"Let's get you cleaned up, before the others come back" he murmurs, his touch gentle as he lifts you into his arms once more, carrying you to the fresher, with a tenderness that speaks volumes of his affection.

As he sets you down, he leans in and kisses you gently, his lips lingering against yours as he whispers sweet loving words. "You're intoxicating for me, cyar’ika, nobody has ever made me feel the way you do" he murmurs, his voice still husky with desire. "I can't get enough of you." His words send another shiver down your spine, and you feel your wetness starting to drip again as desire courses through your veins once more and you look up at him with a hunger not yet sated.

"Mesh’la you seem like you've been starving," he remarks with a playful grin, before stepping into the fresher with you and closing the door behind him, leaving you both enveloped in the dim light of the little cabin.

He steps closer, his hand finding yours and he guides you into the little shower, his eyes never leaving yours. He reaches for the controls and as the hot water starts to flow, steam begins to rise around you. The warmth of the water envelops you both as Hunter presses you against the durasteel wall, his lips finding yours in a loving kiss, your bodies pressed together in a passionate embrace. His hands roam eagerly over your body, cupping your breasts, gently pinching your nipples and his kisses leave you breathless.

With a hungry glint in your eyes, you brake away from his embrace and sink to your knees before him, eager to taste him. Taking his throbbing length in your hand, you guide him into your mouth, savoring the salty tang of his skin and the leftover of your mixed juices as you explore him with your tongue. You brush soft kisses against the sensitive skin and slide your flat tongue up against the underside of his cock until you reach the tip.

"Oh cyar’ika, that feels so good," Hunter groans, his fingers tangling in your hair as you take him deeper, teasing him with swirls around the tip. Your mouth works eagerly, lips stretching around him as you take him deep, relishing the way he fills your mouth. You hollow your cheeks and suck gently, applying just the right amount of pressure to drive him wild. With each bob of your head, you feel him grow even harder, his breath coming in ragged gasps as you bring him closer to the edge. You use your hand to stroke his length, matching the rhythm of your mouth as you eagerly suck him deeper, your tongue flicking against the sensitive underside. Hunter's groans of pleasure spur you on, his hips bucking against your hand as he thrusts into your mouth, seeking more of the exquisite sensation you provide. You tease him mercilessly, tracing patterns along his length and flicking your tongue against his most sensitive spots, driving him to the edge of loosing control. But you’re not ready to let him go just yet and just as he's about to lose himself in the bliss of your touch, you pull away, leaving him panting and desperate for more.

"Not yet," you whisper, your voice husky with desire. "I want you inside me."

With a low growl of approval, Hunter lifts you up effortlessly, pressing your back against the cool steel of the freshers wall. You wrap your legs around him, pulling him closer as he cast one last look deep into your eyes, before he enters you with a single, powerful thrust.

The sensation of him filling you up again is almost overwhelming, every inch of him stretching you to your limit as he drives into you again and again, his pace relentless and unyielding.

"Oh fuck, Hunter," you moan, your voice echoing off the walls as pleasure courses through your body, your pussy still sensitive from your last orgasm "don’t hold back. I’m already close”

He obliges, his movements growing more frantic as he chases his own release, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the air as you both surrender to the pleasure consuming you.

With a shared cry of ecstasy, you both reach your climax, the intensity of your orgasm vibrating through your whole body and with a low, guttural groan, he spills his seed deep inside you, filling you up with his warmth as you cling to each other, the warm water washing over you. The sensation of him pulsing within you sends another round of shivers coursing through your body, leaving you completely breathless and spent in his arms.

Hunter's touch remains tender and loving as he slowly sets you down, your trembling legs barely supporting your weight. “You've been on my mind constantly, cyar’ika,” he whispers “but I've been holding back, afraid to ruin what we had” He spoils you with soft kisses, washing away the traces of your passionate encounter with gentle hands. And as the warm water cascades over your skin, you can't help but smile, knowing that this is just the beginning of a new chapter in your relationship with him. Wrapping your arms around his neck you lean in to kiss him "Hunter," you whisper, gazing deeply into his eyes, "I love you."

As the sounds of the rest of the crew entering the Marauder echo through the ship, you and Hunter find yourselves still in the fresher, knowing there is absolutely no way to conceal what has just taken place. The evidence of your intimate encounter is laying plain to see on Hunter's bunk, the sheets soaked with a mixture of your arousal and his release and your clothes thrown all over the floor.

“Don’t worry” he whispers softly with a kiss on your forehead and wastes no time slipping into a pair of shorts that he fished out from the laundry, offering you one of his sleep shirts as a makeshift cover-up. "Here, take this," he says, his voice soft yet reassuring. "You'll need something until we can get your clothes."

You accept the shirt gratefully, the familiar scent of him providing a sense of comfort amid the impending ridicule from his brothers. “Ready?” Hunter asks with a reassuring smile before he steps out of the fresher and you follow close behind him, bracing yourself for the reactions awaiting you.

As you enter the main area of the Marauder, Hunter's brothers greet you with knowing smiles and playful teasing, your clothes splattered on the floor around them. "Well, well, what do we have here?" Crosshair quips with a mischievous grin, eliciting a chuckle from the others.

Hunter's arm finds it’s way around your waist, pulling you close, a silent gesture of protection as you face their good-natured ribbing. "Just couldn't wait to get cleaned up after the rain, could you?" Crosshair continues to tease toward Hunter.

Despite the light-hearted banter, you can’t help but feel a sense of embarrassment at the thought of your private moment being so blatantly exposed. But with Hunter by your side, offering unwavering support and reassurance, you hold your head high, determined not to let the situation dampen your spirits.

“You’re just jealous” Hunter grumbles to shut Crosshair off “and now stop it, you’re making her uncomfortable, and I will not let that happen” but Tech can’t contain his excitement any longer. "So, does this mean I can finally get rid of the useless extra bunk and put the space to better use?" he interjects eagerly, his eyes alight with anticipation.

Hunter's gaze softens as he turns to you, searching for your confirmation, a look of love and adoration in his eyes. "Yeah, I don’t think we need that anymore," he agrees, his voice filled with warmth as he speaks, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

Crosshair grunts and gets up to continue stowing away the supplies they brought in. “My calculations are always correct Hunter” Tech adds with a satisfied smile, before he follows him.

[magmagicstyle]

THE LITTLE GHOST OF HARRENHAL

In the haunting ruins of Harrenhal, Aemond Targaryen is confronted by the ghost of his nephew, Lucerys. But Lucerys offers something far more painful than vengeance—understanding and forgiveness. Ultimately, Aemond is left with only his memories and the phantom touch of the one he lost forever.

Hi, sorry if there are too many grammatical mistakes. Please be kind and remember that English isn't my first language. The IDEA for this one-shot came thanks to the wonderful @violetastridhotd! Thank you. IF YOU WANT TO READ IT ON AO3: here's the link

The ruinous hallways of Harrenhal stood early quiet, a deep and suffocating kind of silence that wrapped itself around the castle like the shadows clinging to its walls. The once-great fortress was a shell of its former self, scarred and broken by time, just as its current occupant felt himself to be. Aemond Targaryen sat near the hearth, staring into the last flickering flames of a fire that had grown cold, much like the rest of him. His long silver hair was loose, falling in wild strands over his shoulders, and his single eye—sapphire gleaming in the dim light—was fixed on the dying embers. The chill of the castle seeped into his bones, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when the true cold had taken residence within his heart, freezing him from the inside out, making him feel like he had died while staying in the world of the living.

Aemond's mind, once sharp and focused on war and conquest, now swam in the murky waters of regret. How long had it been since he had arrived at Harrenhal? Days? Weeks? Time had lost its meaning in this desolate place, where every corner whispered of death, betrayal, and madness. It felt like it had been a long time since he had claimed this haunted keep, yet he found no solace here. No glory. Only cold stone and darker memories, and the voices that haunted Aemond were not those of the thousands of souls who had perished within Harrenhal's walls. No, the voice that haunted him most belonged to the one person he could never escape.

Lucerys.

Aemond's jaw clenched at the thought of his nephew—the nephew he had chased through the storm, the nephew whose life had been cut short by the dragon he had once believed he could control. Vhagar had snapped him out of the sky like a wolf devouring a lamb, and in that single, terrible moment, Aemond's world had changed forever.

Vhagar... the dammed storm...

The image of Lucerys’ terrified face flashed before him, as vivid now as it had been when he last saw him alive when the storm howled and raged at Storm’s End. The boy's brown curls, his wide eyes filled with fear, and the moment everything had spun out of control. The moment Vhagar... no, the moment he had taken Lucerys’ life .

I didn’t mean for it to happen… That was never meant to happen.  

The words echoed in his mind, a futile refrain. But they didn’t matter. Intentions were meaningless now. Regret was meaningless now. It wasn’t like his regret or heartbreak would bring his nephew back to the world of living. It wasn’t like he could have Luke back to hear his laughter, even when it was at his expense. Lucerys Velaryon was dead, and Aemond’s hands were stained with the blood of his kin.

He would never be able to wash it away.

He closed his eye and leaned back in the chair, the flickering light casting harsh shadows across his gaunt features. His body was as exhausted as his soul, but still, sleep would not come. How could it? Every time he closed his eye, he saw it again—the storm, the wind, the look of fear in Lucerys’ wide, innocent eyes. The sickening sound of Arrax's flesh being torn apart and the crunch of bones breaking, Lucerys was so small, so young and he along with his dragon had been torn apart by Aemond's lack of control over Vaghar. The dragon had acted on instinct and no matter how many times Aemond told her not to do anything, it was too late. He can still remember how terrified Lucerys looked...

Luke...  

Aemond would always remember the way the young dragon's flesh and blood fell into the sea as he watched from the sky, knowing it was his fault, that he had ended his nephew's life in that horrible way. That image would follow him forever. That… and the terrible, final silence that followed. 

Aemond remembered how his lips parted at the horrifying sight. There wasn’t much that would make him feel uncomfortable, after all, he was ready to be a warrior, but the view of the dragon falling and the fact that he had killed Lucerys had shaken him. His lips parted, but no sound came for a few seconds. He had no words left for the grief that was hollowing him out piece by piece, even now, in the middle of the night, in the desolated Harrenhal, he didn’t have words to explain the pain that crushed his heart when he thought about his nephew. He had chased the boy through the storm intending to frighten him—maybe even hurt him a bit, just a small revenge from the damage the younger boy had done to his eye so many years ago—but he never intended to kill him. Not his Lucerys.

“Lucerys…” he whispered in the cold of the room, the name breaking like glass on his lips, and for the first time in days, his eye burned with the threat of tears.

Lucerys, Lucerys, Lucerys… My Lucerys… 

A sudden shift in the air made Aemond's breath catch in his throat, his thoughts stopping for a second. The temperature in the room plummeted further, a biting chill that sent a shiver down his spine. He sat up straight, heart pounding, as a faint light seemed to bleed into the edges of the room—a soft, otherworldly glow that he knew should not be there.

Along with the soft gleam that had appeared, the silence of the hall was broken by the faintest of whispers, so soft that Aemond almost thought he had imagined it. But no, there it was again, drifting through the cold air.

"Aemond…"

He froze, his heart hammering in his chest. The voice was achingly familiar—too familiar… And then he saw him.

The ghost of his nephew stood at the entrance to the hall, bathed in the pale light of the afterlife. Lucerys’ face was as gentle and innocent as it had been when Aemond had last seen him—young, with wide brown eyes, a small and kind smile playing on his lips. He looked as he had in life, but with an otherworldly glow that made him seem even more delicate, more fragile.

His small form was dressed in the clothes he had died in, though they were now unmarred by blood or the storm’s water. His hair, dark curls that Aemond had once tugged at in their youth, framed his gentle face. But it was his eyes that held Aemond captive—those same brown eyes that had once looked up at him with fear, now filled with something else entirely.

Forgiveness.

Aemond’s throat tightened, his breath frozen in his lungs. This was not real. It could not be real. But Lucerys—Luke—looked as real as he had the last time Aemond had seen him alive. His lips quirked up into a soft smile, one that made Aemond’s chest ache with a feeling of deep, unbearable sorrow. 

Lovely foolish Lucerys… How can you smile in my direction when I’m the one guilty of your death? 

“Lucerys?” Aemond’s voice cracked, barely a whisper, as though speaking too loudly would cause the boy to vanish like smoke in the wind. Right now, that was his bigger fear, for him to push away the only presence of Lucerys that he was being blessed with, even if this was probably part of his imagination. “Is it… is it truly you?”

The ghost took a step forward, and the soft glow that surrounded him seemed to pulse, like the fading light of the sun as it set on the horizon. “Uncle… Aemond,” Lucerys said, his voice as soft and kind as Aemond remembered from their childhood, before the war, before the hatred. “It’s me.”

Aemond rose to his feet on trembling legs, his body aching under the weight of his grief. He didn’t know what to do. He wanted to stay, to bask in Lucerys’ presence, to beg for forgiveness and absolution from this vision… but at the same time, he wanted to run, to flee from this invention from his mind that threatened to break him apart. Still, he found himself rooted in place. As if sensing his hesitation, Lucerys came closer, his small hands hanging loosely at his sides. He got so close that Aemond could see him clearly now—his nephew, the boy he had killed.

“I…” Aemond’s mouth moved, but the words were stuck in his throat. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his nails digging into his palms as he struggled to breathe. This was too painful… Too cruel... “Why are you here?” His voice was a broken rasp. “Why do you haunt me?”

Lucerys tilted his head, his expression softening even further, looking at Aemond with sadness and love. “I don’t haunt you, Aemond. I’m not here to hurt you.”

The words stung, cutting deeper than any accusation ever could. Aemond’s heart twisted painfully in his chest. Why? Why would you not want to hurt me? He could feel the tears threatening to spill over, but he forced them back. No matter how much pain he was feeling, how much he felt that his heart was being pulled out of his chest and how he couldn’t breathe from the sheer pressure that he felt at being in front of Lucerys. He did not deserve to cry. Not for this. Not for the boy whose life he had ended.

“I don’t deserve your kindness, Lucerys.” His voice shook, and he looked away, unable to meet those gentle brown eyes any longer. 

Why? Why do you look sad for me? Why do you look at me with so much love? I don’t deserve your love.  

“I don’t deserve your forgiveness. I took everything from you.” Aemond said almost desperately while looking at the floor, his voice breaking a bit at the last part. He couldn’t bring himself to look up, to look at Lucerys… He didn’t deserve it. 

Lucerys stepped closer until he was standing directly in front of Aemond, his presence as gentle and calming as a spring breeze. He couldn’t help it and he looked at his nephew, noticing how the younger boy’s eyes were filled with a warmth that made Aemond’s heart ache in ways he had never imagined.

“You didn’t mean to,” Lucerys said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I know you didn’t mean to kill me.”

Aemond let out a broken, humorless laugh, his shoulders shaking with the weight of his guilt. “It doesn’t matter,” he muttered, his eye burning with unshed tears. He would not cry. He wouldn’t allow himself to cry. “I still did it. Vhagar still—”

“I know,” Lucerys interrupted softly, his tone full of understanding. “But I don’t blame you, Aemond. I never did.”

Aemond’s breath caught in his throat, and he felt as though the ground beneath him was crumbling. How could Lucerys stand there, looking at him with such love, such forgiveness, when he had stolen everything from him? How could the boy he had killed be the one to offer him the absolution he had so desperately longed for?

“I… I thought I wanted revenge… but I just wanted… I wanted you to love me,” Aemond whispered, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. His voice cracked under the weight of his confession, and his hands trembled at his sides. “And I ruined it. I ruined everything.” He said, bitterly. He wanted to scream, cry and curse at the gods that had condemned him to destroy the one person who could truly love him.  

Lucerys’ eyes softened, and for the first time since his death, Aemond felt the warmth of another’s touch as the boy reached up to cup his cheek. It was faint, like a breeze barely stirring the air, but it was real. He was real. 

Oh… He’s really here.

“I do love you, Aemond,” Lucerys whispered, his thumb brushing softly against Aemond’s skin. “I always have.”

Aemond’s heart shattered. The thread keeping him calm and composed had finally snapped in two. And without being able to stop himself, the tears he had fought so hard to keep at bay broke free, spilling down his face in hot, silent streams. His chest heaved with the weight of his sorrow, his grief, his regret. He had longed for Lucerys’ love, had yearned for it with every fiber of his being, and now he would never know it—not truly.

“I’m so sorry,” Aemond choked out, his voice breaking with the force of his sobs. “I’m so sorry, Lucerys. I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” Lucerys said gently, his eyes filled with an endless, unconditional love. “I know, Aemond.”

Aemond fell to his knees before the boy’s ghost, his body wracked with sobs as he clung to the hem of Lucerys’ cloak. He could feel his heart breaking all over again, shattering into a million pieces that would never be whole again. He would never know how would it feel to wake up beside Lucerys, to feel his small body between his arms, to kiss his lips. He would never hear his laughter again, his teasing voice, he would never see the pout that he made when he was annoyed at something, and he would never be able to grow old with the love of his life.  

Still, Lucerys stood there, his presence a quiet comfort, his love a balm for Aemond’s shattered soul.

“I forgive you,” Lucerys whispered, his voice soft and soothing. “I forgive you, Aemond. You don’t have to carry this burden anymore.”

But Aemond couldn’t let go. How could he? He had taken everything from Lucerys—his life, his future, his happiness. Not only that, he had taken away the possibility of a future together. Because knowing his lovely Luke, he would have found a way to stay together… Aemond didn’t deserve to be free of this regret… And now, his adorable Lucerys was in front of him, offering Aemond the one thing he could never forgive himself for.

“You deserved better,” Aemond whispered, his voice broken and filled with sorrow. “You deserved so much more.”

Lucerys knelt in front of him, his small hand reaching out to touch Aemond’s face once more. “Maybe… Maybe not… but I know I had what I needed,” he said quietly. “I had you, I had your heart.”

Aemond’s heart clenched painfully in his chest, and he closed his eye, his tears still falling freely. For so long, his desires for revenge had covered his real feelings, he, in his dumb, young mind, had wanted to protect Lucerys, to keep him safe, but in the end, he and his foolish actions had been the one to destroy him.

“I will never be free of this,” Aemond whispered, his voice filled with the weight of his guilt. “I will never forgive myself… I won’t…”

Lucerys smiled, his eyes soft and full of love. “Then let me forgive you.”

Aemond looked up at him, his vision blurred with tears. Lucerys’ face was bathed in the soft glow of the afterlife, and in that moment, Aemond saw not the boy he had killed, but the boy he had loved.

And then, with one final, soft smile, Lucerys began to fade, his form dissolving into the misty light of the otherworld.

“I’ll always forgive you, Aemond,” Lucerys’ voice whispered as he vanished from sight, leaving Aemond alone in the cold, empty halls of Harrenhal.

Aemond remained there, on his knees, his tears falling silently onto the stone floor. The warmth that Lucerys had brought with him was gone, the kind touch of his love had faded with him, leaving behind only the icy chill of regret.

But Aemond didn’t move. He couldn’t. His legs felt weak, his body heavy, as if the weight of all his sins had finally anchored him to the ground. The fire had long since died out, and the only light in the room came from the faint moonlight filtering through the broken windows. His heart was still racing, each beat sharp and painful in his chest, he could hear his own heart, hitting against his ribs with painful punches as if it was trying to run away from his body. He couldn’t blame his heart… After all, Aemond felt as if his very soul was being torn apart.

For a long while, he didn’t speak. Didn’t cry. He just existed there, in that hollow space of grief, his mind replaying every moment of Lucerys’ death, and every bit of the conversation he just had with the ghost of his loved one.

I will never forgive myself.

It was the only truth he had left, the only constant in a world that had unraveled around him. Even Lucerys, in his infinite kindness, could not absolve him of this sin. Even if Lucerys could forgive him, even if he could move past his horrible death. Aemond knew that he would carry this burden for the rest of his life, a shadow that would follow him until the day he died. Maybe when he died, he would feel that he could forgive himself.

His breath came shallow now, the weight of it all finally pulling him down. Slowly, without thinking, Aemond sank to the floor. His cape had fallen from the chair earlier, and now it lay beside him, a small, insignificant object that seemed almost out of place in this vast, empty hall. He stared at it for a moment, then reached out with trembling hands, pulling the cape beneath his head as he lay down on the cold stone floor. Maybe he should start the fire again, maybe he should look for a warmer place to pass the night, but he couldn’t bring himself to move away from the last place he felt Lucery’s touch on his skin. He wasn’t able to do it. 

The chill seeped through his clothes, biting into his skin, but he didn’t care. He welcomed it—the numbness, the quiet, the peace that could only be found in the void. His long silver hair spread out like a halo beneath him as he closed his eye, his chest still heaving with the weight of his sobs. His body felt like lead, his heart a dead thing in his chest.

Lucerys.

He whispered the name in his mind like a prayer, as if saying it enough times might bring the boy back to him, might somehow undo the terrible wrong he had committed. But of course, it was a futile hope. Lucerys was gone. He was never coming back.

Yet, as Aemond lay there, drowning in his own grief, something strange happened.

A gentle warmth brushed against his cheek, so faint and so fleeting that he almost didn’t notice it at first. His breath hitched, his eye flying open as his heart stuttered in his chest. His hand instinctively rose to his face, fingers brushing over the scarred flesh where his sapphire eye was embedded, but the warmth wasn’t coming from his own touch.

No, this was something else. Something softer.

Aemond’s breath caught in his throat as he lay there, frozen, the warmth growing stronger—like the brush of a hand, the lightest caress, as though someone was touching him with the tenderness of a lover. His fingers trembled as he lowered his hand, his body going rigid as he realized what it was.

Lucerys.

It was impossible, absurd even, but in that moment, Aemond swore he could feel Lucerys’ hand on his cheek—the same gentle touch he had felt earlier when the ghost had stood before him. It was as if Lucerys had come back to him, not as a haunting specter of forgiveness, but as the boy Aemond had longed to love in life.

His heart clenched painfully in his chest, and the tears he had fought so hard to hold back spilled over once more. His breath hitched in his throat, and before he knew it, he was sobbing—great, heaving sobs that wracked his entire body, his chest rising and falling in uneven gasps. His fingers dug into the stone floor beneath him, his body curling in on itself as if he could somehow escape the torment of his own heart.

But still, the warmth remained. Lucerys’ touch lingered on his scarred cheek, soft and loving, as if trying to soothe the pain that had taken root in Aemond’s soul. And for a brief, fleeting moment, Aemond allowed himself to believe it. He allowed himself to believe that what he saw before was real. That the ghost wasn’t a product of his regretful heart but that Lucerys had truly forgiven him, that his nephew had returned—not as a vengeful spirit, but as the boy who had once loved him.

Aemond squeezed his eye shut, his sobs growing quieter, more desperate. He clung to that feeling, to that faint touch, as though it were the only thing tethering him to the world.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice broken and hoarse. “I’m so, so sorry.”

And as the warmth slowly began to fade, as Lucerys’ touch slipped away like the last breath of wind before a storm, Aemond’s heart shattered all over again.

He had been given a glimpse of what could have been—what should have been—and now it was gone. Forever.

The last of his tears fell silently down his cheeks, and as the night deepened around him, Aemond lay there, alone in the cold, broken and hollow. The echoes of his sobs were the only sound in the vast emptiness of Harrenhal, a reminder that no matter how hard he had tried, he would never escape the consequences of his actions.

He would never know Lucerys' love in life, only in the fleeting touches of a ghost.

[rae2velarisart]

Azriel's ongoing theme is to find...

PEACE. WITHIN AND AROUND HIM

To realize that he is:

Worthy of love

Loved by his family for WHO he is as a person

Not defined by his traumatic past and actions

Allowed to fight for who or what he wants

This male has been:

Locked up in a cell for ELEVEN years by his stepmother, only being let out an hour a day and an hour a WEEK to see his mother

Burned ruthlessly by his half brothers at the age of eight, resulting in burns on his hands that didn't fully heal, leaving scars (which he's STILL extremely self-conscious about after 500 years)

Surrounded by darkness and shadows for years without sunlight as a child

Forbidden to train and fly while he lived with his father, something that's taught to Illyarians as a BABY

Shipped off to an Illyarian camp when his father found out he was a shadowsinger

Mocked as a bastard child alongside Rhys and Cassian

Hated by the Illyarians for his immense power due to being a bastard child (Illyarians valued patricharcy more than anything)

Separated from his friends for seven years during the war. (Rhys' father was FEARFUL of the bat boys being together because of their power)

Assigned as the spymaster by Rhys' father and was forced to do all his dirty work (we don't know what ALL Rhys' father made Azriel do during the war, and he was a ruthless male)

Pinning over Mor for over 500 years, even finding out Cassian slept with her

Thinking he is only of value to his friends for his work as a spymaster

Almost killed twice (once when trying to save Elain from Hybern and second when he was pierced by an ash arrow)

Finally able to move on from Mor, finding solace and peace with Elain (who is interested in him as well) only to be ordered to stay away from her due to Lucien being her mate ( even though she doesn’t show interest in Lucien)

Azriel needs some all-around PEACE in his life.

What about a love interest?

The fandom seems to debate on this topic, but one thing for sure is that he doesn't need to be "challenged" by someone... Where do we even see THAT being anywhere in the books?

Here's what we are shown...

1. Where do we find him most at peace/relaxed?

With Elain

Even Feyre states that Elain would find PEACE and QUIET with Azriel... and liked the idea...

2. Who do we find Azriel's focus on?

Elain

3. Where do we find the IC being the most surprised by Azriels reactions/actions?

With Elain

4. Who does Azriel ALWAYS try to beat Feyre to greet/assist?

Elain

5. Who does Azriel always volunteer to help?

(Omg I hit my limit with photos 🤣)

But I strode to my seat—nestled between Amren and Mor—in time to see Elain say to Azriel, “Hello.” Az said nothing. No, he just moved toward her. Mor tensed beside me. But Azriel only took Elain’s heavy dish of potatoes from her hands, his voice soft as night as he said, “Sit. I’ll take care of it.”

Elain

6. Who stills Azriel's razor-sharp thoughts?

Too many razor-sharp thoughts sliced him any time he grew still long enough for them to strike."....

Azriel let his shadows whisk away the box as she said softly, "Put it on me?"

His head went quiet.

Elain

7. Who was Azriel willing to give up his LIFE to save?

From the shadows near the entrance to the tent, Azriel said, as if in answer to some unspoken debate, “I’m getting her back.” Nesta slid her gaze to the shadowsinger. Azriel’s hazel eyes glowed golden in the shadows. Nesta said, “Then you will die.” Azriel only repeated, rage glazing that stare, “I’m getting her back.”

Elain

8. Who openly accepts Azriel's scars, one of his BIGGEST insecurities?

Azriel, graceful as any courtier, offered her an arm. I couldn’t tell if she was looking at his blue Siphon or at his scarred skin beneath as she breathed, “Beautiful.” Color bloomed high on Azriel’s golden-brown cheeks,

Elain

9. Who actually SEES him and notices his needs?

“I had Madja make it for me,” Elain explained. Azriel’s brows narrowed at the mention of the family’s preferred healer. “It’s a powder to mix in with any drink.” Silence. Elain bit her lip and then smiled sheepishly. “It’s for the headaches everyone always gives you. Since you rub your temples so often.” Silence again. Then Azriel tipped his head back and laughed.

Elain

10. Who is Azriel thinking about every night?

He had only allowed himself these thoughts in the dead of night. Had only allowed his hand to fist his cock and think about her then, when even his shadows had gone to sleep. How that beautiful face might appear as he entered her, what sounds she'd make

Elain

11. Who does Azriel want to kiss and have a lovely pussy eating feast on?

Wrong -- it was so wrong.  

He didn't care.  

He needed to know what the skin of her neck tasted like. What those perfect lips tasted like. Her breasts. Her sex. He needed her coming on his tongue --

Elain

ELAIN IS THE ANSWER TO HIS PEACE...

TO HELPING HIM FIND PEACE WITHIN AND AROUND HIM.

[jeankirsteinsgrlfrnd]

PLEASE write about Jean seeing you for the first time in four years 😭. Like you got taken by Reiner or something and when they attacked you went and found him. PLEASE THIS WOULD BE SO COOL!!

at last

pairing: jean kirstein x f!reader

word count: 1.2k +

tw: kidnapping, cursing, angst,

a/n: wow! this is a lil emotional! i hope you love it like i do. also, this isn't proof read.

it'd been four years. it'd been four whole years since you felt the company of your comrades, no, your friends. the day you were taken still burned sharply in the back of your mind, replaying on an endless loop, constantly reminding you of the last day you were happy. there was no forgetting the devastated looks, their faces twisting and contorting with fear. the sounds of their panicked shouts fading into the distance. the most haunting thing of all your brain tortured you with was the feeling of jean's fingertips slipping away from yours.

things like that weren't so easily forgotten, especially from the confinement of your cell. at the end of the day, you were grateful. you were grateful to still have your life, no matter how miserable it might have been. the cell you stayed in was dim, cold and all too quiet. it was the perfect breeding ground for your trauma, festering day and night. of course, there was a time you weren't as grateful; you'd rather have died then reside in marley for whatever time you might have had left. you were angry. you were angry at reiner, at marley, at the scouts for not being successful in their attempts to rescue you. there was fear residing there, too. were your friends alive? where was eren? did they know what you knew? did they know about the cruelty of the world?

eventually, reiner became somebody different. you no longer saw him as the traitor as he once was. you grew to understand him, your resentment eventually fading away. he'd come down most days and visit you. he taught you a lot of things about marley and about paradis. reiner would tell you about the world away from your cell, about things that were happening outside.

the day came where reiner told you that willy tybur, an eldian noble, was going to declare war on your homeland. he seemed remorseful to be telling you this. you screamed at him, begging him to interfere all while reminding him he was once a soldier, too. he ignored your pleas and left you a pacing mess in your cell.

not long after reiner's disappearance, a blond male soldier stopped by your cell. the soldier said nothing as he fumbled around in his pockets before pulling out a set of keys. he unlocked the door as you asked a thousand questions, raising your voice with each word. he said nothing. like reiner, he left without a word.

the sound of eren's titan echoed through the air, shaking the ceiling and causing bits of rock to fall. you thought you were hallucinating, your brain playing another sick trick on you. you heard it again with booms following right behind it. praying on the chance it was real, that eren was really here, your legs took off, your calves burning with each swift movement.

above ground was a nightmare coming to life. the sky was dark. there were no stars to see, the only light from the raging fires. the attack titan's silhouette was visible, muscles rippling as he pounded another titan. there were so many emotions running through the track of your mind but there was one thought that stood out apart from the rest.

if eren was here, were the scouts here too?

then, you heard it. the unmistakable sound of odm gear being launched through the air. anxiety brewed deep within you, letting you know this might be your one chance to go home, begging you to not let it slip away the way jean had let you. tilting your head up to the sky, you saw them. the scouts, in a different uniform than you remembered, were zipping through the air with utter grace. they were angels compared to the relentless war behind them. you wanted to cheer; your saviors were here, at last. you opened your mouth, filling your diaphragm with all the air it would let you and you screamed. you screamed as loud as you could.

"help! it's me, (y/n)!" it was the only thing that came to your mind. you thought your efforts were useless, barely being able to hear yourself over the screams of men, women, and children. the fight between of titans covering up your futile attempts at a rescue. you were about to yell again when you felt an arm snake around you.

the air was cold, an unwelcoming breeze, as you flew through the air with an unknown liberator. your eyes closed as the harsh wind hit them. you'd long forgotten what it was like to be a scout. once being able to zip effortlessly through your environment, you found yourself taken back. the arm on your waist was warm and you reveled in the heat, despite the chilled air around you.

your flight came to an end and only then did you open your eyes. with wide eyes, you blinked, taking in your surroundings. you were on a rooftop now. you centered your eyes in front of you.

"(y/n?)" his voice is choked, barely getting through your name.

jean kirstein.

tears brimming in your eyes like a dam threatening to break, you had let out a guttural cry. the next word out of your mouth was much softer than the sound you'd just made. "jean." you whisper. jean didn't move as water collected in his eyes, spilling over and running down his face. "jean." he nodded his head, at a loss of words. his mouth opened but only the sound of war was heard. jean shook his head and lunged forward, engulfing you in an embrace you thought you'd never feel again.

jean's shoulders were shaking with sobs and the battle behind was long forgotten. jean was no longer a soldier; he was healing. the wounds you'd left had never closed. they were deep gashes all over his body, aching to feel you, to hear you at any given moment. with a single embrace, he felt them closing.

his palm cradled the back of your head, the other wrapped around the entirety of your back. there was nothing said here as you two breathed each other in, finding the love that was once lost with each breath. jean's voice was quiet in your ears.

"i'm sorry," his breath was warm as it poured over the side of your neck. "i'm sorry." jean repeated.

you found it within you to pull away from his arms. you could see him now. you could really see him now. you could see how the four years had hardened him. the only thing that was the same was his eyes. it was the same way he had looked at you back then. his eyebrows twitch with concern, awaiting your next word, scanning your face for a hint.

your mouth fell open, desperately begging you to say something, to say anything at all. the sound of your cry was barely heard over the explosions of thunderspears; your tongue failing you with words once again.

"i know, baby."

you rushed forward, meeting him once again in an embrace. your head became wet with his tears as yours dampened his neck. jean's arms tightened as he let out a shaky breath. "i'm here, baby. you're here with me, at last."

my jean fic 🤍

[innocentimouto]

Do you think the show/franchise should acknowledge that Jet Is one of Iroh’s victims?

Do you mean because the Rough Rhinos were under Iroh's command (or at least their leader was)?

At first I thought no, just because the show moved on from Iroh's flaws and never gave us anything in terms of his victims. I don't see them doing it, let alone doing it right. Also Jet would get even more hate.

But say they could do it right. Then yes, it would be incredible. Even if Jet still died, so long as it was made clear to characters like the Gaang or Zuko and Iroh that he was one of Iroh's victims, I would be happy.

Whatever opinions there are about Jet's actions in war, he did something. He was resourceful and strong; he could have fled somewhere else or survived on his own (however long that would last considering the war). But he chose to help others.

Iroh never did that. I don't think Iroh helped Zuko either, but say he did. One, that's not great when Zuko was invading Sokka and Katara's home or when capturing the avatar. Two, Iroh still never helped anyone in the war against the Fire Nation until the very end.

It makes sense for a character like Jet to be the one to hate Iroh and make it clear that just because the man is elderly and kind doesn't mean he didn't do horrible things in war and then became content with doing nothing to fix it.

It even fits within the storyline. They met on the way to BSS. Zuko's arc needs to go somewhere. Iroh's arc has been stagnant for a while. Jet's trauma hasn't been properly conveyed. Having Jet bring up what Iroh has done, in detail, possibly with victims from Iroh's siege against BSS, would be a great way to force Iroh to be confronted with his actions and forced to give his thoughts on it.

Does he care? Does he care beyond feeling remorse? Has he ever thought about helping people against the Fire Nation?

It also helps Zuko's arc. He's still on the Fire Nation's side, but he's seen the other nations are just regular people. Would having Iroh state whatever his views are on this affect Zuko? If Iroh just brushed it all away with a small shake of the head and some words about letting anger go, would that make Zuko uncomfortable? Because now he has faces to possible victims. And Jet is great with words and can definitely hurt people with them, so I doubt he would stay quiet at whatever Iroh would say.

Or would Zuko simply not care and side with Iroh because he's always known what Iroh had done? Zuko burned a village down himself. Only thing he's done lately is complain about poverty.

It could go either way for them, but I think things would be clear with the Gaang. If confronted with Jet's words, and neither Zuko nor Iroh care or offer much in return, I don't think the Gaang would be that receptive to accepting Zuko later.

The Gaang has never heard Zuko say the Fire Nation propaganda he was fed all his life. I doubt they would forget it if he somehow justified the Air Nomads being massacred. I doubt Sokka, Aang, or Katara would be okay if he justified waterbenders being killed.

Calling someone a peasant or trying to kill them is one thing, but hearing someone explain to you why your people were wiped out and that it was right is not something most people will forget.

(Also we can get development with Toph and her thoughts on the war. And Suki wouldn't get her words about her village being destroyed turned into a joke. Also Haru, because fellow earth kingdom kid who most likely heard terrifying tales of the Dragon of the West.)

And seeing their reactions---horror, grief, rage, pain---no matter how behind Zuko could be on his arc, that would stay with him. He's a teenager. He's hotheaded and selfish and entitled. But he's not a monster. He feels emotions. And while I disagree strongly that he had a good redemption arc, by BSS, he at least had some doubts about some things.

It's an established way to bring Iroh's character back to morally flawed, which is good. Too many things are canon for Iroh to be anything better than that. He learned firebending from the dragons, but still continued killing innocent people? He stood by while Zuko got burned? He let Ozai take the throne without ever challenging him despite being the rightful heir and supposedly realizing the war was wrong?

Iroh had the best chance to at least slow the Fire Nation before Aang appeared. The thing about Iroh is that he's always been content to sit back and not do anything. He wanted Zuko to make tea with him within the walls while the war was coming to a close and we're expected to believe he cares about the wellbeing of other nations? About the war itself? Iroh was one of the strongest firebenders in the world. He had a responsibility to at least atone for the deaths he caused, if not outright confront Ozai.

If you meant that Jet got brainwashed because of Iroh and then eventually killed?

I don't really blame Iroh for Jet's death. I strongly side-eye Iroh for acting completely innocent about what Jet was rightfully saying despite Iroh supposedly regretful for his actions in the war and yet not caring at all that he got an innocent kid arrested by police that everyone knew were capable of making people disappear.

[thoughtfullyrainynightmare]

Hey! Could you please write a Dorothy x Nozel fanfic, and could it be angst with a good ending?

I'm really craving Dorothy x Nozel content because it's an unpopular ship 😭

Thanks!

Hello! Thank you for the patience!

I was trying to think of something fitting for the topic, and this did end up being more angst than fluff. BUT I do promise you a fluffy ending. This time Nozel does the comforting

Pairing: Dorothy x Nozel Genre: Hurt-comfort Fanfic type: Oneshot Length: ~1.8k Contains: Very vague manga spoilers (spade arc), themes of self-doubt and trauma while growing up, my personal headcanons as to why Dorothy left the Witches' forest, bonding over parent trauma, Nozel comforts Dorothy, hugs and affirmations, Nozel tries

The battle in Spade. Devils pouring out from the deepest depths of the Underworld; the realm of creatures believe to be without a heart. Only that they did. Not that by the terms given by those dwelling on this realm, it could be qualified as one. But... it was a heart nonetheless. Granted that such hearts, such creatures, that were there to bring nothing but death and destruction for their own amusement onto the earth, which is why they needed to be stopped.

That had been why Nozel and Dorothy, among their peers, had been there. On that battlefield. To prevent that evil from spilling into their lives, into the world, their place of residency.

They went to war, so that they might live.

So that maybe, hopefully, both of them might live. Truly live. Not just be alive, but live. And while both their bodies still drew air, living ... that would be the next uphill battle. To learn to do that. To shed themselves of ghosts and corpses of past doings that still lingers around as ghosts. In the corridors, the shadows, painted onto the walls. Both in places that were hidden, and in plain sight.

For Nozel, those shadows were much more prominent, no matter how much he tried to keep them concealed. Because he was a proudful man. Someone who needed to upkeep appearances and walls so high they might climb all the ay up to the heavens themselves. A proper Tower of Babel, on top of which he might linger, away from the reach of all, but be punished whatever deity there was in the heavens that had stayed silent for all his life. Through all the choices he had to make all by himself, when there was no one to guide him. No one older and wiser to show him the way, but instead, he had to find answers for himself.

Answers that had proven to be wrong, in the end and through out the process of making decisions. A road he had travelled, but hadn’t known how to turn back either.

All the sins that he had been able to admit to Dorothy. Spill all the burdens that had laid so very heavy on his shoulders, but which had wound around his throat as a spell, to keep him from speaking out in the realm of the humans. But Dorothy wasn’t quite so limited. Because her magic had allowed him to talk and her to listen.

That was how they grew closer. First as colleagues, then friends, and then more...

She held his hand and tried to offer a shoulder, while having very little to say. Because how does one reply to all the things he had to share?

The things, for which he, and Noelle, had gotten a revenge. A retribution. A compensation. If one could call it as that.

But it was a way forward. A step into the right direction, now that he would be allowed to speak about it as well.

One step forward.

One more thought in the raging sea within his mind, as they walked back, after the battle. Into the sanctity of the Royal Capitol, into the Silva estate, holding hands. Their knuckles were pale from squeezing so hard onto each other, as if afraid that they might wake up from a dream, and end up into a nightmare that would be called as the real world.

“Nozel?” She whispered in a voice that was barely audible.

“Mhm?” His hum was just as quiet.

“I’m...” there was a lump in her throat that she swallowed. One of hesitation, of things she wasn’t sure if she should say, or not.

But she had already gotten this far.

They had already gotten this far. And now that he was freed of the curse, then maybe... maybe it’d be alright if she talked about it.

“What is it?” He asked, still squeezing onto her hand, partially fearing what she might have to say, and partially not daring to leave whatever it was unheard.

“I’m... I was thinking that since...” she still hesitated, which evoked a sense of fear within Nozel. A fear unlike he had never felt before. Because... because there was a possibility that she’d say something, about which he couldn’t do anything.

One can’t make another person love another. It is not something that can be forced upon a person, and thus... ought she say what he dreaded within the depths of his very soul, there would be nothing he could do about it.

And that would be a defeat after a victory. A loss that he couldn’t have predicted.

“I was thinking that since...” she started again. “You are confronting you demons,” she attempted to joke. “I might have to confront mine.”

He stopped, but didn’t let go of her hand.

She... has demons? Of her own? He found himself wondering as he stared at her with a look of disbelief, because for all this time, he had thought that he had been the one with troubles.

Sure he knew that she had left home for a reason to come to Clover Kingdom, but the reasons could have been many.

“You’re not the only one with a troubled parent-child relationship,” she attempted to joke again, but her smirk was laced with sorrow.

And it twisted his stomach. It made a wave of nausea wash over him, along with a horrid realization sink in. One that told him that he had overlooked the burdens of the one he held most dear, the one who had always been there. Helping him. Supporting him. Offering him a shoulder to cry on when no one else would. Or could, for that matter.

“And it’s about time I face my mother...”

“How-, was she ...” he tried, but the words died in his throat. Even though now that it had been brought up, he wanted to know.

No.

He needed to know.

He quite simply had to know. And if it was up to him, he would know.

“It’s not exactly an easy thing to hear...” she gave him a gentle smile that almost looked like she was pitying him.

She was pitying him.

Such a strange thing.

Because in that moment, that topic, that time and place, she... it should have been the other way around if anything. If someone was to pity someone else, it should have been the other way around.

“Tell me.”

She looked around the corridor where they stood, and it was only then he realized where they were still standing. Which was why he began walking further into the estate, dragging her along, nearly desperate to get to their shared bedroom as quickly as possible. But the ever-winding corridors felt so long. Far longer than in a long, long time. And he found himself praying that she wouldn’t lose confidence during the walk. During the minutes that it would take for them to reach the bedroom.

And as they got there, the door closed shut, he finally realized that he must’ve been holding his breath. Because he was gasping for air. His chest was heaving.

But as he placed his hands onto her shoulders, and looked at her, he was sure about the words he spoke: “Tell me.”

There was a pause during which her eyes flickered. A pause during which she seemed to question if he really wanted to know. But she could see no lie in his eyes. No hesitation. No doubts. Which was why her lips parted to explain.

“My mother... she felt a need to... try an make a couple of us improve our magics. So that we would be the strongest witches,” she began as her eyes fell down. “My sister... she had the ability to control the fate, which was why our mother made it so that she’d... need to control her own fate. She was locked away, pried away from the world in an effort for her to break out and take a hold of the fates that she was supposed to wield...” her tone was hushed. Quiet. Barely there. “In order to make her fate wielding magic stronger, she’d need to take a hold of herself first. That was how our mother tried to force that ability onto her. Force, specifically,” she emphasized. “And for me... Because my magic is that of dreams...” her voice quivered. “There are many ways to strengthen dreams, but my mother works through opposites.”

Nozel was almost sure where this was headed, but he didn’t-, dare finish the thought. Because the image of a mother was sacred in his mind. So this... this didn’t ... seem right. In any way.

“So my mother made it her mission to make my life quite the nightmare. Quite... literally. So that I would escape into my dreams,” she spoke with a tone that was barely audible. “It doesn’t sound like much but... you see... my mother’s magic can be... scary... The images she can conjure...” she paused for a while, and her eyes shifted around, as if she was seeing something in the space that existed between the two of them. “There is a reason why in Glamour World I have teddies and cupcakes and... all the things a young girl might wish...”

She paused again, for a moment that seemed like a fraction of an eternity.

But it seemed like she wasn’t capable of saying more. Not at this time though.

So, he settled in taking half of a step forward, and wrapping his arms around her.

“I’m here,” he whispered against her hair, while holding her as tight as he dared.

He wasn’t good with words, but he could do something. He could hold her close and tell her that he was there.

Because he was. And he would be.

“It’ll be alright...” he tried.

It was a clumsy attempt and he knew it, but- .... But he tried. And as she wrapped her arms around him, and squeezed back, he knew that she could hear him. That she could feel it.

That he wasn’t going anywhere, and he’d be there to listen when and if she wanted to talk more.

“I’m sorry you needed to bear through it,” he added, which sounded far too much like a rehearsed line for a manual of some kind. A dry statement said when other words failed.

But the sentiment of being genuine was there.

“You didn’t deserve it,” another dry statement, and his jaw tensed from how stupid it sounded to him, when said out loud.

“I know,” she smiled against his chest. “But it’s good to hear it,” she added as her thumb begun stroking his back over his clothes.

Not everything was exactly alright with the world. But... little by little, things were getting better. Things were growing towards a bright future. A future where they might be together, and well.

There might have been more demons to conquest, but... they’d do it together.

[harri-etvane]

In lieu of the next sharing-a-bed chapter, I wrote 1k words of angst instead because I couldn't get this video of Vova at the Kharkiv printing press out of my head.

Let me know what you think? x

For the first time in a long while, Maks isn’t sure what to say; the words he wants to automatically rely on feel trite and useless - 

You’re not okay, are you? I’m sorry. It’s awful. Tomorrow will be better. Let me hold you. I know. I know. You're doing the best you can-

Sometimes, more often now than at the beginning- there is anger, rage; a vicious snarling fury that comes out at night. It’s something he knows how to handle, he knows what to do when there are no other thoughts than revenge like a razorblade; he’ll roll with the punches in the gym at whatever hour, with the barely controlled force that comes and then just as suddenly - goes. He picks Vova up off the mat and holds him quietly as he trembles. This time, he doesn't see the rage come, or go- just the aftermath in all its brittle fragility.

The office is dark now, too dark. The day is at an end and Volodymyr is a silent, faceless figure, bowed beneath the burden he carries, the Ukrainian flag at his back.

“Volodymyr- I think it's-”

“What?”

Volodymyr's rough-edged voice cuts through Maksym like a knife, leaving him flayed open suddenly- a quiet, lone syllable drenched in barely concealed bitterness; what do you want from me now? I have so little left to give.

“Talk to me.”

He doesn't say anything; still staring at his desk. The papers have been filed away, his phone sits silent; there is nothing for him to work at; but he sits, motionless. Maksym bites down on the inside of his cheeks until he can taste blood, his own body aching to reach out, to gather Volodymyr to him and take him away from all this hurt. But he can't. Not yet. Not now. He thinks about the possibility of - one day; of pulling Vova away from this, the moment when he will hand his precious, beloved country to another. He thinks about a quiet, warm cabin in the Carpathian Mountains, or a small, private place by the sea, below the endless blue sky, somewhere he can see his country whole and entire and blossoming. Somewhere he can heal, where he can rest - finally.

But that will come later; Maksym tells himself. It has to. What they have is here and now. He takes a breath in.

“Please. I know today was-”

“Books. Maksym. Children's books-” his voice cracks over the words, one hand clutching hard at the edge of his desk as though if he were to let go, he would shatter irreparably. The pain in his voice runs deeper than water, than blood. His raw, unfettered grief is for more than material as it always is; for the lives lost, the loves fragmented, the families shattered. For the children's books and all they represent - their future as a nation, their hopes for a peaceful and prosperous democracy no longer under the shadow of war. Ukraine's children and all their unchecked, still unrealised promise, waiting to bloom in the sunlight.

“I know.”

The look on Volodymyr's face feels like someone has reached into his chest, pulled out his heart from behind his ribs and crushed it beneath a steel-toed boot. He wishes more than anything he could have been there to try and help somehow; the image of Volodymyr amongst the ruined printing press and damaged books, his face like an open wound will stay with Maksym for a long time. He thinks of the way Vova had folded his arms, gripping onto himself as he listened silently to the manager- another senseless tragedy among hundreds that seem to occur without pause. He doesn't know what to do, what to say to make this hurt lessen somehow.

Vova's quiet inhale is half a sob, some strangled cry from within dragged to the surface and Maks cannot bear it.

“I don't- I don't know how-” 

“I–” the words for a reply are stuck in his throat, lodged there. I know, love. But he doesn't know. 

It is not for want of trying, painfully evident in each quiet attempt Maksym makes to take some of the weight from Volodymyr with varying degrees of success. Sometimes they get little moments together - an hour here or there to read, to drink coffee, to watch the football or listen to the radio. They feel like miniscule victories to be treasured wholeheartedly. Other times, there are days, weeks in between the tiny moments. Countless nights where Maksym places an arm around him and pulls him away from his work at an ungodly hour in the night because he has worked for eighteen, nineteen hours - too exhausted to do anymore. There are weeks on end where he travels through several time zones and speaks myriad languages, until he is too drained to talk, to think, to do anything.

Maksym moves forward and gently turns Vova's chair to face him, placing a hand on his cheek, guiding those dark, tired eyes to meet his, before pulling him to his feet, guiding him to rest against his chest. He swallows hard, but his voice is firm, steady as he speaks, one hand rubbing quiet circles against the knots, the hard grooves of tension in Vova's back

“You're doing everything you can. No-one could ask anything more of you.”

“It's not enough-” Vova’s voice cracks in two again, something desperate about it, agitated.

“It is.”

It has to be - because this country, your most beloved Ukraine; she will swallow you whole if you are not careful and you would let her because you love her; because you would give her anything. You are giving her everything. 

But we cannot lose you. I cannot lose you.

“I promise you. It is.”

In the dark of the office, Maksym feels the weight of Volodymyr in his arms and knows that in the morning, these shadowed minutes of raw, broken misery will be shoved aside in favour of work, of action- always moving forward because if Volodymyr stops, he's never quite sure if he could begin again. But, for now, Maksym can stand here, hold on to him and let the moment pass through them.

[socially-awkward-skeleton]

Tagged by: @eclecticwildflowers @nightbloodbix and @theelderhazelnut (last week) and @thesingularityseries today. Thank you all!!

tagging: @strangefable @direwombat @adelaidedrubman @marivenah @clicheantagonist @shallow-gravy @aceghosts @harmonyowl @detectivelokis @roofgeese @confidentandgood @henbased @florbelles @corvosattano @neverthesameneveranother @cassietrn @josephslittledeputy @josephseedismyfather @stacispratt @strafethesesinners @derelictheretic @voidika @v0idbuggy @inafieldofdaisies @vampireninjabunnies-blog @g0dspeeed @trench-rot @jacobsneed​ @megraen​ @kyber-infinitygems​ (no pressure, of course) and anyone else who I might have missed, please consider this me tagging you!

so this is still VERY rough from chapter 39, but here’s a little snippet of the continuation from the Kit and Grace standoff in chapter 37:

Grace stood frozen, not sure how much time had passed her by. The smell of truck exhaust had long since faded, and the rumble of the engine had disappeared into the distance along with the former Deputy. It didn’t feel real, like being caught in a nightmare and being aware of that fact – a lucid dream. That same feeling she had the day her father died, where some part of her brain refused to accept the reality of the situation.

Kit Cross was a member of Eden’s Gate.

She had no idea when it had happened, how long Kit had been playing a game with all of them, pretending to be one thing when she was just another snake in disguise like Joseph Seed was. Kit had gone and murdered Jess in cold blood, she’d wiped out the Wolf’s Den. God only knew what else she’d done in her time beyond the eyes and ears of the Resistance.

Thoughts raced through Grace’s mind and then it struck her, when the threat of attack was imminent, she hesitated – she never hesitated – she always took the shot.

And yet –

This time she couldn’t pull the trigger.

So much rage boiled inside of her at how the Deputy had gone behind all their backs, had spilled innocent blood in a war that she had been leading, that it made her freeze. Kit was a hero who’d turned to the other side – she had to know this was wrong, it had to be why she stayed quiet for so long.

Shame. She had to have felt shame.

Maybe this was a ploy, some decoy as an attempt to destroy the cult from within, gaining their trust so she could break it down like old sun bleached bones shattering under the pounding crush of her boots. She’d brought Jess’ body to Dutch to say his last goodbyes for God’s sake. There still had to be something worth saving inside of her. The cult couldn’t have corrupted someone who fought so hard for so long. Could they? They weren’t so powerful as to be able to turn a soldier like Cross into one of their own? They were just people who were led by madness, not by God.

Grace rubbed her hands down her face, pulling on the skin, covering her mouth in stunned silence as she stood out in the middle of the street – a lone figure surrounded by black asphalt on a dark day. She had to tell someone, she had to spread the news so that no one else would welcome Kit close enough to wind up with a knife in their back. If they did, it would be her fault.

Walking back to the church, her pace increased, the lengths of her strides growing ever wider as she started to race to the funeral while everything else around her slowed down, frozen in time. Storming towards the pyre, she pushed through the crowd of mourners that still watched the fire burning, the last charred bits of white sheet floating up into the air along with the smoke. She had to get to someone who could spread the word fast, who had reach in the community.

Standing off to the side in quiet solitude, Jerome and Dutch watched the remains of Jess burn away along with the future of Hope County. Jess had been one of the younger members of the Resistance – and along with Wheaty –  had been killed long before time was meant to have taken them. All hope for peace still rested on the shoulders of the older generation while the youth were being rounded up and either shot or locked away by the cult.

Grace stopped in front of the two men, looking between them, knowing this was the worst possible moment to drop something like this in their lap. But if Dutch was ever going to find some sort of way through, a chance at grieving and accepting Jess’ death, he’d need to know the truth. She’d had to be the bearer of bad news before…it was time to do so again.

“I hate to barge in,” Grace spoke softly, her eyes shifting away, her attention wanting to turn back to the road where Kit had once been. “But I gotta tell ya ‘bout what just happened.”

“What’s going on, Grace?” Jerome’s normally stoic exterior looked somewhat shaken by the sudden showing of panic from the sniper.

“It’s Cross.”

“What about her?”

“She’s gone off the rails. I think she’s with the cult.”

“What?” Jerome’s mouth opened in horror, his eyes going wide behind his glasses.

“Think she’s the one who killed Jess too.” Grace’s eyes fell to the ground, unable to look Dutch in the eye.

The old man turned away, silent as his hand clasped to his mouth, his face turning as white as the sheet he’d wrapped his niece in, his eyes squeezed shut tight fighting against the rising need to be sick.

“I’m so sorry,” Grace mumbled.

Jerome rubbed at his forehead, squeezing his brow as if a migraine was coming on, until his hand snapped away and his eyes bugged out of his head. “Son of a bitch, I asked her to head to the Henbane to bring the Peggie defector to the safe house.”

“She drove off a little while ago. I should’ve said something sooner, but I –”

“No Grace, you did exactly what anyone else would do. Come with me, we’ve got to get word to Whitehorse.”

They rushed back through the crowd, eyes following the Pastor and Grace wondering what the fuss was about. As they pushed past Mary May, Jerome stopped and hooked his hand around her arm, dragging her along with them.

“What the hell’s going on?” Mary May asked curtly.

“We need your radio.” Jerome kept walking, focused more on the task at hand than the usual socializing. “You were right about Cross, she’s turned Peggie.”

Mary May’s feet firmly planted to the ground, stopping the group in their tracks. She looked between Jerome and Grace, not quite believing it. “No, fuck off.”

“I wish it was a joke. But I sent her off to the Jail and we need to make sure she doesn’t get her hands on –”

“Aw shit, the Peggie defector.”

Mary May jogged forward, leading the other two back to the Spread Eagle. Rushing to grab the keys from her purse and unlock the door, the keys fumbled in her fingers, knowing every second wasted meant the life of another was coming that much closer to its end.

The bar door creaked open and the three Resistance members entered, Mary May rushed to the radio, flipping switches and turning dials to get in contact with the Jail while the other two could do nothing but watch, wait, and pray. 

“Sheriff Whitehorse? Earl, you there?” Nothing but static, silence.  She twisted knobs to tune the frequency further. “Sheriff Whitehorse? This is Mary May Fairgrave. If you can hear this, I need you to answer me. You can’t give the Peggie –”

A loud hiss and a pop stopped the transmission.

“Motherfucker!” Mary May slammed her fist down on the radio in frustration.

Trying to reach the County Jail from Fall’s End was still hit or miss most days, the only one with any real luck of reaching everyone was Dutch and heading to his island would be no use. Kit would have already reached the Jail by then, the cult member taken care of however Eden’s Gate was known to do so.

Grace moved for the door, “I’m going after her.”

“No, can’t risk you getting hurt.” Jerome maintained his position as the voice of reason. “You need to tell us exactly what Cross said to you.”

Her hands fell to her hips, fingers pulling and gripping at the material of her shirt, fidgeting the only way she had available. “I asked her which side she was on. She didn’t take it so well. She snapped and then told me she found her purpose in the mountains.”

“Jesus Christ,” Mary May muttered, her chin falling to her chest in horrified disbelief.

“Jacob got to her,” Jerome remarked.

“Not surprising, really.” A hand drifted through blonde hair, rubbing at the roots to remove the tension headache. “Should’ve seen it coming sooner. Always had that same cold, distant thing he had going on the few times he came around,” Mary May said.

“We have no idea what he did to her to make her join.”

“Oh stop fucking standing up for her, Jerome! She’s a goddamn Peggie and we all know how bad they are. Not a single fucking one of them are in their right minds.”

[southrnweed]

❛ if you die, i'll kill you. ❜ — Ridley

He's conscious of the way his brain immediately latches onto the first defense mechanism it can grasp, that it knows so well-—humor. That urge to playfully remark that you can't be killed if you're dead, silly sits on his tongue; it dies there, he's too aware to be able stomach saying it. Then he gets to sit with that awareness, that out of body experience of recognizing your own behavior and having to struggle against it as if he were two entirely different beings in one body.

Thistle felt like an aggressive dog straining against its leash and collar-—while he was also the poor fuck trying to hold himself back.

It was uncomfortable to recognize he was cared about, that there was concern for him. That his actions and what they did to his own well-being mattered now. He wanted to dismiss the regard, lash out at it-—do anything but exist with it and accept it. That quiet civil war raging within his own mind as part of him wanted to snap and bite and bolt while another part of him was aware he was on some pussy manbaby shit and needed to nut the fuck up and deal with this because it wasn't going away. Whether he liked it or not, this mattered now. Things had changed and as terrifying as that was, it wasn't just for himself that he needed to adapt.

He works his jaw, nods a few times as he collects his words. Honesty is what he chooses, no flowery and avoidant bullshit.

❝ Yeah. No, I get that. Heard ya loud and clear, Rids. I'm workin' on it...the whole not dying thing. Promise. There's just gonna be a li' bit of a learnin' curve you're gonna have to stay with me through is all. ❞

[isaac-t]

You're my favorite person,

He chases Lucerys, only two steps behind.

He's soaked wet, leather clinging to his skin, strands of hair sticking to his skin, thunderous clouds rolling overhead. But there is a debt to be paid, and Lucerys was right on time.

Laughing, Aemond taunts his nephew. Calling him boy, as if he wasn’t one himself. Everything is going his way; making the strong bastard feel what he felt that night, scared, helpless, with no one to defend him. 

He revels in the feeling.

Until Arrax breathes fire, and he loses control over his dragon. 

The largest dragon alive.

A dragon meant for war. 

“Vhagar, No!” 

He roars, his voice echoing, ordering his dragon again, and again, until his voice goes hoarse and all he can hear is the crunching of bones. 

What did you do? 

He could see his mother in front of him, watching him, her eyes welled up with hot tears, full of disappointment, regret . He was meant to be the sensible one, he was supposed to be the one securing alliances not starting wars.

Time slows down, as he starts to dive for his nephew, trying to save him. He will be dragonless but alive , and that is all that matters to him. 

This time his dragon responds to his orders, and he feels rage, and fury boil under his skin. 

There’s a shimmer of hope that rises within his chest when he sees that his nephew is intact, and whole. He reaches for him, and he’s close. A glazed over look appears in Lucerys' eyes,  And Aemond thinks his nephew is scared of him, feeling as if Aemond wants to finish the job himself.

And Aemond doesn’t blame him. He thought once he wanted his nephew dead. But it doesn’t matter, because Aemond will do the right thing this time, he promises himself.

Once he saves Lucerys.

He doesn’t realise how close he is and when he sees the chance he grabs the front of his nephew’.

His world stops when he hears bones breaking, 

No.

No, no no no…

His whole world quiets down, shrinks and shrinks and shrinks until all that exists is him and the boy in his arms.

The boy he hated since he took out his eye, the boy who used to call him uncle with the most affectionate tone, the only boy who used to make him smile.

The boy who changed the course of his life.

“Uncle, will you play with me? I do not know where Jace and Aegon went.”

“You’re my favourite person,” 

“I promise to be by your side. Always.”

He holds his nephew, hands cradling his face, “Stay with me, Lucerys. Please stay with me,” Aemond pleads desperately, shaking Lucerys’ limpless body. 

Please, move.

All Aemond can do is pat Lucerys’ face gently hoping it would wake him up. He doesn’t know when he started crying, but he sees it when they start sliding down to his nephew’s face. And the sight makes him let out a pitiful sob, like a wounded animal.

“Stay with me, Please !”

He begs his selfish nephew to stay alive. 

“Please,” 

“For me. You promised.” He whispers pathetically.

Aemond has always been weak when it came to his nephew.

Still is.

He rests his forehead on Lucerys’ chest, 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to,” He whispers the words that were meant to him. The words he was supposed to hear from the boy lying lifeless in his arms. He holds Lucerys’ face against his chest, mumbling apologies over, and over, as if it would bring him back. 

He would give up his other eye just to hear Lucerys’ laugh again, even if it was aimed at him. Just to feel him moving under his arms, swatting it, cursing obscenities, while ordering Aemond to get away from him.

But it’s all wishful thinking, he muses, when his tears are only dried streaks, as he wraps Lucerys’ body, letting the shore swallow him.

[harrietwritesstuff]

I wrote this a while ago; after that one video where Vova went to visit the printing press in Kharkiv & the way he held himself that day just, stuck with me. I think I posted this on my other blog, but it doesn't harm to have it here for prosperity.

Title: Printing Press

For the first time in a long while, Maks isn’t sure what to say; the words he wants to automatically rely on feel trite and useless - 

You’re not okay, are you? I’m sorry. It’s awful. Tomorrow will be better. Let me hold you. I know. I know. You're doing the best you can-

Sometimes, more often now than at the beginning- there is anger, rage; a vicious snarling fury that comes out at night. It’s something he knows how to handle, he knows what to do when there are no other thoughts than revenge like a razorblade; he’ll roll with the punches in the gym at whatever hour, with the barely controlled force that comes and then just as suddenly - goes. He picks Vova up off the mat and holds him quietly as he trembles. This time, he doesn't see the rage come, or go- just the aftermath in all its brittle fragility.

The office is dark now, too dark. The day is at an end and Volodymyr is a silent, faceless figure, bowed beneath the burden he carries, the Ukrainian flag at his back.

“Volodymyr- I think it's-”

“What?”

Volodymyr's rough-edged voice cuts through Maksym like a knife, leaving him flayed open suddenly- a quiet, lone syllable drenched in barely concealed bitterness; what do you want from me now? I have so little left to give.

“Talk to me.”

He doesn't say anything; still staring at his desk. The papers have been filed away, his phone sits silent; there is nothing for him to work at; but he sits, motionless. Maksym bites down on the inside of his cheeks until he can taste blood, his own body aching to reach out, to gather Volodymyr to him and take him away from all this hurt. But he can't. Not yet. Not now. He thinks about the possibility of - one day; of pulling Vova away from this, the moment when he will hand his precious, beloved country to another. He thinks about a quiet, warm cabin in the Carpathian Mountains, or a small, private place by the sea, below the endless blue sky, somewhere he can see his country whole and entire and blossoming. Somewhere he can heal, where he can rest - finally.

But that will come later; Maksym tells himself. It has to. What they have is here and now. He takes a breath in.

“Please. I know today was-”

“Books. Maksym. Children's books-” his voice cracks over the words, one hand clutching hard at the edge of his desk as though if he were to let go, he would shatter irreparably. The pain in his voice runs deeper than water, than blood. His raw, unfettered grief is for more than material as it always is; for the lives lost, the loves fragmented, the families shattered. For the children's books and all they represent - their future as a nation, their hopes for a peaceful and prosperous democracy no longer under the shadow of war. Ukraine's children and all their unchecked, still unrealised promise, waiting to bloom in the sunlight.

“I know.”

The look on Volodymyr's face feels like someone has reached into his chest, pulled out his heart from behind his ribs and crushed it beneath a steel-toed boot. He wishes more than anything he could have been there to try and help somehow; the image of Volodymyr amongst the ruined printing press and damaged books, his face like an open wound will stay with Maksym for a long time. He thinks of the way Vova had folded his arms, gripping onto himself as he listened silently to the manager- another senseless tragedy among hundreds that seem to occur without pause. He doesn't know what to do, what to say to make this hurt lessen somehow.

Vova's quiet inhale is half a sob, some strangled cry from within dragged to the surface and Maks cannot bear it.

“I don't- I don't know how-” 

“I–” the words for a reply are stuck in his throat, lodged there. I know, love. But he doesn't know. 

It is not for want of trying, painfully evident in each quiet attempt Maksym makes to take some of the weight from Volodymyr with varying degrees of success. Sometimes they get little moments together - an hour here or there to read, to drink coffee, to watch the football or listen to the radio. They feel like miniscule victories to be treasured wholeheartedly. Other times, there are days, weeks in between the tiny moments. Countless nights where Maksym places an arm around him and pulls him away from his work at an ungodly hour in the night because he has worked for eighteen, nineteen hours - too exhausted to do anymore. There are weeks on end where he travels through several time zones and speaks myriad languages, until he is too drained to talk, to think, to do anything.

Maksym moves forward and gently turns Vova's chair to face him, placing a hand on his cheek, guiding those dark, tired eyes to meet his, before pulling him to his feet, guiding him to rest against his chest. He swallows hard, but his voice is firm, steady as he speaks, one hand rubbing quiet circles against the knots, the hard grooves of tension in Vova's back

“You're doing everything you can. No-one could ask anything more of you.”

“It's not enough-” Vova’s voice cracks in two again, something desperate about it, agitated.

“It is.”

It has to be - because this country, your most beloved Ukraine; she will swallow you whole if you are not careful and you would let her because you love her; because you would give her anything. You are giving her everything. 

But we cannot lose you. I cannot lose you.

“I promise you. It is.”

In the dark of the office, Maksym feels the weight of Volodymyr in his arms and knows that in the morning, these shadowed minutes of raw, broken misery will be shoved aside in favour of work, of action- always moving forward. But, for now, he can stand here and hold on and let the moment pass through them.

[intcritus]

It was a warm night, the moon was just shyly peeking from the clouds and the lakeside cabin they've stayed within for the pass few weeks for their time away from the city life was at rest. Fire crackled in his foreground, gentle in its dance and warming him from the cool breeze that passes over and yet, attention was moved towards the cabin doors that part slowly with his forever other half, more than a friend, beyond family and heart keeper. Something with Vega was without words that nothing in the universe could muster up the right label for it, so why bother?

"Vega…" A small voice, more akin to the child that held his first book on magic identification with large tears and no understanding on why he wasn't picked by one of the many elements out there. Only to find out that he was selected by them all, this time, it was without the tears but his eyes were still just as glassy. "I think I'm going to give up my magic." This world… didn't need it, something about this planet should remain asleep and if his mana rings were to be a beacon, he didn't want to be the source of dooming this wonderful place after running away from their prior home in the first place.

 Vega was more acclimated to being outside the inside than within. Something about it was busy, nosy and as someone who’d come from a place as war-torn as Aaphrine, it made him often feel like a beast with a sore paw, cornered with eyes darting and looking for safety. There was always so much going on at once that it was enough tot cause him to get frazzled. Out here with Emon, something in his dark heart settled. It was safe, quiet but then anything within Emon’s presence usually was for Vega.

Joining the other, there’s a moment when his heart stutters when he sees the glassiness in Emon’s heart, his rage becoming a palpable beast at anyone who would put it there before it fizzles out just as quickly and he’s left to blink almost owlishly at his friend. Ah, this had been a while coming, hadn’t it ? To his rampant mind, there was no need for magic here. They didn’t need it here. Sure, for simple thing every day things but even that was replaced by the technological advancements of this world, and why invoke wrath of war upon this war.

And it makes him think back to how Emon had asked if if they were safe, and how his heart had shattered at the question. The pockets of magic in this world needed to stay just that, miniscule. Because if he could live long enough to see that sweet smile blossom and every day the slump in the other’s shoulders be eased, then this was a wish he would prey to someone to uphold. Emon deserved to be happy, to experience new things, to make memories not stained by blood and death.

Pale eyes drift to the fire crackled between them, swallowing before shaking it off then stepping closer to Emon, dropping to his knees, and capturing one of his hands with a small, genuine grin. ❝ ━ Are you telling me looking for my approval ? My disapproval ? Do you think I’d be upset ? ❞ Magic was as much a part of them as breathing, but Vega wasn’t upset, the opposite actually. Emon stepped out and took this new journey seriously, by the veritable horns.

❝ ━ You know, no matter what, I am on your side. If you need anything, I am there. I can and will walk by your side, no one can stop that. ❞ Wet laughter escapes him, bending down to press his forehead against the back of his friend’s hand, uncaring of the tears that drip onto skin, ❝ ━ So tell me, what can I do to ease this transition? The city is unforgiving but not unnavigable. ❞  Lifting his head, Vega lets go of Emon’s hand, opting to instead embrace the other, holding him tightly, a smile upon his lips, ❝ ━ I’m proud of you. Can’t wait to see what you get up to. ❞

no matter which walk of life, he's going to be there. | @nvrcmplt

[cyazurai]

Goldie MacLeod is our third misfit, and an ex-Lawless.

Born in the fall of 2030, she is one of the youngest members of the group, and the most recently joined. She has no memory of a biological family, and in fact, her earliest memories don't include any adults at all. She was raised by some kids and teens that were orphaned by the war, and as the war raged on, they did what they could to survive. Eventually, when the war ended and everything settled, they'd already settled into their way of life, and ended up joining the Lawless. Why rebuild society when taking whatever you want when you want it is so much better? For a long time, that's how Goldie thought too, and she worked as a courier for different Lawless factions. She only realized too late there was no future in it - not for those she truly cared about. When she discovered that her closest friend had been murdered simply because they annoyed another member of the Lawless... she knew she couldn't stay there.

Because of her upbringing, and staying so long within the Lawless, she has taken a few bad habits with her, but she uses them to the advantage of her new community. Specifically, she's got incredibly sticky fingers, and quiet feet. She can quietly slip into a place, get what she needs, and get out, without alerting a single soul. Some of her new friends aren't big on that, but Nymphe knows sometimes certain things need to be done to survive, and Goldie is their best bet.

She also has a bit of a temper, because she didn't exactly have an upbringing that taught her ways to control her emotions, being raised by teenagers who struggle with their emotions enough themselves. Thankfully, it's a quick to light, but quick to die sort of temper.

Another skill she came away with after living with the Lawless is baking. Baking, you might ask? Yes, she was often on kitchen duty when she wasn't sent out to steal things, and she learned that she was both very good at and really enjoyed baking.

With the skills she has accumulated, she will be primarily the chef for their little community while they develop, and she is very happy to have that position. Perhaps her favorite thing to do in life is cook or bake, and perhaps someday, when they've rebuilt the world a little bit more, she can open a restaurant all her own.

[dxmoness]

AFTERMATH | TTM.

[ AUTHOR NOTE ] what happened to them when Sorana died in the Enchanted fic.

[ CHARACTERS ] Lucifer, Death, Ambrose, Thena, Damien, Bravo.

[ PREVIOUS FICS ] ENCHANTED , FEARLESS.

The empire was in shambles. First the emperor, now the princess. Has Wither finally lived up to its cursed name?

Damien Misheru took position as king while Kindred ran. Damien had slaughtered all his brothers, all except one. Bravo, whom he had wished to be allies with. Keyword, wished.

And what happened to Sorana's love interests? Death Tsuki came close to depression. Close because he had Ambrose who shined like his mother always did. He had her features and to the deities he was ever grateful. He held Ambrose close.

But despite this, another was unhappy. This one disappeared into thin air the moment the truth of Sorana's death lay open to him. Lucifer HellFire was in complete disaster. He fled long before the war raged. Taking their young daughter with him.

Thena grew well, well enough to know that her father had loved her mother so much. Lucifer told her of her mother's past. Vague memories. Shown her, her mother's wonderful works and gifts given to him. She missed her. She wanted to see her. She was but two years of age when she died. Died of pressure and depression as Lucifer was quick to mention.

As for Ambrose, Ambrose knew nothing of his mother. Only knew that his new mother was not her. Arianne was hateful towards him because of her and his mother's apparent rivalry.

He and Thena grew close together of course. Despite having different fathers, it was well known that both Lucifer and Death made time for them both during their visits.

Ambrose was two years older than Thena thus it was important to him that she stayed safe.

Visits were frequent, letters flew quickly. Both he and Thena talked every week. If it wasn't a visit it'd be a letter accustomed with a gift from one to the other. Either way the siblings had a bond that was inseparable.

"You've never seen Mother?" A 17 year-old Thena stood there now. Ambrose nods in answer. Thena seemed quiet but the next visit was replaced with a letter and a gift.

The gift was wrapped perfectly so. As if it was so fragile. He opened it in silence. He was interested in knowing what was in it that Thena thought was useful and exciting as she stated in the letter. Inside was an album decorated prettily with a lock clicking into place as if the pictures within were important. His fingers pried open the lock. Eyes widening as he revealed contents.

Inside there was a picture. Death and a woman first. Then Uncle Lucifer. Then there was a blonde male with her too. Then there was a wedding picture of both Lucifer and her.

Realization kicked in as his finger touched the picture of the woman's face. His mother. Thena had sent her album so he could see her. The rose of the empire... He now saw why Arianne was so angry at his mother. She was beautiful.

A turn of the page made him stop. A note was scribbled.

‘From this page and onwards, this album will hold my children's pictures.’ — S.Misheru.

True enough the next pages filled with pictures of him, then Thena. Tears welled up when he saw her mother's smiles in the pictures. How she loved them so. Why'd she leave them?

The last picture was one he will cherish most. Their whole family. Lucifer behind the chair. His mother sat on it while two year-old Thena sat on her lap, four year-old Ambrose at her side. The last picture taken before she died. Words were scribbled on it.

‘To my children who may one day look back to read this, I hope you all have done well, Mommy's proud of you all. Please stay safe and take care of yourselves for me. For even in death I still promise to watch over you until your dying moment. Perhaps one day we can all be together again...A family in the afterlife.’ — Sorana Misheru.

tagging, @sxnful-rage , @roseadleyn , @crownxie , @achy-boo , @lxdymoon0357 , @writerig , @yevene

[ramrage]

here we go round the prickly pear

Rating: T (for now)

Characters: John “Soap” MacTavish, Simon “Ghost” Riley

Tags/Warnings: REINCARNATION AU, Temporary Major Character Death, author is too inspired by ts eliot, suburban AU, will add tags as work grows

ao3 link

chapter 1: welcome to death’s dream kingdom (do enjoy your stay)

A penny for the old guy

“Why the fuck does this keep happening?”

The in-between place—that’s what he called it—was quiet like a held breath, just as it was the last time they were there, and the time before that, too. It didn’t matter what happened or didn’t happen in the preceding life; he and Simon always ended up back in that vast field.

Sometimes Simon would be there waiting for him. Other times he had to wait.

During the waiting periods, he’d walk through the tall grass, feel the blades shimmer against his hands. He needed to. It was one of the few things that felt real. The sky blushed in perpetual twilight—a soft bruise that was sometimes more purple than it was blue, sometimes pink and always shifting though too slow to notice if you were staring. It only became evident when he’d look up after long periods of staring blankly at the shifting grass or occasional tree.

Even the air itself was uncanny.

The air that set the grass in its lazy dance. The air that sometimes carried on it the scent of heather, like home, other times instead burning with smoke and dust, like war.

Always too mild. Never too hot or too cold, neither humid or dry. Blowing soft and gentle until their time was nearly up, and then it would rage. But that wasn’t often. No, more often than not, it passed the timeless time as steady in-and-out breaths, as waves.

The worst was when it drifted past with voices hanging from its tail.

He hated the dying screams.

He hated the sound of his mother’s voice calling him home for dinner.

He hated the distant laughter

and most of all, he hated when it was Simon.

Hated hearing Simon cry out in pain, too far away to help—blew his chest wide open with unsinkable yearning. He hated it all the same when Simon sounded happy, or bored, or angry.

Johnny could walk for what felt like days on end, and sometimes did, but he’d never find the source of the wind-voices, and that’s why he always sunk with dread when they started up again. Whenever Simon appeared, really appeared, he was always close, and his touch always preceded any words.

The voices were just torture, so he tried to ignore them. He could tune them out temporarily, but never for long.

He didn’t like to think of the eyes, so he didn’t. They liked it too much.

Simon was waiting for him this time, looking almost placid within a nest of trampled grass, hand pillowing the back of his head while his unseeing eyes swallowed down the blue-tinged sky. He hadn’t noticed Johnny’s arrival, silent as it was even when Johnny shook the blood back into his extremities, shifted out of place during the undefinable passage out from the past life.

He only noticed when Johnny cried out, helpless and distraught.

“Why the fuck does this keep happening?”

Simon sat up then, offered out his arms as a safe place for Johnny to collapse. The arms wrapped tight, solid, stroking along the other’s back in time with the undulating breeze.

“I don’t know.”

“Is any of this even real?”

“I don’t know. Feels real. You feel real.”

“So do you. You’re the only thing that does right now. Here.”

Johnny pulled back to study Simon’s face, to make sure everything was where it was supposed to be. He’d worried that maybe they’d come back here and something would be different—something small, like a misplaced freckle. And then they’d live and die again and when they’d return, something else would be wrong. Cycle after cycle, Simon would melt into a nondescript man and then Johnny would truly be alone and lost.

But everything was as it should be, so Johnny placed those fears aside for when he could dwell them once more. But not now. Simon was there, firm and real, and he smelled like his bedsheets, that unplaceable scent.

Everything was as okay as it could be.

Johnny didn’t expressly think it, but formless and huge hung the the thought:

“at least for now”

Background noise that Johnny wouldn't—consciously or not—give weight to. Let it stay nebulous and almost imperceptible, but only just.

After all, Simon was here and so even the more salient concerns retracted their claws and slouched in on themselves from where they hunched, staring, in the shadows. Their intangible eyes weighed heavy on Johnny and he addressed them in the case acknowledgement would appease them for a moment.

“I just can’t keep losing you, is all,” he murmured and the eyes blinked slowly within their sunken cavities, but cowered from the sound of Simon’s hum.

“I hate it too.”

Simon said this slowly because the winds were calm and that meant they had time yet. While he paused to consider his words, a bouquet of stars breathed the last of their death rattles and extinguished for forever. “But we always find each other again. Eventually. That’s what I have to tell myself.”

Or else it’ll kill me, too.

“What if we don’t?”

“I’ll always find you. Maybe that’s why we’re here. I couldn’t stand to lose you for good.”

“You really think the universe loves you that much, Si?” Johnny asked, actually chuckled. He did that sometimes, here, but not as much as he used to.

Johnny felt Simon shrug against him, felt hands squeeze against the muscles lining his ribcage. “Thought it hated me for the longest time, but maybe it doesn’t. It’s given me forever with you. Or maybe it’s given you forever with me.”

“Ah, so I’m the chosen one then?” Johnny asked, jaw struggling to form words against the crook of Simon’s neck.

“What do you think?”

“Sounds about right,” Johnny decided, and Simon pulled back gently, drew one hand to cradle the base of Johnny’s skull, the other resting on his forearm. He had a strange look in his eyes, one that Johnny could not name but knew the meaning of regardless. It hung softy like the petals of parted lips, the sweet haziness of falling asleep.

“I agree.”

They sat like that for some time, then settled on their backs shoulder to shoulder for some more time, unspeaking because while there were things to say, they were things that shouldn’t be spoken.

Words had a way of urging on the breeze in this land, and so their silence bought more time within the relative peace of the in-between, if just an illusion.

They lay awash in the smell of bedsheets and fire until the winds eventually picked up as they always did. It was inevitable.

The labored, turning gyre would always turn.

Lips that would kiss formed prayers for a kind life. They would find each other as childhood friends and never leave the others’ side, pass the 80 or so years easily and somehow, die seconds apart as they slept in their shared bed.

Smothered by wind, “I love you” sounded like “amen”. Or maybe it was the other way around. When it grew too loud to hear anything at all, lips that would kiss, did, as they always did before the oblivion.

“I fucking hate this town,” Simon groaned. The lit end of his cigarette crawled toward the filter as he inhaled, paused to rest as he exhaled.

“Fucking sucks,” Johnny agreed.

He liked watching Simon smoke, thought it looked cool. This town wasn’t cool. Sitting on the roof of his family’s house was cool, though, probably because they weren’t supposed to. No one was going to catch them in the middle of the night, but they spoke in low voices to be safe.

This was how they spent their summers.

A penny for the Old Guy

“Why the fuck does this keep happening?”

The in-between place—that’s what he called it—was quiet like a held breath, just as it was the last time they were there, and the time before that, too. It didn’t matter what happened or didn’t happen in the preceding life; he and Simon always ended up back in that vast field.

Sometimes Simon would be there waiting for him. Other times he had to wait.

During the waiting periods, he’d walk through the tall grass, feel the blades shimmer against his hands. He needed to. It was one of the few things that felt real. The sky blushed in perpetual twilight—a soft bruise that was sometimes more purple than it was blue, sometimes pink and always shifting though too slow to notice if you were staring. It only became evident when he’d look up after long periods of staring blankly at the shifting grass or occasional tree.

Even the air itself was uncanny.

The air that set the grass in its lazy dance. The air that sometimes carried on it the scent of heather, like home, other times instead burning with smoke and dust, like war.

Always too mild. Never too hot or too cold, neither humid or dry. Blowing soft and gentle until their time was nearly up, and then it would rage. But that wasn’t often. No, more often than not, it passed the timeless time as steady in-and-out breaths, as waves.

The worst was when it drifted past with voices hanging from its tail.

He hated the dying screams.

He hated the sound of his mother’s voice calling him home for dinner.

He hated the distant laughter

and most of all, he hated when it was Simon.

Hated hearing Simon cry out in pain, too far away to help—blew his chest wide open with unsinkable yearning. He hated it all the same when Simon sounded happy, or bored, or angry.

Johnny could walk for what felt like days on end, and sometimes did, but he’d never find the source of the wind-voices, and that’s why he always sunk with dread when they started up again. Whenever Simon appeared, really appeared, he was always close, and his touch always preceded any words.

The voices were just torture, so he tried to ignore them. He could tune them out temporarily, but never for long.

He didn’t like to think of the eyes, so he didn’t. They liked it too much.

Simon was waiting for him this time, looking almost placid within a nest of trampled grass, hand pillowing the back of his head while his unseeing eyes swallowed down the blue-tinged sky. He hadn’t noticed Johnny’s arrival, silent as it was even when Johnny shook the blood back into his extremities, shifted out of place during the undefinable passage out from the past life.

He only noticed when Johnny cried out, helpless and distraught.

“Why the fuck does this keep happening?”

Simon sat up then, offered out his arms as a safe place for Johnny to collapse. The arms wrapped tight, solid, stroking along the other’s back in time with the undulating breeze.

“I don’t know.”

“Is any of this even real?”

“I don’t know. Feels real. You feel real.”

“So do you. You’re the only thing that does right now. Here.”

Johnny pulled back to study Simon’s face, to make sure everything was where it was supposed to be. He’d worried that maybe they’d come back here and something would be different—something small, like a misplaced freckle. And then they’d live and die again and when they’d return, something else would be wrong. Cycle after cycle, Simon would melt into a nondescript man and then Johnny would truly be alone and lost.

But everything was as it should be, so Johnny placed those fears aside for when he could dwell them once more. But not now. Simon was there, firm and real, and he smelled like his bedsheets, that unplaceable scent.

Everything was as okay as it could be.

Johnny didn’t expressly think it, but formless and huge hung the the thought:

“at least for now”

Background noise that Johnny wouldn't—consciously or not—give weight to. Let it stay nebulous and almost imperceptible, but only just.

After all, Simon was here and so even the more salient concerns retracted their claws and slouched in on themselves from where they hunched, staring, in the shadows. Their intangible eyes weighed heavy on Johnny and he addressed them in the case acknowledgement would appease them for a moment.

“I just can’t keep losing you, is all,” he murmured and the eyes blinked slowly within their sunken cavities, but cowered from the sound of Simon’s hum.

“I hate it too.”

Simon said this slowly because the winds were calm and that meant they had time yet. While he paused to consider his words, a bouquet of stars breathed the last of their death rattles and extinguished for forever. “But we always find each other again. Eventually. That’s what I have to tell myself.”

Or else it’ll kill me, too.

“What if we don’t?”

“I’ll always find you. Maybe that’s why we’re here. I couldn’t stand to lose you for good.”

“You really think the universe loves you that much, Si?” Johnny asked, actually chuckled. He did that sometimes, here, but not as much as he used to.

Johnny felt Simon shrug against him, felt hands squeeze against the muscles lining his ribcage. “Thought it hated me for the longest time, but maybe it doesn’t. It’s given me forever with you. Or maybe it’s given you forever with me.”

“Ah, so I’m the chosen one then?” Johnny asked, jaw struggling to form words against the crook of Simon’s neck.

“What do you think?”

“Sounds about right,” Johnny decided, and Simon pulled back gently, drew one hand to cradle the base of Johnny’s skull, the other resting on his forearm. He had a strange look in his eyes, one that Johnny could not name but knew the meaning of regardless. It hung softy like the petals of parted lips, the sweet haziness of falling asleep.

“I agree.”

They sat like that for some time, then settled on their backs shoulder to shoulder for some more time, unspeaking because while there were things to say, they were things that shouldn’t be spoken.

Words had a way of urging on the breeze in this land, and so their silence bought more time within the relative peace of the in-between, if just an illusion.

They lay awash in the smell of bedsheets and fire until the winds eventually picked up as they always did. It was inevitable.

The labored, turning gyre would always turn.

Lips that would kiss formed prayers for a kind life. They would find each other as childhood friends and never leave the others’ side, pass the 80 or so years easily and somehow, die seconds apart as they slept in their shared bed.

Smothered by wind, “I love you” sounded like “amen”. Or maybe it was the other way around. When it grew too loud to hear anything at all, lips that would kiss, did, as they always did before the oblivion.

———————

“I fucking hate this town,” Simon groaned. The lit end of his cigarette crawled toward the filter as he inhaled, paused to rest as he exhaled.

“Fucking sucks,” Johnny agreed.

He liked watching Simon smoke, thought it looked cool. This town wasn’t cool. Sitting on the roof of his family’s house was cool, though, probably because they weren’t supposed to. No one was going to catch them in the middle of the night, but they spoke in low voices to be safe.

This was how they spent their summers.