#after the angst and mourning is mostly endured

[naffeclipse]

Omg so I just finished A Garden of Garlic and I was curious of what would happen if Sun did turn Y/N after feeding too much from her? 👀

Sun would never forgive himself. He never wanted this life for you, he loathes how cruel and terrible it is—and to curse you with it himself? Devastation. He doesn't believe you would forgive him, either. Yet, he would prepare a coffin for you and wait for you to rise at the next sunset.

The graveyard keeper would suffer the anguish of death, of losing her heartbeat and the ability to tend her garden in sunlight. She would be angry with Sun. She trusted him. He turned her trust into bloodlust.

But he pleads, on his knees, clinging to her ivory dress now stained in what was left of her blood. He swears he never wanted this. He will beg for forgiveness for a thousand years, but please, let him help her through this, then, she can send him away when she knows how to survive on her own.

She mourns, and he mourns with her, but when she first feeds and understands that bloodlust, how devouring it is, how monstrous it makes her, she understands. Her mortal life is gone.

Her new, undead life begins with Sun, side by side in their coffins, rising after each sunset.

[seulgiwifeee]

I need a seulgi x reader when she comforts the reader that's going trough a family issue pls

( bcs I just discovered that my parents are divorcing and I need comfort)

🎀 anon

♡ Member: Seulgi x Femreader

♡ Theme: Angst, fluff

♡ Warning: Going through a parent divorce

Word count: 2.6k

ততততততততততততততততততততততততততততত

That look on your face—it's one Seulgi knows of too well. The underlining despair melded in the contours of your features, your absent-minded gaze, the unshed tears that gloss over your eyes as the late afternoon rays seep past the gauzy curtains and shine over them, making them glisten in a way that Seulgi believes accentuates your beauty effortlessly, making you look ethereal despite yourself. However, it also leaves a heavy ache in her heart, striking her with a pang of guilt and pity as it's only a sheer reminder of the amount of pain you're enduring internally.

It's been a rough week for you, to say the least—your main emotions mostly consisting of sorrow and apprehension. Recently, there has been an influx of conflicts stirring between your parents, some new, some old, and some that have stuck around since you were a small child, barely old enough to add numbers without using your fingers and shielded with a mask of innocence that, at the time, prevented you from fully comprehending the weight of their ongoing feud. But it didn't take long before you, eventually, were deprived of that same innocence, and each day you mourn and strive to cling onto any remnants of purity that may have survived throughout the years just so you can ground yourself to a semblance of sanity and serenity at times you need it most.

It was always a displeasure growing up having to witness every unfiltered argument that unfolded, all cruel and loud. Painfully loud that it was near impossible to block out any words echoing past the already paper-thin walls, every unforgettable word of hatred and resentment exchanged forever ingrained into the back of your mind. Still at quite a young age, your ears grew accustomed to the arguments, the muffled voices becoming almost indistinguishable from white noise any time you managed to zone out.

You had become desensitized quite a bit, though your sensitiveness still crept just beneath the surface, ready to unsheathe your true emotions any moment if you were provoked the right way. And you were beginning to accept the fact that there would never rest a day where you weren't woken up for breakfast to pancakes and deafening shouting with a side of torturous migraines caused by your sleep deprivation, but one day—a day you had never expected to occur in a million years—your parents suddenly decided to turn a new leaf and change all of that.

Deciding this a few years back, the two felt it would be best to try and settle their disagreements once and for all, hoping to someday reconcile that spark of love and trust that once rendered their bond and relationship. They also just wanted to make their everyday life easier, wishing to recoup a sense of normality and stability back into yours as well. It was all truly a miracle; you believed the angels above had finally listened to your desperate pleas and prayers.

Things were guided back on track, arguments rarely broke out, and it finally seemed like things would come out well in the end, but after one unforgiving slip-up, chaos unfurled and things had gone from 10 to 10000 within a matter of days, being 10x worse than what you were living through prior their attempt at reconnection. The damage inflicted has no means to be rekindled, and in recent months, their disputes have worsened to a point that what you once felt was unfathomable has become more than a possibility, more of a reality.

Seulgi knows all about your parents' issues, it was one of the first things you'd ever wrought up the courage to confide after the two of you had curated a bond where you two were comfortable enough to confess sensitive topics to each other such as this. She's witnessed all your breakdowns, seen the tamed and ugly aspects, and has always been there to comfort you on tough days well like this one. But on this day in particular, Seulgi can tell things happen to be hitting you a lot harder than usual.

With a tender gaze, Seulgi watches you from a distance, her eyes growing duller watching sadness consume you profoundly, your face contorting with anguish. She can tell you're trying to evade your emotions, withholding your tears desperately, not wanting to unleash them for whatever reason it may be.

Motionlessly, you sit on the rear end of the bed, your knees tucked into your chest and your chin rests there as you glance down at the carpeted floor. You're well aware that Seulgi's standing at the bedroom entrance, observing as you sulk, but you don't say anything and she doesn't expect you to say anything to her either, at least, not on your own accord.

"Y/N?" Seulgi calls out softly in hopes you'll grow responsive to the timbre of her voice, but your body remains still. You don't even flinch. All the thoughts racing through your mind right now make it nearly impossible to hear or focus on anything other than it; it's insanity!

Exuding a low sigh, Seulgi forces her weight up from the doorframe and limply ventures deeper inside the bedroom. She meets her end in front of you, slightly blocking out the sunlight as her body stands in the way of the curtains. Her expression is sympathetic looking down at you, and her chest tightens examining a better look at your sulky expression.

Stepping aside, Seulgi situates herself in the space next to you, miming your posture as she hurls her knees to her chest and wraps her arms around them. Her hand tentatively reaches out to your side, but she suddenly retreats, creeping it back to herself. Seulgi's unsure of whether or not to touch you right now, not knowing if any sudden contact would agitate or spoil your mood further. So she just sits there in the silence with you, mindlessly clawing her nails into her thighs as her thoughts run in conflict with each other, struggling to join in a unanimous agreement on the best way to approach you.

Seulgi herself is quite the awkward latter, she's not the most confident at handling people's emotions or consoling others since she never really knows what exactly to do. Because everyone reacts differently when moody, she's never 100% certain about what may be the appropriate response, so she's always extra cautious with her wording and actions, hoping that she doesn't adhere to the person's woes. And even though she's known you for almost three years now, dating you for half of that time, and has consoled you plenty of times before, she still hasn't reached a high level of confidence or sureness in herself.

But after fighting the internal battle against her own thoughts, Seulgi settles on what her heart's urging, what she's certain is the right thing to do, even if you end up rejecting it. She slightly shimmies her body closer beside you, the movement barely going unnoticed. Her body scoots again, this time, her shoulder now on par with yours as she rests her legs down, allowing them to hang over the edge of the bed.

Gingerly, Seulgi extends her arms, encircling them around your huddled frame, and holding you in a gentle embrace. Her face rests in the nuzzle of your neck, her breath light and warm against your skin, and she adjusts her grip, making sure you're secure in her hold. Her hand soothingly rubs up and down your back, feeling the way your body tenses beneath her, hoping to tranquilize your nerves.

Right upon feeling her touch, you're reluctant. Your muscles clench and your jaw tightens, almost like you're trying to resist her, as if she's an alien force, but the longer she holds you, her hold unyielding and comforting, you find yourself easing into her ministrations. First, your muscles relax, unclenching as your stress levels dissipate, then, your body adapts to the warm touch and learns to accept the embrace, falling more lax in her arms.

You slowly unravel your arms from your knees, extending your legs out and allowing them to freely hang over the edge of the bed. Your posture right now is quite awkward and uncomfortable, but you remain silent and at a still, continuing to look off with your faraway gaze, your eyes yet to connect with your lover's.

For a few minutes, you're both motionless and don't speak a word, sitting amid the room's silence, save for the soft buzzing of the fan. You take the time to sit in and ponder your emotions, but suddenly, a part of you cracks. It all becomes too overwhelming—you can't take it anymore.

Like a coil spring, your body jolts up and you jump into Seulgi's lap, squeezing your knees tightly around her waist and clinging your arms around her neck, leeching onto her as if she's guaranteed to disappear any moment. Heavy sobs escape your lips, your back heaving up and down erratically as your body shivers with emotion.

Seulgi's left stunned by the abrupt shift in, well, everything, but she quickly adjusts to your weight and unrelenting hold, hoisting you atop her lap in a position that's less awkward and causes less discomfort and grasping onto your lower back securely, making sure you won't slip off anywhere. Your muffled sobs ring throughout the bedroom as Seulgi comfortingly rubs her hand up and down your back, her hand lingering on the small of your back.

"Y/N.." Seulgi trails off, glancing down at you with hurt and slight panic in her eyes as she tries to configure the right words. "It-It's okay, Y/N. It's okay. Just let it all out."

You nod at her reassuring words amid your breakdown, though your tears remain uncontrolled, and you begin to hiccup, making you unable to voice out any coherent words if you attempt to speak any. Your sobs are unceasing, seemingly looking like they're not going to end anytime soon, which is no bother to Seulgi; she doesn't want you to rush your emotions, if anything, she's encouraging you to unleash all of your pent-up sadness. But.. you've never wept this hard before, your body's never shaken this intensely between sobs, you've never had to cling this desperately onto her just to seek out an ounce of comfort, and that worries her, deeply.

For what feels like an eternity, your sobs somewhat relent, though not coming to a complete halt. With a sniff, you withdraw your teary face from the crook of Seulgi's neck, suddenly getting stricken with embarrassment as you notice a large section of her gray shirt now dampened to a darker gray from your tears. Your gaze averts upwards, and for the first time today, both of your eyes meet.

Seulgi feels a tight strain in her chest as she takes sight of your bloodshot eyes, swollen tear bags, dampened lashes, dry lips, and mascara ruins smudged all around your eyes and stained in long streaks down your cheeks. Her heart is sore, causing her more distress, and if it clenches any more it'll surely implode.

All Seulgi wants to do is hold your face back down, cradle you into her as tightly as she can, and assure you again and again that everything will be okay; she just wants to strip away all of your pain completely. You stare at Seulgi through blurred vision and rub the back of your hands over your eyes, clearing away any tears. Your lips part just barely, and the sibilant words that slip past your throat leave Seulgi appalled.

"They're getting divorced."

Seulgi's eyes stretch wide, her throat going dry. "S-Seriously?" Seulgi mutters, her voice shrinking to a breath. With a despondent expression, you give a confirming nod, feeling a second breakdown already attempting to cut through as you whimper dejectedly.

Your girlfriend frowns and looks down in her lap; she's still unsure of what to say. Seulgi of course feels terrible about the news, pitying that the outcome had to be like this, but she doesn't want to end up saying the wrong thing or respond with something that may offend or worsen your mood. Should she sympathize with you? Or should she tell you all is going to be okay, even though the worst possible scenario, the one thing you had feared most, has become your reality? Seulgi's never gone through anything like this before so it's not like she can even empathize with you or find something to relate with.

Her lower lip is caught between her teeth, and she sighs, lifting her gaze and staring at you lightheartedly. "I'm so sorry this is happening, I really am. I wish I could just reverse time and change something that could somehow prevent any of this from happening or something."

Seulgi places her palm on your cheek, watching your lips tremble as she uses her thumb to swipe a stray tear. She sighs lowly before continuing. "I know I may never know how it feels to go through something like this, and I'll never fully know the true depths of your emotions and what underlies them, but I know that you'll be alright. It may be hard to adjust to, but just know I will always be with you on your toughest days and be here to listen to your hour-long vents. You're not alone. And remember that they both still love you and I love you too."

Seulgi leans in, placing a quick and chaste kiss against your lips, not caring if hers gets coated in a mix of your salty tears. Once she reels back, she takes a second to look at you before leaning in again, pressing a gentle kiss slightly off-centered on your forehead, her lips lingering longer than before.

You thought it was going to be impossible to feel any amount of happiness or emotions kin to it today, yet, you start to feel the tiniest pull of a smile tug the corners of your lips. For some reason, you fight against it, almost as if you're trying to stay in your somber mood, but eventually, you lose authority over your lips and flash Seulgi a bittersweet smile, your eyes gleaming with appreciation and love.

You thank the universe each day for bringing Seulgi into your life; you're not sure if there's anyone else in the world who's capable of sitting with you through hectic moments like this, take the time and patience to console you, even if you resist, and still manage to pull you out of such a mood, making you feel invigorated, and bringing a sense of solace and serenity upon you in a way that makes almost all of your worries wither away as if they never took place. You're so incredibly grateful for her.

"T-Thank you, b-baby," you stammer out, your breaths still uneven as your heart pummels against your ribcage. "I really appreciate you for this."

Seulgi's heart warms at your voice, a rewarding change from the heavy feelings she's been dealing with for the last twenty minutes. She reaches out to hold your face in her palms, and once you lean into her touch she doesn't say anything, she just takes the time to study your features, looking at you lovingly.

Your hand grazes up her arm, and you stop once your hand falls on top of hers, letting it rest there, "I love you so so much."

The two of you lean in, meeting your lips once more as you melt into the kiss, along with any remnants of your worries, anger, and sadness. You know the next couple of months are going to be rough, and you're not so sure if you're prepared to endure them yet, but as long as you have Seulgi by your side, you're sure everything is going to be okay just like she said—like she had promised.

Everything's going to be alright.

Hi 🎀 anon! I know this is like a month late, but I hope everything’s going alright rn, I know this must be tough having to go through☹️. How are you doing?

— Seulgiwifee ໒꒰ྀི♡˵ᴗ͈ . ᴗ͈ ꒱ྀི১

[altocat]

‘Ello!! Hope it’s been a lovely weekend!! 💕

I don’t know if I’ve ever asked you this before but shshhshshshhs Can we get some Zack & Seph bonding over Angeal angst/comfort plz?? :3ccc

Yesssssssss of course !

Sephiroth and Zack don't really talk much after the incident in Modeoheim. There's a lot of bitter feelings there. Zack blames Sephiroth for making him have to deal with that heartache. It should have been Sephiroth, not him. Sephiroth could have stopped it. It's not fair! Angeal would still be alive!

Sephiroth is aware of Zack's ill feelings, mostly mourning quietly alone, his nightmares getting worse than ever, barely eating or sleeping. Most of the time, he's mindlessly performing tasks thanks to the cocktail of drugs Hojo is pumping into him.

Despite this, thanks to the dwindling ranks in SOLDIER, both are assigned a mission together investigating some rogue rebel activity in the mountains. It's cold and rainy and miserable. And Sephiroth and Zack can't even bear to look at each other.

They tail the rebels all the way to the peaks, cornering them on the fragile remains of a bridge, now halfway frozen over from the chill.

Zack moodily thinks that now's the part where Sephiroth coldly murders everyone. That's what soldiers do, right? That's what HE had to do to Angeal. Just mindless killing. Callous slaying of anyone who doesn't fit. Ruining lives. Just like Angeal.

Zack isn't paying attention, too agitated to notice the enemy creeping up from behind. He has mere seconds to react before the gunshot rings out, followed by the frantic rush of air as Sephiroth shoves him out of the way to take the hit.

He watched in horror as Sephiroth falls nearly twenty feet, crashing hard into a jutting snowy cliff side below.

He's an absolute mess when the helicopter comes in to retrieve them, Sephiroth's battered body being taken away to Medical the second they land.

Zack's a shaking, helpless wreck, reliving Angeal's death over and over. Oh gods it's happening again. And it's all his fault. And now he's going to lose someone else too. And he was so cold to Seph beforehand. He blamed him for everything when really it was NO ONE'S fault. And now Sephiroth is going to die and he's going to have to bury another friend and and and...

Days pass. Zack endures sleepless nights letting his inner demons eat at him. He is a trembling mess by the time he's finally able to step out onto the main SOLDIER floor again, freezing at the sight of Sephiroth standing near the doorway, alive and well, his arm carefully wrapped up in a sling.

"You're... you're okay."

"Mm? Oh. Yes. It was a bad fall. But my healing capabilities proved to be amply useful for such an occasion. I received clearance this morning to return to my duties, though I've been instructed not to strain myself."

Zack miserably hangs his head, relief and guilt intermingling in his belly, his face hot, eyes red and watery.

"Listen, Sephiroth? I... about earlier..."

Sephiroth tilts his head, seemingly confused, watching as the young First dithers and balks.

"I...you saved me."

"Think nothing of it. It was instinct. A team leader's responsibility is to protect his men."

"I thought you'd died. I mean...gods, this is such a mess. I was so mad at you. I shouldn't have been. But I was. I blamed you for Angeal when I should've just talked it out. I just let it get to me. And... and... and you still..."

He forces himself not to cry, not even when Sephiroth's free hand gently, if not awkwardly, reaches over to pat his shoulder.

"...I was not keen on losing you as well."

And the tears are coming now, his efforts fruitless. He feels like a child, pawing at his eyes, shaky laugh as he shakes his head. "G-guess we have that feeling in common, huh?" He just wishes he understood it sooner.

He spends the rest of the afternoon at Sephiroth's side, holding his tablet up for him to make it easier for him to write. They don't speak much. But it feels different this time, awkward smiles exchanged, a kind of fragile reluctance when it's finally time to part ways for the evening.

But afterwards, Zack makes it mandatory to keep in contact at all times, sending Sephiroth text reminders so they can meet up to unwind together after a long hard day.

This goes on for a long while, an unspoken trust building, both parties emotionally relying on each other without ever saying a word. A pure bond; burgeoning, unexpected, but genuine. Real.

Until Nibelheim.

[consistentsquash]

5 Viserys/Daemon Fic Recs

Viserys/Daemon! This is definitely the OTP the fandom slept on. Which is tragic. Because they are the best tragic star-crossed brothers ever with Targcestuous vibes. It's a relationship full of what-ifs and if-onlys. The love is deep but the baggage is also really deep.

Time for Recs!

Fandom slept on the pairing overall. But we are lucky because one author at least saw the potential and delivered the best Greek tragedy series out there about these two brothers. Lots of reasons to love eldritcher. Classy dirtybadhotwrong Greek ship picks is definitely one of them.

What are we getting?

Exquisite prose which is almost poetry. Exquisite tragedy. Raw, intense and going to make you bawl. The writing has so much precision. It doesn't blow up. It doesn't blow over. It just builds like music. You are going to cry. It's totally worth crying about. Because this is a love story.

"As the vine to elm, the virgin sought her burning youth, and each the other strengthened and fed."

"They were matched in equal wedlock. One did not contend with the other. One did not strive against the other. They aged in tended touch, from ripe to hoar, for they were united under fourteen holy flames under a sole-starred, moonless night," Daemon recited. He knew these words. He knew this ritual. Viserys and he had recited the holy words to each other as children, in play and in earnest.

"They sang something worthy of memory on that fortunate hour. The evening came, and the vestal bride gave the thirds of her to her juvenal. A welcome, cruel fire joined them in marriage, sullying the one and making the other," Viserys finished. "This was their hymen-song. This they sung at their feasting troth. No fallow embrace theirs, even unto god's hoar, even unto ossuarium."

A dream. A memory. A hope of once. Daemon watched his earnest brother and saw the death that ate him.

 (Soon the light on Olympus, aka the love story)

 Soon the burning youth

Length - 4200 words. Rating - M

Best intentions and worst results is the tagline for Viserys. Young!Viserys takes his brother to the brothel and learns something about his own desires. Really beautiful and introspective pining second half where Viserys is thinking about this in the context of the Daemon/Rhaenyra brothel adventure. Pining + power dynamics... this is just brilliant.

His head came sweet-swept to your shoulder once more. There was none to witness it, but it did not matter right then. His heart ran askew-songed, as he yearned and mourned. Your hands roved over him, painting him in blood and rot. He did not flinch and endure as Alicent did. He pressed closer in blind yield.

 Soon the wedding hymn

Length - 2300 words. Rating - M

Viserys tries to do the right thing for the wrong reasons and gets really stubborn about it. Which means pining, angst and power dynamics. For everybody. Mostly for himself. Because he is all about the pining and the power dynamics.

They said you had no dragon at your bidding.

There stood a dragon at your bidding.

 Soon the beloved

Length - 5300 words. Rating - M

Viserys gets his chance after Laena's death. Being Viserys, he doesn't get it right. Because that's Viserys. More pining, more angst and more power dynamics. But this time it's on both sides. Because Daemon grew up in those ten years and actually understands his own priorities better. It's incredible to see Viserys meeting his match. In every way possible. Of course he totally overreacts and gets it wrong.

Rec note - This is my personal favorite from the series. Its got everything.

"Did you think that I wouldn't come to you in your hour of need?"

A taunt. A truth. A vow.

 Soon the feasting troth

Length - 3600 words. Rating - M

A lot of times people think the umbilical cord fated connection between Daemon and Rhaenyra started with Rhaenyra herself. It definitely didn't. Daemon is looking for something he didn't get from his original umbilical cord fated connection with Viserys. Of course it works better with Rhaenyra because he got to influence her early instead of Viserys who influenced him. That makes their connection the stuff of Greek tragedy. It also explains his loyalty and obsession a lot more. Pining, angst...and more pining. This series is all about the pining.

You did not know what she spoke to him, but you saw how he flinched and reared as a wounded, lonely beast that would not use its claws against its own. How dared he flaunt this weakness of his before so many? How dared he bare himself before your daughter when he would not bare himself to you? You protected him. She would one day be the death of him. How dared he—

 Soon the sole-starred sky

Length - 1600 words. Rating - M

Viserys on his deathbed. We as readers get to decide if he imagines his brother and their entire conversation or if it's a real conversation. The fic is written like a lucid dream with a lot of baiting and switching which kind of keeps you on the fence about deciding if it actually happened or if he was just high on his meds. More pining. More angst. Because that's their love language and it's totally perfect for them.

He crowned you, when you were first named King. He crowned you once more, when you last sat the throne. Perhaps you were a worthy King only for two days of your reign. Perhaps you were worthy only on the first and the last days. The throne, you realise, did not cut you today. How could it have, with brother's faith in brother trothed?

 If you want more, definitely check out the other POV fics in this series. It is just beautiful and reads like poetry. The prose is poetry.

[whumpybucky]

A promise

Pairing: sam x bucky (early FATWS-era)

Word count: 3,784

Summary: Bucky is adjusting to life as an ex-assassin. Sam made a promise to look out for Bucky and he wasn’t about to break it. Quelle surprise when Bucky doesn’t want to admit he’s sick and Sam just wants to take care of him. 

A/n: Here's 3.7k words of angst and hurt/comfort that absolutely no one asked for, with poor Bucky getting hit with the flu and Sam being the most soft and protective. 

Sam sighed as he put his phone face down on his desk. Yet another one of his texts to Bucky left on read. 

He knew the super soldier was still adjusting. Working through things. The state-mandated therapy alone must be uncomfortable at best, and much too close to the forced treatment he endured for decades at worst. Not to mention Steve. Christ, if Sam was still mourning the loss of his best friend he can only imagine what Bucky felt losing him twice. More like a thousand times over with what Hydra did to him. 

Sam shook his head, willing the images of Bucky being tortured out of his mind’s eye. He had seen some of the lost footage. A last minute mission he and Steve went on to an old abandoned Hydra base while Bucky was still in Wakanda.

S.H.I.E.L.D. had confiscated some old boxes containing mostly useless administrative documents from Hydra’s glory days. They did, however, find plans of a small building and Steve and Sam were supposed to fly in, level it, and fly out. That was the plan, until Steve had noticed a secret room no bigger than a broom closet on the lowest floor of the drawings. The Winter Soldier symbol, like a tiny star-shaped blood drop in the middle of the room’s outline, with no other description. I’ve just got a feeling, Steve had said. Sam followed without question. 

Well, Steve had been right. After killing a few scattered Hydra loyals left to guard the otherwise abandoned base, the two Avengers found the closet lined with reel-to-reel tape and a somehow functioning projector. They spent hours checking each roll, all which turned out documentation of Hydra’s failed experiments. And the one successful one. 

It’s the only time Sam ever witnessed Steve fully break. It took two minutes before he vomited. Another two before he dropped to his knees, sobbing into his hands, choked apologies sputtering out of his mouth to his closest friend who was thankfully continents away.

Sam just held the blonde super soldier until he was all dried up. Then, as if a switch was flicked, Steve simply got up and continued checking every last tape until they had separated them all into two piles: Winter Soldier and others. When they were done, Steve told Sam to wait outside. I need to do this, he had said. So Sam stood back and watched as the captain filled the empty duffle bags they had brought with the ‘other’ tapes. Then he dumped an entire bottle of lighter fluid on the Winter Soldier pile, and stood there with sweat beading on his forehead from the flames, coughing at the fumes, until he verified with his own eyes that every last tape had burned to a crisp.

No one needed to watch the torture his best guy had endured. And he couldn’t risk Bucky seeing even a minute of it—he already relived it nearly every night. So Fury and S.H.I.E.L.D. be damned, as far as Steve was concerned the Winter Soldier program was over. Gone. Do not resuscitate. 

Sam would have followed Steve anywhere. It's why he never breathed a word about the tapes to anyone. It’s also why he agreed not just out loud, but in his heart, to watch over Bucky when Steve asked him to that day he handed him the shield. It’s the only thing he had been sure about in the aftermath of the blip, the war, Thanos, losing Natasha, Tony, Steve. Nothing made sense except that. 

Everything Bucky had endured. The freezing and thawing. Losing autonomy over his body. Watching from the inside as his hands inflicted unimaginable pain, unable to stop them. Memories of a young life stolen from him just as they would start to form again, at the tips of his fingers like dust in a sunbeam on a summer afternoon. 

Watching over Bucky gave Sam purpose. A reason to keep going. Being needed was a powerful motivator. And whether Bucky admitted it or not, deep down Sam knew he needed somebody. And he promised Steve he would be that somebody. 

It’s why he never went more than a week without texting the Brooklyn native from then on. Sometimes a photo. Sometimes a link to an article he thought Bucky might find interesting. Sometimes a Hope you’re ok. Here if you want to chat. The last text was letting Bucky know he was going to be in New York for the weekend and that they should grab a bite. 

He wouldn’t give up. A promise was a promise. And Sam kept his promises.

—————

“Are you still having nightmares?”

“No,” Bucky lied.

“So what do you call that dream you were just telling me about?”

“Dunno doc, you tell me.” Bucky’s added scoff turned into a cough that turned into a twenty second fit, ending with Dr. Raynor handing him a bottle of water,

Bucky accepted, nodding in gratitude once the fit had finally passed.

“You know, it’s okay to let yourself rest once in a while,” she reminded Bucky once she had sat herself back down into her wingback chair.

“I rested for nearly 70 years.”

Bucky caught the furrow of Dr. Raynor’s brow from the corner of his eye. 

“You and I both know that was anything but rest.” She moved forward in her seat, placing her notebook onto the small white side table beside her chair. “You’ve been through a lot, James. Mentally, physically. You need time to heal.”

“Is that what this is?” Bucky gestured between the two of them with a gloved hand as he rolled his eyes, looking anywhere but at his therapist.

“If you want it to be.”

Of course. Always putting the ball back in his court. 

Another cough wracked through Bucky’s lungs. The other half of the water bottle helped stop the fit before it began.

“You’re clearly unwell. Your homework this week is to rest. And reach out to Sam, let him know how you’re doing.”

Another eye roll. Another cough. “I’m fine, just a tickle.”

“You know, you don’t have to keep punishing yourself.” She paused before adding, “You’re not him anymore.”

Her frankness caught him off guard and he made real, true eye contact with Dr. Raynor for the first time during their entire session. 

“I… I'm not…” another cough escaped Bucky's lips and he quickly caught it with his fist. 

“Just think about at least replying to one of his texts, alright? He cares about you. Let him. I'm going to end our session for today. You need to go home and rest.”

Bucky sighed as he looked away. He was tired, that was all. 

“Fine by me. See ya next week.”

“Take care, James. Feel better.”

Bucky shook his head as he passed the forest wallpaper on his way out. He was fine. And even if he wasn’t, it’s nothing the serum couldn’t handle. A nap would fix him right up. Well, at least it would take care of the cough he’d woken up with. The rest of him was another story entirely.

He skipped his post therapy sushi lunch routine, opting to head straight home. After checking each window and room in his apartment, he downed a power bar and an Ensure before slumping into the couch. His eyes glanced at his phone on the coffee table. Sam’s last text had said he was in town for the weekend. Bucky wondered if he was already here. Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst idea to meet for a drink. 

His chest ached suddenly. He missed Sam. A lot.

Sam had been there for Bucky when he fell into a depression after Steve had come back to give Sam the shield. In return, Bucky had helped Sam realize he was good enough to be the next captain. It was one of the few times when Bucky felt connected again. When Sam was sent to D.C. Bucky tried to be happy for him. Said he would keep in touch. But he just couldn’t get into texting. And after a few calls went unanswered, Bucky convinced himself that Sam was better off without him. 

Now alone in his apartment, the thought that Sam might be in the same city buzzing around his pounding head, Bucky ached to see his friend that he had left on read these past months.

The realization was interrupted by a cough that scraped his throat and made him wince. Shifting onto his side, the super soldier curled into himself, head on the armrest of the sofa and legs tucked in. He couldn’t seem to get warm, but the blanket bunched at his makeshift floor bed was too far away. Besides, he was used to being cold. He could tough it out. He had felt worse. He was just tired. Too many sleepless nights. He would shut his eyes for five minutes. Five minutes and he would finally text Sam back. Fuck it, he’d call him. Just five minutes and the ache at his temples and the throbbing in his throat would be gone. 

In what felt like a blink of an eye, Bucky was being pulled awake by someone pounding on the walls. Or maybe it was the door? The noise had Bucky stuck between sleeping and waking as he scrambled to get his bearings. His eyes blinked, adjusting to his now dark apartment where everything in the room suddenly seemed too big for some reason.

He was in Brooklyn. It was 2023. He was James Buchanan Barnes and he was no longer the Winter Soldier. 

He repeated the mantra a few times until his heart slowed. A sigh left his lips as the noise that woke him seemed to slip back into his dreams. But his next inhale caught the back of his tender throat and a coughing fit burst through his lungs, setting them on fire. Fighting to catch his breath Bucky grabbed the mug of water he’d left on the coffee table earlier that morning. 

“Bucky! Open up man, I can hear you in there.”

So it wasn’t a dream. 

Bucky swallowed the water and nearly cried out at the pain. He put his metal fist on his chest, and took a few shallow breaths, willing his lungs to cooperate. Then he attempted to get up off the couch. And what an attempt it was. He felt like he was a newborn colt, shaky and weak, unable to maintain a straight line. He barely made it to the door, grabbing onto the beveled wooden casing for support before unlocking the deadbolt and chain. 

—————

Just as he was about to head back down the hall to the stairwell, Sam heard Bucky cough. So he knocked one more time, announcing his presence. Then he waited. The sound of footsteps on creaky hardwood floors started up, though something seemed off about their rhythm. Eventually the door swung open and the reason was obvious. 

“Jesus christ, James, you look like shit.”

“Nice to see you too, Sam.” His voice was hoarse and Sam noted the pained look that flashed across Bucky’s face as he cleared his throat. 

He eyed the super soldier up and down, trying to figure out his next move. “You got someone in there, or…”

“Unless they snuck in while I was passed out on the couch, it’s just me and the air.” Bucky followed the sarcastic retort by catching a jagged cough into the crook of his elbow. 

“I, uh, did you get my text?”

Bucky sighed, “Y-yeah man. I’m, uh, sorry I haven’t responded. I was gonna today, but then I fell asleep and…” Another cough rattled through his friend’s chest. 

“‘S all good, man. You sound sick. Can I come in and make you some tea or something? I could order you some soup, or—”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m—” Bucky paused to clear his throat, “fine.”

“Right. I don’t know what you and Steve used to define as “fine” back in the day, but this sure ain’t it.”

“Seriously, Sam, I’ll catch some shut eye and be right as rain tomorrow.” Bucky managed to get all that out between sputtering coughs that he tried to cover with his fist. But that was as far as he would get in this interaction. All of a sudden he was doubled over, tears from the strain leaking onto his flushed cheeks as he battled his lungs. 

“Buck, c’mon, let’s get you inside,” Sam pleaded softly. 

He wanted so badly to rub his friend’s back, but restrained himself. He remembered how hard it was to be touched after coming back from his final tour. After losing Riley. Everything had been too much sometimes and the idea of someone touching him would send him into a panic. As if the slightest brush against his arm and the entire world would simply shatter. 

Maybe he was projecting. But he would rather err on the side of caution. The last thing he wanted was become one more thing Bucky had to tolerate. Especially in the state he had just found him in.

The coughing finally eased off and Bucky stood as upright as he could, still clutching the doorway. Sam was about to reiterate his last suggestion when a strange look flooded Bucky’s face. His brows furrowed, as if he was confused. Then the confusion turned to realization and a quiet “fuck” slipped past Bucky’s lips. Before Sam could reach out his arms to stop it, Bucky had collapsed in the entrance to his apartment like a rag doll. 

So much for not touching him.

—————

The first time Bucky woke up, his skin felt like it was on fire yet he was achingly cold deep into the marrow of his bones. He hadn’t felt that cold since—

“Hey, James. I need to take your temperature. Can you open up for me?”

Bucky had never been more grateful to hear Sam’s voice. He opened his mouth. He wasn’t a fan of medical equipment, but he’d been through enough evaluations with Dr. Cho, then in Wakanda. He had learned to tolerate it if the situation warranted it. 

Judging by the worsened pounding in his head, the burning in his throat, and the heaviness bearing down on his chest, this seemed like one of those times. 

The thermometer beeped and Sam brought it close, a whistle escaping his lips as he read the results. “Damn, James, you really got hit hard.”

Bucky suddenly registered that he was somehow in bed. And Sam was here. “W-what’s happening? Y-your here.”

“I am. I texted you that I was going to be in town and decided to pop by since I knew you’d never respond. As for what’s going on? You have a temperature of 103.1. Turns out super soldiers can get sick,” Sam added, though Bucky was still having a hard time processing it all with his fever-wracked brain.

“I’m going to help you sit up for just a minute, okay?”

Bucky nodded. He still couldn’t grasp what was happening, but he trusted Sam. 

“Take a sip of this. You need fluids”

It was sweet. Tasted like the apple juice Steve’s ma used to pour them on hot summer days, unfiltered with a tartness to it. 

“That’s good. Now I need you to take these pills. It’s just Tylenol. For your fever, and the aches.”

How did Sam know he was in pain? Did he tell him about how his shoulder felt like it was made of lead right now? How all his joints were throbbing? That even his hair follicles hurt?

“I can see that cyborg brain of yours working. I’ve had the flu before, Buck. I know how uncomfortable it is.”

“Oh.” The soft acknowledgement was all he could muster as his brain slowly connected the pieces together. He took the pills that Sam put in his flesh hand and was now guiding up to his mouth. Then he swallowed them with the juice Sam brought back to his lips. 

The flu. He hadn’t had the flu since before the war. Before…

A glorious cold sensation on his forehead broke him out of his thoughts as Sam guided him back down to his pillow. He allowed his eyes to flutter shut, then he drifted away.

—————

Pastel light filtered into Bucky’s room, waking Sam up from one of many naps he had taken throughout the night. It had taken six hours, another double dose of tylenol, and a lot of cold compresses before Bucky’s fever began to break. Sam had woken him every two hours to make sure his temperature was trending in the right direction. At least the serum seemed to speed things up. Last time Sam had the flu he had been out for two weeks. With any luck, Bucky would be back to his brooding self by tomorrow. 

Sam silently chuckled at the thought of his friend’s surly exterior. It was growing on him in a way he didn’t understand, but didn’t care to fight either. And now, with the soft morning glow coming through the curtains of Bucky’s three-story walk up apartment, he couldn’t wipe the grin off his face if he tried. He had allowed himself to fall asleep next to Bucky. Maybe it was overstepping. But it’s not like the ex-assassin had a guest bedroom. Besides, he needed to be close in case his fever kept rising. 

He felt a warmth spread in his belly, and his cheeks followed suit as he watched his friend sleep. Bucky’s prosthesis was folded and pushing slightly against Sam’s chest. The gentle light signaling sunrise reflected off the sheen across his forehead. His lips were parted ever so slightly and his breathing was low and steady. Resting on his side, Bucky seemed so peaceful and Sam wondered if this is what he’d looked like before he got his papers. Youthful. Free.

A barely there cough stirred the super soldier and his eyes fluttered open, then shut again. 

“How did you get in,” Bucky mumbled, voice gravelly and low.

“You let me in. Right before you fainted.”

“Uunnngghhhh.”

Sam chuckled at his friend’s embarrassment.

“‘S not funny,” Bucky mumbled against his pillow. His eyes opened again. They were soft this time. Almost warm. 

“No, you’re right. You scared me there for a minute.”

Bucky grinned at that. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Had me checkin’ your temperature every two hours.”

“Didn’t have to do that.”

“Sure I did. You would’ve done the same.”

Bucky huffed at the statement, though quickly digressed into a coughing fit. 

Sam pushed himself up from the bed and turned to grab a glass of water off the nightstand. Bucky sat up and took the glass, sipping slowly until he could breathe easy again. He offered a quiet “thanks” as he passed the glass back to Sam. 

“I feel like I got hit by a bus,” Bucky moaned as he flopped back down into his pillow.

“That’s what the flu feels like,” Sam validated, laying back against the headboard, his chest bare. 

Bucky looked up at him, his ice blue eyes searching Sam—for what, he couldn’t tell. He watched as Bucky’s brow began to crease slightly. A heavy silence hung between them for several minutes and Sam didn’t push. He would give Bucky all the time he needed to sort out his thoughts. 

The super soldier’s eyes closed. Then he took a breath and in one motion, had positioned his head against Sam’s chest and his prosthesis draped over his stomach before either of them had a chance to get a word in. 

Sam thought his cheeks might break at how wide his smile grew. The shock of the vulnerability of it all was quickly replaced by a comfort he’d only imagined when he granted himself the indulgence late at night. On instinct, Sam started carding his fingers through Bucky’s short waves. 

“Mmmmmm.”

“Feels good?”

Sam felt Bucky’s head nodding. 

“Good.” Sam replied softly. He placed his free palm on Bucky’s forehead. Still warm. “Jeez. How’d you get so sick?”

“Dunno,” Bucky shrugged. After a long silence he spoke again. “Raynor says I’m punishing myself.”

“Are you?” Sam asked, making sure he sounded as neutral as possible. 

“Probably. Can’t seem to make up for it. No matter what I do.”

Sam didn’t hesitate. He wrapped both his arms around Bucky and simply held him. No words, just a solid, unshakable hold. 

“You have nothing—nothing—to make up for. It wasn’t you, James. It was never you. And I’ll tell you a million times over until you believe it.”

Sam heard a sniff and felt dampness on his chest. He tightened his grip, never easing up until he felt Bucky’s shoulders relax and his breathing settle.

It was quiet. So quiet he almost missed it. But Sam heard Bucky whisper, “I missed you.”

“Me too,” he replied matter of factly. Then added, “think I’m going to start coming up to New York more often.”

“Yeah?” Bucky asked, clearing his throat. 

“Yeah.”  A promise was a promise. Not that Sam needed promises to make him want to visit Bucky. To hear his cheeky sarcasm. To see his eyes blinking at him like sapphires in the morning light. 

Sam’s heartbeat picked up at Bucky’s silence. Had he taken this too far? He was just going off his cues. But maybe it was too much. Too soon. Too—

“That’d be nice. Not great at texting. Better in-person.”

Sam chuckled at his friend’s blunt self-awareness. 

“I noticed. And I get it.” He removed one arm from his hold to go back to playing with Bucky’s hair, but suddenly the super soldier was grabbing his wrist and lacing their fingers together. Then bringing them up to his lips, Bucky kissed the back of Sam’s hand. Chaste, but sweet. 

“Thank you, for coming. For staying,” he muttered into Sam’s knuckles before bringing their hands back down to Sam’s chest.

Sam sighed. Two words that carried so much weight. The weight of your best friend—best guy—leaving you for a life lost. Leaving you lost in a life you didn’t choose. 

“I’ll stay as long as you’ll have me.”

No declarations. Just an open invitation, if he wanted it. Sam would always let Bucky choose. 

Bucky’s lips pressed into the back of his hand again. A silent response, but Sam heard it loud and clear. 

Within a minute Bucky’s breathing had slowed, and Sam felt the brunette become heavier on his chest. With his one free arm, Sam pulled the blanket up and around his friend’s shoulders. Then he pressed the ghost of a kiss into the top of his head before relaxing into his pillow and letting his eyes close. 

He could get used to this.

[starshipsofstarlord]

Sheer | Kai Parker

Warnings; SMUT, ANGST, and FLUFF, mentions of death, mourning, loss, mentions of murder, trauma, swearing, unprotected sex,

A/N; sorta made up a whole storyline for this imagine, may be a teeny bit different and may have gotten a little carried away, please enjoy loves

It would not uphold, the weather held a grudge against you as you trudged through the pouring rain, cursing you for thinking that you would be safe on your lonesome.

Instead of a monster, the world wished for you to drown in its falling rivers, making you shiver down to the bone. It was too cold, but you had to go there, it was a ritual.

Since the death of your boyfriend, Aaron, who was killed by Damon, someone you thought to be a friend, you felt broken.

You had tried everything to bring him back, but without the power of a witch, it was deemed impossible, and Bonnie refused to help you, claiming that it was necromancy, and far from her beliefs.

It angered you, how everybody would dismiss the lost lives that Damon took. He got a free pass, he didn’t even regret his own invalid actions.

He was a monster, and you hated him. If you couldn’t bring Aaron back, then you would instead kill his murderer. That would not only give you a sense of revenge, but also make the world a safer place. There would be one less vampire making people’s lives a misery.

“Hi there.” You stopped in your tracks, the voice sending shivers down your spine. Whilst it sounded like a man, in reality it could be anything.

The skin of a human was a disguise the majority of the time, a bloodsucker or a wolf coping inside the exterior, thirsting to break free from the walls of bones and flesh.

“Kai.” He was not exactly human, he was a witch, the one thing that you needed. You had met him through Elena, who was luckily also angered by Damon’s actions, Aaron had been her friend.

And just like that, he had died. But she hid her feelings well, pretending all was fine because she was in love with the gruelling monster that you wished to execute.

However, even though you wanted to bring back your lost beloved, the time that had passed made your mind being up the idea of moving on.

The first person that sprung into your imagination was Kai Parker, the new sociopath in town. He was new, unaware of the traumatising past experience that lingered in your heart, and not to mention, his specimen was one of beauty.

Those grey eyes, ever so curious could bore straight into your soul, and you’d gladly let him mangle it, you no longer had a use for it anyway.

“Why are you out here y/n/n?” He asked with a tilt of his head that had your heart beating profusely.

Everyone knew of his effect on you, but they told you to dismiss it. It was cruel, that they’d rather have you mourning the loss of your partner than to move on with another.

To you, it didn’t matter if he were supposed to be the enemy, you no longer wanted to fight their battles. All you desired was to be in love, with somebody that felt the same.

And whilst you doubted that Kai knew how to feel such a strong emotion, some attention wasn’t the worst thing in the world. As a matter of fact, it worked well as a distraction, it made you almost forget the grudge that you held against the eldest Salvatore.

Almost.

“It’s nothing.” You whisked the direction of the conversation away from your deceased boyfriend, not wanting to talk about him to anyone, let alone Malachai Parker.

Even thinking of Aaron caused a void to open in the middle of your chest, it was unbelievably painful. You thought some people, such as Bonnie would understand, rather than think the loss as a regular occurrence.

To put it simply, the entire ordeal was completely fucked up, and you felt much more guilty for biting your lip at the expression that Kai pulled; his eyebrows raised, and his fingers carefully running down the side of his own jaw.

Oh god, his fingers. There were so many things that you could imagine him doing with those, and from the way he waved them on a greeting, he knew that he teased the thought too.

“Basically...” he began, rolling his grey eyes with what he liked to call modesty, and you classified as boredom, “you’re stuck out in the rain, and if I’m not mistaken, you live halfway across town.”

“Stalker much?” You sneered, crossing your arms across your chest, which only made his gaze wander down, and hold their movements for a dragged out moment. “What are you looking at?” You exasperatedly sighed, only understanding when you followed his peering.

He was focused on your chest, that through your white shirt, appeared almost bare. The lace of your bra was giving him a clear frontal, and so you adjusted your arms, so that they covered more and whatever they had pushed up to peak his intrigue.

“Why am I not surprised?” Shaking your wet hair, which was pointless considering that it was still raining, you realised that you felt the creeping of the cold.

You had been oblivious to it, thinking that it was a side guest to your tears, almost a consequence. But you were no longer tearful, mostly angry at the killer that ruined your future and acted as though it were no big deal.

“I thought you were supposed to be at college.” Kai quirked his brow, proud of the fact that he knew that. However you shook your head, and watched as he removed his jacket, clasping it around your shoulders, shielding you somewhat from the weather.

It appeared as no big deal to him, but it was to you, sociopaths weren’t famous for being kind and charitable. They always had agendas, their agendas, well they were obviously sociopathic.

But from the glazing of the witch’s eyes, you only saw a lost man. He was misinterpreted by all that he knew, they treated him like an outsider, alienated him as though he were a monster, and validly that was why he was seen as one.

“No.” You whispered, confused as to why you were so complied to correct the man. “My boyfriend was killed, I don’t want to go back there, it’s clear why.”

You attempted to give him a small smile, but it came out as a pained grimace. Just the thought had your mood drained, even more so since there was no route to resurrect him.

“Oh yeah, I heard about that.” He didn’t shiver in the rain, instead he seemed comfortable simply standing there, conversing with you in the rainfall. “Damon did it, right?”

Licking your lips, you hesitantly nodded, ashamed of the fact that you had once called the vampire a friend. From the start, you were always wary of him, but eventually you managed to become close to him. And then he ruined your chance of happiness, literally sucking the life out of it.

“What a dick.” Kai was blunt with his annotation, but you couldn’t deny that he was right about them. “Sorry for your loss and all that blah blah. We should get somewhere warm though, you can tell me more.”

It was a strange feeling, you felt pulled to the male, it was as though he was one side of a magnet, and you were another. And so you accepted his invitation, and followed him, breathing in the scent of his black coat. It was much sweeter than you had expected.

🏹

His so called home was an apartment, that you no doubt expected he had convinced someone with his magic to give him rent free. Or he killed them, either or you guessed.

But the thought of death itself was one that you weren’t too keen on thinking about, not now. Instead, you’d rather enjoy the company of someone that didn’t shame you for hating and desiring to kill the one and only Damon Salvatore.

Most of your friends didn’t take you seriously, they just barked laughter, not believing, nor willing to think that you could ever commit such a sentence. But they didn’t share your pain, if they did, you were sure that they’d understand.

Matt got it, he resented the vampire and a lot of the other blood suckers too. And your certainly couldn’t blame him, he had lost his sister, and there was no reason behind her change. It had all just been a game, a gruesome one at that.

Kai lightly removed his jacket from your shoulders, hanging it on a hook to dry. He almost appeared embarrassed, having you in such a private space.

But you didn’t want him to endure such a mindset as that. Instead you smiled, brushing your damp hair out of your face, grasping his hands. They were cold, and that made you frown. No one ever cared what he had gone through, instead they just wanted to rid the world of him.

Even his family had dismissed him, all because he had been different, and treating him as such had definitely had a mind mingling affect on him. It repented an unstoppable rage inside of him, one that ended in dead children and imprisonment.

“Thankyou.” The small example of affection had Kai tilt his head awkwardly and pull his hands away from your own. He wasn’t used to people even being polite towards him, let alone openly sharing contact with him.

You should have been scared of him. Or at least somewhat repulsed, but you weren’t, and it was a first for him. Most around him taunted him with blame, or pointed out his obvious flaws.

And so he ducked his chin downwards into his chest, taking a couple of steps back, mumbling something about retrieving you a dry shirt.

As you waited for him, you peeled off the sheer layer, dropping the ball of wet material upon the ground. Your bra had soaked into your skin, but you left that on out of modesty.

When Kai returned, his mouth gaped open, eyes widening at the half undressed sight of you. But he tried to avert your gaze, blushing at your lack of attire.

“It’s okay.” You jested to him , reaching out for the clean shirt that he had brought for you. “You can look, it’s not like I’m naked.”

“Yet.” He smirked as he allowed his stare to freely roam. His voice had been small, but you had heard it as clear as day. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be thinking like that, you’re in mourning and I get that you wouldn’t want to, yknow.”

His hand gestured between the pair of you , prompting what he was talking about. But maybe he was wrong, after all, it had been a while since you had any physical intimacy, and you’d be a fool to deny that there was chemistry between you and a particular witch.

“Don’t be sorry.” You put the dry shirt aside, walking closer to the brunette. “I am in mourning, but I’m going to get my revenge, and a distraction sure wouldn’t hurt.”

“And here I thought that you were just a pretty face.” Kai’s hand drifted to the side of your face, pulling you closer so that your lips were almost brushing. His breath ghosted over your own intermingling the fumes of lust and intrigue. “But it seems that there is a darkness in that mind of yours, I’m impressed with your plans to say the least.”

“I haven’t even told you any of them yet.” Your hand drifted under the band of his jeans, plucking teasingly at the denim, licking your teeth as you made strong eye contact with him.

“Tell me after.” He ordered, grasping your hips, and clashing your bodies together. Your lips worked hungrily against each other, both pairs of your hands grabbing all that they could, you and him both desperate to hold onto anything.

Kai shoved you backward into a table, trapping you against it as his lips fell downwards, and began to suck at your neck.

But at that contact, you pushed Kai away, freezing for a moment. Damon’s teeth had been on Aaron’s neck, sinking in and draining all that be worth.

“See Elena thinks I’m a monster, and she’s right.” You were unable to move as Aaron stood against the vampire, you had been compelled, and you wanted nothing more than to scream out for Damon to stop, but there was no audio in your throat.

There was no scream as Damon bared his fangs , nor when he sunk them into your boyfriend’s neck, instead you were holding back your tears, as you had been commanded to.

He held him to his mouth for a moment before dropping his body lifeless upon the ground. And you couldn’t help but stare at the sight.

Enzo wore a content smirk, and it sickened you to your stomach. Damon turned, his thirsty eyes boring into your form, that wanted nothing more than to crumble into a million people.

“You may now speak.” His pupils found yours, engaging with your soul, that felt broken and completely shattered.

“Are you going to kill me too?” A part of you was hopeful that he would, but as he came closer, you recognised the mischief in his stance.

He had plans for you, none of which you suspected to like. “Do it, show Elena how much of a monster you really are!”

If he killed you, you’d have liked to think that Elena would be furious , but it was expected that eventually she would forgive him when he put his humanity back on.

“Or instead...” you feared his humoured expression, eyes flickering between his feet that were walking closer to you and your dead partner that lay lifelessly a couple of meters away. “I could show her how much of a monster you are.”

He bit into his wrist, bringing it towards your mouth, and as much as you felt the urge to squirm, you could do nothing more but stand there and abide his compulsion.

“Are you okay?” Kai asked, brushing his nose against your own, wanting to know if you wanted to continue. He knew that you were a victim of trauma, and he understood it’s affects.

In regards to his past, his coping method had been inflicting it in return. But you had done no foul against him, and so he would not torture you or force you into something that you had no intention of continuing.

“Yeah.” You breathed, blinking to push the memory away, temporarily at least. “Bedroom.” You ushered, squealing distractedly as he hoisted you into his arms, wrapping your legs perfectly around his waist.

He dropped you upon the mattress, hovering over you, removing his shirt after you began to tug on the dark and rain pelted material.

Leaning your elbows, you unclipped the back of your bra, discarding it somewhere far from your memory, and Kai sunk down, his lips latching onto your nipple, playing with the other in his rough hands.

“Your fucking gorgeous.” He hummed around your breast, his fingers drifting down your stomach to the band of your leggings.

His compliment made you smile, and as he ripped off your pants, he slipped a hand inside of your panties, rubbing your sensitive flesh. But you groaned, frowning at his tantalising actions.

“Just need you inside of me.” You told him, and he was more than happy to comply, so he worked on his belt, as you slipped off your own underwear, and removed the torn fabric from around your legs.

When you looked up, you noticed that he was completely bare, and already had himself in hand. There was precum balancing on his tip and at the sight you licked your lips.

“You ready?” He asked bringing his head down to your chin, placing a delicate kiss upon the bump, and teasing his other tip against your opening, swiping through your wetness and using it to lube himself up.

“God yes.” You sighed, your hands finding refuge upon the back of his shoulders, your nails sinking into his firm skin.

And so, with consent, he pushed in, groaning at the initial tightness. “And I thought that it was wet outside.” He laughed, causing you to snort, he was funnier than you had expected him to be.

It almost made you swoon, but no, you couldn’t be interested in Kai, could you? Everyone thought you had been, even Bonnie had stated that you often undressed him with your eyes in the worst of situations, but it had never been a big deal to you.

And then it hit you like a ton of bricks, with a snap of Kai’s hips. All along you had denied any interest of another man, all because of the one that you had lost. And everyone already knew that there were sparks between you and the witch, before either of you had caught on.

“Shit.” He huffed, reaching down and biting your lips, causing your eyes to flutter sensuously, and dark veins to appear underneath.

At the feeling, you tried to bury your face sidewards into the pillow so that he couldn’t see, but he held you still as he gave shallow thrusts inside of you.

“Don’t look away, I think you’re beautiful.” Him saying that alone had you almost in tears. Despite trying to bring Aaron back you feared what he would think of you when he returned, or well, if he could.

Would he think you a monster, that stood idly by when he was killed? Because if so, you’re heart would literally break, and you wouldn’t be able to bare living any longer.

Living, funny. You hardly described what you were doing as such anyways. But currently, you did truly feel alive again, perhaps that was just the affect of having a dick inside of you.

But as Kai reached down and fiddled with your clit, you knew that you were done for. Your head fell back, eyes closed and mouth open, showcasing your fangs, your orgasm hitting you like a train.

He continued his movements until he felt he was nearing his point, and then he finished too, having no worry in impregnating you as you were well, to put it lightly , dead.

Both of you panted as he pulled out and fell beside you. Your eyes stared at the ceiling, your concentration eventually broken when Kai spoke.

“Damon did it, didn’t he? He turned you.” Your face had returned to its previous disguise, you looked human once more. But it was no secret that you were now a savage, a monster like Damon.

“Yeah.” You bit your lip, trying not to cry at the thought. It was the last thing in the world that you ever wanted, but Damon knew that too. And so he had cursed you, for all of eternity.

“Then he deserves to die.” Kai stated, he was already against the Salvatores, but his hatred for them had just increased.

[weebannihilator]

something to look into : nkbody cares about Tanjiro’s mental health. Nobody asked or looked into it.

(I apologize for any grammar mistakes in advance, I couldn't see very well through all of my god damn TEARS.)

After mourning the piece of my soul that died while reading this ask, it really did make me think. It's true that no ones asks, but I wouldn't say that means no one cares about Tanjiro's mental health. That little man is very clearly loved by his friends! I think the problem is that he just never shows it when he's hurting. If he's in pain, he hides it. No one knows when to reach out to Tanjiro because he doesn't value his own health and prioritizes everyone else's.

I think a really good example of this is his whole, "I'm eldest sibling, I must endure." mindset

He tells himself this to protect others, but that's the thing, it's only to protect others. What he's usually "enduring" is physical pain. Tanjiro thinks being in pain is something he's supposed to overcome on his own.

He thinks it's his responsibility to be some unwavering, human sheild to protect others at all times (I think this is because he never had the chance to save his own family) and he doesn't cope very well with the realization he isn't invincible. This is shown mostly by his reactions when faced with things he's not strong enough to overcome:

During his fight in the demon mansion, he doesn't take his own advice and makes his injuries worst during battle.

Anytime he's having difficulty learning something, he insults himself, saying that he's "Spineless" or an "Idiot"

He also FUCKED UP his palms in his attempt to cut the boulder. The calloused hands are a part of his character design that seems to be emphasized alot.

But what I'm trying to say is:

Overall, he just becomes uncharacteristically self-destructive. I can't think of a single character he treats this harshly other than himself.

When he's unable to live up the impossible standards he built for himself, Tanjiro just refuses to accept it and pushes on anyways, usually injuring himself or breaking down in the process. Even when hurt, he thinks letting himself rest isn't a necessity, but making sure that others have healed properly is very important to him. He's quick to comfort his friends or even strangers, but always insults himself when he feels hopeless. It's very clear, especially after the movie, that the safety of others is far more important to him than his own safety or even his own life.

So back on the topic of the ask!! I think other characters do care about his mental health, there just isn't a way for anyone to tell when he needs help. Tanjiro doesn't make one, becuase he's always trying to make a way for eveyone else instead. He just.... genuinely believes that he isn't allowed to let himself hurt. Physically or mentally.

(Moral of the story, don't come into my inbox with Tanjiro angst unless you want an entire essay written by Weebannihilator <3)

[certifiedskywalker]

Sometimes, Love Means Leaving - Klaus Hargreeves

Anonymous said: Hello.... may I please request a Klaus Hargreeves x Reader? Your writing is beautiful and I cant stop reading your Klaus posts! I was thinking maybe the reader and klaus have been together for a long time and when she passes away in an accident klaus stays clean enough to conjure her to try to keep her around and be able to physically touch her again? (like he did with ben) i hope this makes sense.... thank you :)

fabimgc said: Hii, could you do a one shot Klaus x reader, where the reader has powers but died in a mission saving Klaus and Klaus is trying to see her but cant? Like Angst with a fluff ending if you can thankss❤️

AN: this story takes place BEFORE Season One of The Umbrella Academy. I hope you like this!

He felt awful; worse than the day you left. Worse because, when Klaus closed his eyes, he could see your face. You were so close to him, painfully so, and yet he couldn’t quite reach you. The aching in his stomach pulled him back to reality every time. 

“C’mon, Klaus, there are better ways to do this.”

“Shh, jus’ shhh,” Klaus whimpered, opening his eyes just enough to glance at the phantom visage of his brother. In his mostly-sober state, Ben appeared more in focus. Light and shadow seemed to meld around him in a way that was more natural. For a moment, Klaus thought his long dead brother was really, truly, there. 

“You should have stayed in re-”

“O-oh shit! Peanut gallery,” Klaus groaned, “you need to shhh!” Weak and stumbling, Klaus moved to stand. He pressed his shoulder to the wall, the plaster cooling his searing, sweaty skin. The sharp contrast was shocking to him at first but when he rested his throbbing temple against the wall, he sighed in relief. “Oh, yes. That’s better.”

Klaus let his eyes close to savor the feeling. In the dark behind his eyelids, he was weightless. Then he heard it again. Only sirens at first, high-pitched and ringing in his ears. His heart began to pound as he was thrust back into the memory. Seconds pass and the sirens turned to faint beeping, then a dull, enduring tone. Finally, mournful tune. Violins, piano, he couldn’t tell. Klaus only knew the melody from your funeral. 

With a gasp, Klaus opened his eyes and crumpled to the floor of the hotel room he had rented for the evening. The carpet was rough against his skin but he could have cared less. Klaus was too busy trying to calm his breathing, still his heaving chest. 

“Klaus,” Ben whispered, kneeling down beside his brother. For a moment, he thought Ben was going to reach out and stroke his hair. It something you used to do when Klaus, in an attempt to avoid the ghosts, went too far on a bender. But, Ben seemed to back down, sit back on his knees and watch him with worry in his eyes. His pity stung.

“Please go,” Klaus wheezed, letting his eyes close.

“I’m only here to-”

“Ben. Go.” Klaus opened his eyes again, “you’re not who I want here.”

Hurt washed over Ben’s face but he stood up nonetheless. “I know you’re grieving, that you’re in pain, but that doesn’t mean you get to be a dick to the people who care about you.”

Before Klaus could snap a witty comeback or apologize, he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say really, Ben was gone. Klaus was alone again, in pain again, and he could feel familiar tears well up in his eyes. All he wanted was you but you were gone and he was, seemingly, still too high to conjure you presence. His head ached with longing and withdrawal.

Frantic for comfort, Klaus thought of you and the last time he tried to get sober. It had all been in an attempt to get you to stop worrying about him. You had come home to Klaus passed out, slouched over the toilet bowl, barely moving. It had scared you so much. Klaus didn’t want to scare you so he tried to get clean. 

It was a long stretch of days. Nights were spent in bed or sprawled out on the bathroom floor with blankets strew around your bodies. You would stroke his hair, read to him, in the hopes of luring him to sleep. Klaus could still feel your fingers working the knots in his curls; every some often your fingertips would brush along his hairline.

In the mornings, you would make breakfast together. Klaus would insist on everything greasy and too-sweet pastries from the local bakery. Most times, you would compromise with eggs or toast or fruits. On the mornings after a good night, when Klaus felt most sober and you were happy, you would walk, hand-in-hand and make a day of going to the cafe. Those day-long dates felt so distant now, so muddled by drugs and the passage of time. 

“Y/N….” Even your name, falling from his lips, felt different. He screwed his eyes shut to keep the tears at bay.  “I miss you. Please...”

Silence greeted his plea. Deafening, heartbreaking silence, and then...

“Miss me? I’m always here.”

Klaus’ eyes flew open at the sound of your voice. There you were, crouching down at his side, eyes meeting his the moment they opened. You smiled and Klaus scrambled to sit up. He let out an almost crazed laugh. He had finally done it.

“Y/N,” Klaus reached out, but stopped himself. He didn’t want his hands to go through you like they did with Ben. It would be another reminder that you weren’t truly here. “I-I…”

“You did it,” you gleamed, “you got sober.”

“Y-yeah,” Klaus was grinning now, “I did. It only took like four ye-”

“Hey, no. Be kind to yourself, this is a process. Especially when you’re doing it by yourself like you had, have been.” Klaus could see the warning in your eyes before you continued to speak. He raised his hands and shook his head.

“I don’t want to waste time with a lecture. I know I need help but right now I,” he met your eyes, “I just want to be with you.”

“Klaus,” your voice was low and your hand shifted to rest on the floor between the two of you. So close yet still so terribly far away. “If you die, we won’t get more time like this.”

He fell quiet at that. You were right, he knew that much, and it made his chest ache. After your death, all Klaus wanted was to see you again. He hadn’t thought about anything else, save for what he would say to you if he ever got sober enough to conjure. 

“I love you, Y/N.” He met your gaze and felt his heart lurch in his chest. There, he saw the soft smile he had missed spread along your perfect lips, lips he craved to kiss but couldn’t. 

“I love you too, Klaus. That’s why you need to take care of yourself. I want to keep loving you, even if I’m not really here.” You leaned closer to him, “you still have to live your life.”

“I can conjure you now, whenever, like Ben and I-Ben. Did you hear what I…”

“I did,” you admit. “You know he was just trying to help.” Klaus nodded and let his eyes fall to the floor where your hand was still. Small but there, flecks of blood stood out against your skin as evidence of your accident. He swallowed hard before looking back up at you.

“You’re not staying are you? Not like him?” You curled your lips together and shook your head. Klaus nodded again, bitterly this time, and let his tears fall freely.

“I can’t,” you whispered, “not if you’re going to move on. You deserve to move on, Klaus, to live. I can’t, not really, not anymore.”

“But you love me,” Klaus whimpered. There was no use in hiding his tears anymore.

“I do,” you replied, “so much, Klaus, and this hurts me. I don’t want to see you like this.”

“When you love someone you stay with them. Why aren’t you staying?” Klaus was desperate, his hands moved up to his hair where his fingers pulled on the dark strands. 

“I already left this...plane,” you gesture to the room around you both, “but I never left you, Klaus. Not for a second.” You scoot along the carpet before you’re sitting before him. You’re so tantalizing close that Klaus swore he could feel your body heat for a second, smell your shampoo. Though that could not be true. “I’ve always been, and always will be, right here.”

Suddenly, Klaus feels a warmth spread through his chest. When he looked down, he finds your hand there, right above his heart. Your fingertips glow in a way he had never seen a ghost’s fingers glow before. At first, it scares him. 

Then your free head reaches up, strokes his hair and brushes along his scalp. A calm, a peace he hadn’t felt in a long time washed over him.

It was the peace Klaus felt walking with you to the bakery down the street from where you lived in the city. The same one he felt listening to you talk about your family, about school, about work; he felt it in your voice. Peace came with kissing you, holding you after he was released from the hospital after that first close call. How happy he had been to hold you again.

How happy he was to be holding you again, now. Klaus lunged towards you, wiry arms wrapping over your shoulders and pulling you close. The embrace was tight and Klaus felt everything he had been holding in go; like how he would have to let you go.

“I’m so sorry, so sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Klaus,” you said, clutching the back of his shirt. Suddenly, your fingers slipped through the material and you began to pull away. The light in your hands was beginning to fade and, as you sat back, Klaus watched, terrified.

“I love you, please don’t…”

“I love you too, Klaus. You were my unfinished business,” you leaned towards him as the light worked its way through your form. “I’ll always be here.”

With one final movement, you pressed your lips to Klaus’ and he felt his whole body go numb. He felt as if he were floating, made of the same light that was whisking you away to the next plane. Klaus knew, in those precious seconds before he opened his eyes again, that he would see you once more. He would, but not yet.

When Klaus opened his eyes, you were gone. Last, fluttering speck of light had taken your place. Stinging tears flowed from his eyes but his shoulders didn’t feel as heavy. Withdrawals had run the course or perhaps the disappearance of his full-body ache was your doing. He would never know for certain. 

Slightly breathless, Klaus pressed his back against the wall. His head fell back and, with a dull thud, it hit the wall as well. His skin, his lips seemed to tingle from your ghostly touch. It was the first time that had happened before. Perhaps dear-old-dad had been right: there was more to his powers than he realized. But, in that moment, Klaus was too overwhelmed to think any further on the subject.  

“You alright?” Klaus looked up and locked eyes with his brother. Ben, all dressed in black, looked down at him worried. 

“I’m sorry, Ben,” Klaus murmured. Ben nodded and walked over. His slid down the wall to sit next to his sweat-drenched, chest heaving brother. 

“I’m sorry too.”

Klaus smiled then and, for the first time in a while, he felt like happiness was possible. His chest swelled at the feeling and, for a split second, Klaus swore he could feel your hand run through his hand one last time. 

[wolf-and-bard]

Resigned To Fate

Prompt: Memory Alteration / Gaslighting

Relationships: Guxart/Vesemir (from one of the witcher-centric cards), Lambert/Aiden (background)

Rating: M

Content Warnings: heavy angst, suicidal tendencies, grief, mild gore, self-harm allusions

Summary: In the aftermath of the betrayal of the Cat school, Vesemir has not only his own school to hold together, but also a traumatised lover to care for. In which: Vesemir is strong and Guxart is weak and they find it hard to meet in the middle.

Word Count: ~2k

@witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo​

I.

Witchers survive.

Witchers endure.

Witchers outlast.

No matter the tragedy that befalls them or how difficult the contract. When they're being persecuted and beaten, starved and denied basic human decency. There's always a way forward.

Survive. Endure. Outlast.

Those are the thoughts Vesemir clings to, each sentiment falling as a whisper from his cracked and splintered lips to puddle at his blood- and gut-soaked feet, each word accompanied by the low wheeze of his shovel penetrating dry earth.

He couldn't fight for them, has to bury them. All of them.

He doesn't cry like the pups do, they haven't yet understood.

This is no genocide. This is merely a manifestation of what has been a long time coming, a natural course of history.

Vesemir cradles that truth tight to his chest. He survives, endures, outlasts. It's his birthright, duty, privilege, honour, burden, curse, cure, calling, punishment. It's a law of nature, the first one the new recruits learn when coming to the keep.

Nothing breaks Vesemir.

II.

When the wolves all sleep, the living in bed rolls pushed together in the great hall, the dead in their forever resting places of hard-packed dirt, the new day is already sloshing over the horizon in waves of muted scarlet. Vesemir finds no beauty in that, he doesn't think he will find any beauty in and around Kaer Morhen ever again. All that was tranquil about this place has been soaked in blood and so, it seems, has the sky. He fills a pack with their sorry dinner's leftovers - stale bread, hard cheese, dried berries - foregoes the soup and the spirits. Two deerskins of water and a faded quilt blanket. It smells like cinnamon and honey, like comfort he hopes. It's not cold enough to warrant any kind of coat yet, but halfway across the courtyard, Vesemir finds himself shivering. He unpacks the blanket and wraps it around his own shoulders, then briskly walks out of the keep's enclosures, the sun a cool caress on his stained cheeks. He's never hated her more than in that moment.

III.

She follows him even into the dingy half-dark of the outpost's only bedroom. The curtains are drawn, the room lit by a single artificial torch, but Vesemir finds another echo of the red horizon in Guxart's eyes as they meet his across the few paces that separate them. Seeing him is somehow still a bit of a surprise.

Guxart doesn't look haggard and wrung-out the way Vesemir knows he himself does. In the wake of their shared misery - the imprisonment, the wait, the release to find their schools in ruin and their charges mostly dead or mutilated - Vesemir aged a century while Guxart is frozen in time, barely more than a shell of the witcher Vesemir begrudgingly fell in love with.

His salt-and-pepper hair falls in curls just below his ears and his greyed beard looks freshly groomed, obscuring the permanent tremble of his lips, pressed together to contain the creature of mourning that grows in his chest. His slitted pupils are constantly thin so that they nearly drown in the red hue of his irises. There are but two things about Guxart that have changed in their trudge through agony - in physicality that is. He is pale now - almost as pale as Vesemir, who always used to look like a wraith next to Guxart's light-brown skin - and his voice has lost all its natural thunder. A husk, yes. But not irrevocably so.

Guxart may be broken, but Vesemir is barely more than cracked and he can hold it together for the two of them.

"Ves," Guxart croaks from his perch on the bed and Vesemir doesn't pretend like this is a happy meeting. He draws the door shut behind himself and opens the curtains with a precise blast of Aard. The light that filters in is grimy still and Guxart turns his back on it. It's the only thing he can do. In an act of protection, born from love, Vesemir had to shackle Guxart's wrists and ankles, just so the other witcher wouldn't hurt himself. Last time, Vesemir was nearly too late and that is not something he will stand to experience again. It's a precarious arrangement, temporary, but Vesemir didn't know how else to help either Guxart of himself. Bringing him to the keep would have been certain death for them both.

"I brought food."

"I'm not hungry."

Vesemir puts the pack down by the window and slips out of his boots, then crawls up on the bed and drapes the quilt over both their legs. The sight of it puts his gut in a twist.

This is where he used to let go. Relax his shoulders and drop the teacher, the torturer. Just be. Guxart gave that to him and he to Guxart. Had he any imagination, he would let his head fall to the brick behind himself and close his eyes, imagine it's just another morning after a night spent tangled up in each other, relishing dawn's kiss and each other's presence.

Vesemir is exceptionally bad at self-delusion.

"Will you have water?" he asks. Guxart shakes his head, remaining in his strained position, even when Vesemir jerks his chin to the side in an invitation to sidle up to him.

Guxart, for his part, is exceptionally bad at accepting love and pain at the same time.

"I'm not thirsty."

"Fine," Vesemir replies and they look at each other. It's not a staring contest like they sometimes held across the training fields when their students were locked in combat. It's searching for some remnant of joy and coming up short.

"There's dirt under your nails," Guxart murmurs without breaking the eye contact. "You buried them."

"I did."

"Mine also?"

"They took them back to the Camp."

Vesemir can still hear the hisses of cats, wolves, and swords alike as the witchers collected the bodies of their fallen comrades to separate and honour them. Vesemir suspects that what he feels for Guxart will be the last love ever lost between the two schools.

"It's all my fault."

"Come here," Vesemir says, keeping his tone levelled, understanding. He opens his arms a fraction, a more blatant invitation.

Finally, Guxart slumps against Vesemir, a heaving dead weight. Vesemir brings his arms around Guxart and presses his face into his curls. He finds little comfort there and lots of reminders to all that he lost at the hands of Treyse and Radowit's damned mage. Guxart presses into Vesemir with all the strength his restrained body can muster. They don't fit together quite so well anymore.

"They gave me a choice," Guxart says. "They gave me a choice."

"What choice?" Vesemir asks, mouth dry. He blinks rapidly as he rubs soothing circles over Guxart's sharp shoulder blades. In a moment here, he will have to think about how to feed the other witcher against his will, a painstaking process. Why keep at it?

Because he has to.

Nothing breaks Vesemir.

"They took me away one night," Guxart continues. "When you were asleep. They took me away and told me how I was to arrange it. Their death sentence. And they gave me a choice."

"What. Choice."

"They said they would spare them. All of them, all of our beautiful pups and kittens. They said if I throttled you, they wouldn't make me act out the treaty. It's why we were put in the same cell after that first week."

No such thing happened.

Vesemir knows.

He feared for their schools during their time in Radowit's dungeons, but his mind was sharp always, awake and waiting. Even then, he knew of Guxart's tendencies to slip from reality into madness fashioned by others. A consequence of the meddled-with cat mutagens perhaps, or a personal disposition. Doesn't matter. What does is that Vesemir was awake in the cell opposite - never sharing, never touching - watching his lover pass from one fever dream into the next as they kept him drugged, whispering to him, sentiments Vesemir himself managed to deflect when the guards - or his own mind - threw them at him.

This is your fault.

You brought this upon them, mutant scum.

They will die for your sins.

Nothing. Breaks. Vesemir.

"A lie," Vesemir sighs and presses his lips to Guxart's scalp. The other witcher shudders and the worst part about this is that he knows they will have this conversation again. And again. And each time, Guxart will believe a little less.

"They were our children, Ves. They were our children and I betrayed them. Traded their life for yours. If you had been given the same choice, would you have been strong enough?"

They both know the answer to that. If it had been between Guxart and his wolves, Vesemir wouldn't have hesitated to kill his lover. But that is entirely beside the point.

"There was never such a choice and what happened is not your fault."

"But it is. My fault. I spared you. And then I went on to kill them all. Treyse, he tried to stop me once we got out, but I gave the command anyway. We could have stood together, could have flattened all Kaedwen to dust, but I was greedy. I wanted you and the reward. I wanted... I wanted..."

Nothing ever. Breaks...

"You're talking nonsense. We were only released after the massacre took place, remember? Treyse was the one to commit treason, he gave that command."

"I have to die," Guxart says numbly. He doesn't listen now and his bound hands paw at Vesemir's thighs. "I have to die. You have to kill me."

"No."

"Please, I cannot live with this pain. Knowing it was all my fault, I cannot... how can you?"

Vesemir closes his eyes. Nothing. Nothing has yet broken him.

IV.

There is no containing Guxart forever. Vesemir knows this, Guxart knows this.

He waits, tends to his lover until such a time that he feels he's coaxed Guxart away from the brink of self-destruction at least. At the end, most of what hangs between them is fatigue and resentment, indistinguishable from the scraps of nostalgic affection they yet harbour. Vesemir does not remember what it felt like to love without care. He has to let go.

"I'm sorry, Ves," Guxart says when it's time to part, a whisper over Vesemir's lips in what will likely be their last ever kiss. "I know you mean well, but I cannot believe you. I have to repent."

There is no penance for a crime uncommitted. The only forgiveness you should want for is mine once you leave me here to grief on my own. You will wander and you will weaken and you will wither. Nothing will break me like you will, the moment you fade from sight.

Vesemir bites down on these thoughts. They're silly, selfish, and he is neither.

"Take care of yourself."

Guxart nods and turns and walks away.

And Vesemir doesn't break.

V.

Decades pass.

Vesemir fixes up whatever fissures did sneak up on him, he remains whole, he moves on.

Guxart may be out there, he may not. Vesemir will never know what fate Guxart has resigned himself to and that is acceptable.

It is acceptable.

Until the day Lambert comes home, announcing that he has given and lost his heart to a young cat by name of Aiden. He howls through the night and Vesemir holds him, the way he himself needed to be held back then perhaps, and he understands that all the glue he has been applying to his own heart was a sorry fake.

Vesemir has been broken for a long, long time.

And once he accepts that, he feels the years fall off his shoulders like leaves from an old tree, preparing for another winter. Possibly its last.

[thgreatestblue]

you're alive (in my head)

➜ pairing: sanemi shinazugawa x gn!reader ➜ warnings: angst, mention of dead character, manga spoilers, fluff. ➜ words: 7.6k ➜ a/n: i had the idea for this fic while listening to marjorie by taylor swift. it’s such a beautiful and touching song, i definitely recommend it. this one turned out quite big but anyway, happy holidays! ➜ ao3

summary: The man looks at you again, between white lashes that were still wet from his tears. He was a broken man whose pieces you didn't know how to put it back together. A puzzle you found yourself staring at without any clue of what form it should shape. It doesn't mean you weren't going to try anyway.

I.  

The piano would always call your name at the old restaurant your parents owned. It was an old and ugly thing; battered through time, but it would make the same wonderful sounds your grandmother used to do when playing it. That’s how you learned how to play in the first place. And how the tradition of having a musician in the family kept going, much for your parents' disdain.

You worked at your parents’ restaurant as a waitress. It was a family legacy you didn't quite like; working at the old restaurant for the rest of your life was not what you had in mind while growing up. It wasnt that you didn't like cooking and talking with strangers — it was quite a pleasant interaction that you had refined throughout the years. 

However, you wanted bigger things for your life. That’s why playing piano and writing songs were something you would always look forward to when the restaurant wasn't full. At some point, people started to demand to see you play, asking when they would hear your songs again; and that was enough to put a little bit of confidence inside your very cowardly heart. 

Each time you played, slender fingers touching keys like they were made for it; it would always take you to another place, one that you didn't need to step down the stage and go back to real life. Your mother once told you and your grandmother were too alike, and even though she meant it as a bad thing, you held onto that as the best compliment you had ever received.

Tonight, you were too nervous and focused on playing a song that you had written for your long-passed grandmother; it had taken an entire month to come up with lyrics and a melody that felt just like her. After all, it was her birthday. There were so many things you wished you had said, you wished you had done. But instead of mourning, you decided to pour your feelings into a song — it’s been 5 years already, all the wounds that were open had already healed, but that didn't mean they didn't itch from time to time. 

As you sit down on the worn out bench, the floor of the improvised stage cracks under your feet. Your father had built for you after realizing that you weren't going to stop playing it, even if he put the piano outside in the rain. Your mother had convinced him, after all, you were still doing your job and the customers liked to hear live music, there was no hurt in letting you play. 

You can feel eyes on you already; there was always an expectation every time you appeared to play the piano, and you would always try to meet them. Always staying up till late, trying to come up with new lyrics, trying new sounds. Even though your life was pretty boring, you still managed to write about interesting elements; situations you could only imagine, like living a fancy life, or loving someone. 

While you arrange the papers that you had written the song on the piano’s rack — not that you needed, it was just to put your mind at ease, that you weren't going to screw this up — you take a long look at the crowd; most of them still eating and talking to each other. You knew their attention would only fall on you when you started playing. 

However, there was someone looking directly at you. You knew that face all too well by now; it was impossible to miss the hair as white as the driven snow, or the scars that crossed his face that would make many people shrink away, scared by the intimidating aura he carried with him. However, you knew it wasn't the case; his eyes — even though you didn't have the courage to stare for too long — were gentle.

The man would come to the restaurant every now and then. Your cousin who worked at the bar, would always try to talk to him, but the man would always be short and sharp; preferring paying attention to his food, and mostly to alcohol which he would drink until it was time to close.

It wasn’t something unreal, since there were a lot of people who did the same. But what made him so different was that every time someone would come closer without warming, he would snap, always on guard. It reminded you of your grandfather, that would always carry with himself a knife; after a long life battling in the countryside, he never forgot the things he saw.

You offer him a tiny smile; despite not knowing the man — not even his name — you still wanted him to feel at ease in the restaurant, everyone was more than welcomed at this tiny place that your grandfather had fought so hard to build. 

Speaking of each, was nowhere to be seen. You weren't sad that he was going to miss your first performance of the song since you two wrote it together. He was almost tired of listening to you go back and forth, memorizing until it was carved on your mind like a detailed wooden piece. Besides, you were sure he was at her grave now, making her some company on this special day. 

The man doesn’t turn away, nor return the smile, which is fine to you. At least he didn't completely ignore your presence, being the complete mystery he was, you felt lucky that he had come to watch you play. 

Taking a deep breath, your fingers flew over the keys with ease; it was almost like a second nature by now, almost as easy as breathing. It had taken you some time to learn, to understand how the structure of the piano worked and how you could turn separate notes into a song. Your grandmother was patient enough to teach you the basics; to teach the same thing over and over until you had printed on your mind like a tattoo. 

The song was quite easy to play, you chose not to do something so out of your comfort zone because you knew your emotions were going to take over once you started to sing. The lyric had you and your grandfather crying once it was finished. But he didn't seem sad  — not entirely — he smiled and hugged you, saying that wherever she was, she was proud; and you believed in his words with all your heart.

Your voice trembles in a few parts, but nothing that would mess with the entire song. It only added more intensity and weight onto your words. Most people that frequented the restaurant knew about her, so it wasn’t something coming out of the blue - they understood the feeling behind it. And you are glad that you could remember your grandmother the way she always loved: playing the piano. 

As you played the last notes, the small crowd of the restaurant applauded your performance, a sound that made your heart jump in anticipation; it was the best reward you could ever receive. You notice that some people were weeping away their tears while you bow in gratitude for their attention. 

Stepping down from the makeshift stage, your mother gives you a hug, she wasn't good with words but you knew she was pleased with the performance. Although, before you could say anything, she shoves an apron in your direction, motioning towards a table that had a couple waiting to order. You shake your head in disbelief, but takes it anyway and starts to get ready to work.

The night goes by in a blink of an eye, there were more people than you were used to. You highly suspected it was because there was a festival coming up in the city in a few weeks, and many people came to see the fireworks. You swing among the tables; dividing your attention between taking orders and thanking the compliments and praises people would throw at you as you walked by. You took each one of them and put close to your heart — they were enough, for now. 

When your father decides to close the restaurant, you're more than tired. Even though in your mind the night went by in a flash; your bones were screaming because of the constant walking and talking. It was good for business, but not for you. Your father was a proud man that didn't accept outside people working in his restaurant, so you had to endure the amount of work and hope that the next day you were fully recharged. 

The trash of the day is by the door and by the looks of it, no one is going to take it out. You glance at your cousin but he immediately shakes his head, showing that he was still cleaning the glasses from the bar. You sigh loudly, getting up from the chair you were comfortably seated in. 

Grabbing the two huge bags, you open the door with your foot. A breath of fresh air hits your face — it smells like rain and grass — it's cold against your skin. You didn't notice the rain had come and gone, too absorbed in your job to pay attention; although you were content since you liked how the earth smelled after it.

You walk to the alleway right beside the restaurant, the huge bins still wet with a few raindrops. As you throw the trash inside, something; no, someone catches your attention from the corner of your eyes.

How fast you recognized the white hair was something to worry about another time, pushing down the thoughts that were starting to rise in your mind to take a better look at him. 

The man was seated against the wall, with his arms on his knees and a bottle of alcohol still hanging from his hand. His head was dropped into his chest, and for a moment you thought he was sleeping. You feel your heart spiking up with anticipation, your hands clench and unclench, million thoughts swing around your mind but you can't hear any of them. Against your better judgement, you start to approach him, making sure your feet make enough noise to announce your arrival.

He probably sensed that you were approaching because you notice how his body jerks slightly, slowly raising his head to look up at you. And your heart sinks in your chest as you catch a glimpse of his eyes, red and watery, some tears traveling his face down his cheeks to his chin. 

“Are you okay?“ You ask out of habit, because of course he wasn't. A man with a bottle of alcohol seated against a dark alley definitely wasn't doing fine. You want to slap yourself as soon as the words come out of your mouth.

“That song…” He starts, his voice is hoarse, barely audible. As if he had screamed the entire night at the top of his lungs. “Was really beautiful.”

“Thank you,” You answer, not knowing what else to say. 

There was a growing feeling on your chest, one you couldn't ignore when seeing the man in such a miserable state. You didn't consider yourself an altruistic person, that would run to help people wherever they had a problem. In fact, your mother once said that you were a little bit too cold when outside of your comfort zone that was music. 

However, contradicting everything you thought you were, you found yourself stepping closer to the man. Since it had rained almost all night, the ground was still wet, and you could see his trousers were wet in a few spots. The place he had chosen to sit wasn't the best either, with a huge puddle right next to his feet.

And again, against your better judgment, you slowly kneel next to him. He didn't flinch nor made any movement that would be a red flag for you to step away. Rather, he looks away and stares at the bottle he was holding, lips trembling; You didn't know if it was because of the cold or because he had been crying. 

“Fuck...” He curses in a whisper, rubbing his face, a few fugitive tears falling down the prison of his eyes “...It’s been a year.”

You couldn't think of anything to say to the man. Comforting people had always been hard since there wasn't anything you could say that would make them feel better — you knew that by experience. He was clearly in pain and going through something you could only imagine. As much as you wanted to help, to offer at least some comfort, you didn’t want to prey and ask unwelcomed questions to a stranger that was in such agony.

“I wrote that song for my grandmother.” It's the first thing that comes to your mind; you heard once that sometimes, changing the subject would make the person focus on other things instead of what is causing distress to them, it was worth a shot, “Everytime I sing it’s like she’s with me.”

The man looks at you again, between white lashes that were still wet from his tears. He was a broken man whose pieces you didn't know how to put it back together. A puzzle you found yourself staring at without any clue of what form it should shape. it doesn't mean you weren't going to try anyway.

"How?" His voice breaks under the pale shine of the moon. You could see his hands trembling, an urge to hold it almost takes over your body, but you stop yourself before you could regret. Instead, you put your hand on his shoulder. 

Men are proud creatures. You knew he would probably avoid you after tonight, being seen as vulnerable was the last thing they wanted. Something you never understood why, because right now, the only thing you felt was that this man was human, that he had feelings and regrets. Most men you had the unpleasant chance to meet at the restaurant were not even half of the man in front of you. 

“Well, she taught me how to play the piano.” You say with a smile growing on your face. The memory was still fresh on your mind, one that you kept revisiting when the longing was too strong. “It’s a small part of her that I made into mine.”

He looks at you, eyes still red from the tears that dared to escape, but you pretend that you didn't see them, preferring to ignore his state for his pride. He opens his mouth to say something but falls in silence again. You still have your hand on his shoulder, and you squeeze it a little bit before getting up. Your knees were wet but it wasn't a problem.

“Sometimes, we need to fully accept that it happened in order to move on.” You say, looking in his eyes. You didn't know what he was going through, but if it was something like what you felt when your grandmother passed away, then you could say one thing or two. “It took me some time, now it’s bittersweet instead of full on bitter.”

You smile at him again, waving goodbye as you make your way back to the restaurant. You don't dare to look back as you turn the corner, but you can feel his eyes following you until you disappeared from his view.

II.

The next morning, you wake up sensing something strange. There’s a peculiar feeling settling on your stomach as you lay on your bed staring at the ceiling, thinking about the man from last night. After coming back home, it took you some time to finally get some sleep, tossing and turning around; his face still playing on your mind like your favorite song. 

Why was yesterday any different from the other times you had seen him? 

He was a common client at the restaurant; you had seen him stumbling on his feet when going home more than once. Had even exchanged a few words while filling his cup or bringing something he had ordered. Not that he had paid any attention to you, but it was small victories that you collected like seashells. 

You knew the answer, just didn't want to admit. Because you are itching to know him better since the first time you laid your eyes on him. You’re a curious brat who can’t stop interfering in others' lives. Because you had seen him vulnerable. 

You sigh loudly, rubbing your hands on your face. Fine, you could debate later why you were ceaselessly thinking about a complete stranger — who probably had a heavy amount of baggage and definitely didn't need someone looking at the content inside and making a mess of it. 

After taking a quick bath, you head over to the first floor; despite still being morning, there were a lot of things to get done before opening the restaurant again in the afternoon. You didn't completely dislike the routine, but after repeating the same thing everyday, things tend to get blurry and more often than not, boring. 

The only thing that took you out of the endless circles of cleaning and cooking was when you were seated on the piano bench; when you were allowed to travel to other places and write about whatever you wanted. However, today was an exception for the rule; your eyes instantly go wide as you watch the white haired man come through the door.  

“We are closed, didn't you see the sign?” Your mother screams from the counter next to the door. 

She has a dishcloth over her shoulder; her apron had a few stains of water and you suspected she was washing the rest of the dishes from yesterday. The man stops at the entrance, blinking a few times, mouth open midway but no sound coming from it. And you have to suppress the teasing grin that threatens to appear on your face. 

“It’s okay mother, I invited him,” You say without thinking twice. Not quite sure where the burst of courage came from. 

Both of them quickly turn their heads in your direction and stare at you. Your mother frowning in disbelief — it reminds you of the times you were still bold enough to voice your desire to become a singer, a silly dream that was erased throughout the years. The man had his mouth slightly open, the look of surprise on his face is almost comical. 

Your mother gives you a suspicious look, hesitating for a brief moment before turning around to go back to the kitchen; mumbling something under her breath between what are they thinking? and well at least their are talking with someone. You roll your eyes and decide to ignore the last part. 

Taking a better look at him in the morning light, you realize how his eyelashes were long, longer than any eyelashes you’ve ever seen; they’re pretty. But what would always hold your attention was his eyes; even though he wasn't looking at you, they were a different shade of purple, and you could stay staring at them for hours because that color was so unique.

“I…” He starts, looking anywhere but you. There’s a brief pause but you don't push the conversation, waiting for him to continue. He cleans his throat and tries again, “I wanted to apologize.”

Your brows arch in curiosity; that was the last thing you expected him to say, leaving you speechless. You didn’t understand. Well, it wasn't that you didn't completely understand what he meant by that, you were just caught by surprise. You could swear he would avoid you like the plague and pretend that nothing happened.

He runs his hand through his hair, seeming nervous with the interaction. You watch the movement, noticing how he had more scars running down his arms, and probably down his chest too. Where did he get that many? Your grandfather had one on his knee, but that was all the marks he had to remind him of the bad days in the countryside - one story that he would tell you from time to time. This man must have a lot of them if his body was covered in so many. 

“For the other night, I mean.”

“Ah,” Returning from your train of thought that often had you spacing out; you offer him a genuine smile, “You don’t need to apologize.”

“Fuck, this is embarring,” He drops his hands at his sides, clenching and unclenching his hands, “Look, I drank a lot and…”

“I said, you don’t need to apologize,” You cut him short, saving him from the embarrassment that would be telling a story he clearly didn't want to revisit; to a stranger above everything else. As much as you wanted to know, you weren't in the position to demand anything from him, “I understand.”

Because you really did. Although you dealt with your grandmother’s death in a different way, since you were still a child when everything happened, you could still remember the hurt and the grief. People deal with problems in a variety of ways, it wasn't up to you to judge. He finally looks at you, mouth opening to say something, but you wave your hand, stopping him from saying anything else

“Are you hungry?” You ask, looking at the clock. it was half past 9. There were still some hours until lunch. If he was here at this time, he probably didn't eat anything since yesterday, the man needed something on his stomach after drinking so much. “My father just finished baking some bread, come eat with me.”

And again, you don't know where the burst of courage to invite him to your house, to your table came from, but you accepted it anyway. You had always been afraid of taking the first step since your parents discouraged you every time you tried. After some time you stopped dreaming about becoming a singer, or playing for a huge crowd. However, there was something about the man that made you want to act, to do something. 

He looks surprised by the invitation, and you don’t blame him. it was a surprise for you as well. Since when did you become so bold? You would blame the curiosity that lingered every time you looked at his face; the odd feeling growing on your chest every time you thought about his beautiful purple eyes. 

“Sanemi…“ Looking away, he rubs his neck. “My name is Shinazugawa Sanemi.”

“Oh, right!“ You can help but laugh, clapping your hands together. Such a simple step that you two had totally overlooked, jumping straight to the heavy stuff, “Y/N, nice to meet you!”

You offer your hand, and after a moment of hesitation, he holds your hand and squeezes it gently. It’s a firm grip and you can feel how calloused and rough his skin truly is. You don't mind though. 

“Come,” Before Sanemi could back off and rethink the invitation; you pull him towards the kitchen, hand still holding his’ in a tight grip, “My father just took it out of the oven, it’s better when it's still hot.”

He stumbles a little over his own feet, mumbling something underneath his breath. But follows you inside nevertheless; not letting go of your hand either.

III.

When a song is created, it starts with different types of attempts; you could try changing the rhythm first. Then the words; should they rhyme? should they be separated in the chorus? It’s a long process until you reach the final piece; and it’s even a longer process to make something you’re proud of. 

It’s the same process with your relationship with Sanemi. It started with only a few words thrown on the paper, none of them making any sense together. It took you some time to figure it out, how to use those words to create something nice. 

The words would come to your mind every time he showed up at the restaurant; every time he talked to you and you could have a glimpse inside his mind. It was a tough task, to say the least. However, your heart has had a change of weather lately; rather than staying inside because of the rain; it started to go out, looking for the sun. 

Sanemi would always appear if you invited him, especially on the days when you played the piano. He had told you once that he liked to hear you playing it, and since then you tried your best to come up with more songs and more rhythms. It was almost as if an imaginary dam had been breached inside your brain, and now each night you poured your heart into the paper, there were never enough words to describe everything you wanted to say. So you played.

His presence started to become more familiar; your mother knew his name, your father did too. Even your cousin now would talk to him without receiving a death glare. It was rather amusing seeing them interact because Sanemi was still, well, Sanemi. Although he would slip every now and then, he would always come back to his feet. It was a slow progress, one that you were more than lucky to see it happening. 

You never mentioned that you were worried about his habits, what people did with their lives was up to them. However, after that night, you were always looking out for him. Talking and keeping him company when you weren't too busy with other customers. In the beginning he had told you to fuck off; but there wasn't any real threat on his voice, so of course you didn't. 

You noticed, then, that he had stopped coming back home with a bottle of alcohol; had stopped getting angry at the other customers who would  bump into him sometimes. Had a more friendly voice when talking to your cousin, and didn’t fall asleep on the counter with a glass still full. It was those small details that would make your heart warm, spring finally arriving after a long winter. 

“Did you drink tonight?” You ask, leaning over the counter. He was the last client for the night. 

The restaurant was closing; what once was relief, now would leave you feeling gloomy because you had to say goodbye to your favorite person. You never knew when Sanemi would come back. He never told you exactly what his job was; or where he worked. So you had only blank spaces that you had to fill in with your own imagination. You were up for the challenge, anyway.

“No,” He smiles at you, a sight you could never get tired of. Sanemi had a different type of beauty; it was endearing to watch. “I decided to stop.”

You can help but open a huge smile after hearing that, “That’s good news!” 

It was the little details that transformed him into someone special; not only his beauty was captivating but the way he carried himself, tall and strong. You liked to hear whatever he had to say because it was always interesting. It wasn't half assed excuses or lies most people — most men — would tell you on a daily basis. 

There was something else about him; about his scars; about his mysterious past that you felt drawn to, like a fly is drawn to the light. You could only hope one day you would be able to sail on those mysterious waters without sinking after the first storm. 

“Well, it’s time to close...” An idea crosses your mind, and like everything you have been doing lately, you don't give a second thought, you don't hesitate. It flows out of your mouth as easily as breathing “But why don’t you come sit with me before you go?”

Sanemi raises a brow at you, and you laugh at his hesitation. Without wasting any more time, you grab his muscular arm and pull him off of the bar stool, heading to the stage. You often find yourself taking the first step yet again; it was rare the times where he would seek out for you. In the beginning, it would make you second doubt everything you said or did, worrying that he didn't like you. 

However, it wasn't that he didn't like you, he just didn't know what to do; because everytime you pulled him to do something or talked to him, he would gladly follow, never complaining — unless you asked him to help clean the restaurant, that he would complain, a lot.

“Have you ever played piano before?” The floor of the stage creaks under your steps, not used to have more than one person standing over it. You sit down on the bench, tapping the small space beside you. It was tight, but it would work. 

“No…” Sanemi stands behind the bench with his arms crossed over his chest, still unsure about what you were doing. You angrily tap the space beside you as a warning. 

He lets out a loud sigh before coming to sit next to you - you knew he only did that to appear tough; it was too easy to see that he wasn't really annoyed. Sitting by your side, his thigh completely touching yours sends a shiver down your spine; instantly coloring red your cheeks, and you have to shut down the thoughts that were starting to rise in the back of your mind. 

“My grandmother used to say that sometimes music is even more powerful than words,” You say, fingers hovering over the keys. If there was one thing that you would never stop talking about it, it was her. Somehow it felt like she was still alive, remembering her so tenderly. “She would just play away her thoughts and feelings, it was fascinating to watch.”

When Sanemi looks at you, there's a strange fog in his eyes, clouding his view; as if the weather had closed and it was about to rain. It stirs something inside you, an odd feeling that you knew all too well. Sometimes you would catch him staring at nothing, with the same clouded stare. 

You knew that something had happened in the past and he was still grieving over it, not only he had told you that night, but every time you talked about your grandmother he would react the same way. You could only hope that your company was enough to distract him from those feelings. 

“Why don’t you give it a try?” You offer, showing him the keyboard, for now this would have to be enough. 

“Me?” His voice has a hint of hesitance. You nod, encouraging him with a smile and a tap on his shoulder.  

He looks at you, to the piano, then to you again. It was amusing to watch, a grown up man afraid of touching simple keys. Although, to be very honest, when you started playing you would feel completely intimidated with the size and the sounds it would make. But what was most intimidating was the amount of work you had to put to actually learn how to play by yourself. It took you some years to finally overcome that fear of failure before jumping head first. 

He touches one key, but there’s almost no sound coming from it since he didn't put too much force on it; when you hesitate to touch the keys is when you first start to fail. He tries again, but this time, his finger slips and touches another key, the combination has you two flinching. You bite your lips as he continues to touch random keys; making a rather interesting combination. 

“You’re laughing.” 

“I’m not laughing.”

Sanemi sighs and retreats his hand, looking defeated, “I’m not made for this shit.”

“Oh shut up, here.” 

You gently hold his hand; skin warm under your touch. He doesn't complain about your boldness, so you keep going, putting his hand over the keyboard again, lightly tapping his index finger over a key so he would play the note. It’s a slow process, having to move at a pace that would allow the movement, but the opportunity of holding his hand is worth every minute. In the end, you two played the beginning of an easy song.

“See, it’s not that hard,” You say, letting go of his hand. “It’s all about feeling it.” Your face is warm for some reason. And Sanemi is still staring at the piano, and you could swear that his ears are a little bit red. 

“I’m shit at feelings,” He confesses, rubbing his neck. 

Well, you couldn't argue with that. He definitely semeed like someone who would rather show than say, but that’s the beauty in people right? Learning with mistakes, growing with the years as you grasp the nuances of reality and the world around you. 

“We all have to start from somewhere, right?” You smile at him, bumping his shoulder. 

Sanemi laughs, and doesn't miss the opportunity to bump your shoulder slightly harder, making you almost fall off the bench. He laughs even harder when you try to push him off but don't get even close to move a single inch of his body. However, you wouldn't give up so easily.

The small fight ends when Sanemi accidentally hits his elbow on the keyboard, making a loud noise that has you two jumping and your mother appearing from the kitchen yelling that it's already too late. The smirk on his face doesn't go away though. 

IV.

The festival was even prettier this year. The paper lamps shining on top of the buildings give an ethereal feeling to the scenario; the sakura’s trees were adorned with ribbons of all colors, petals flying around in a beautiful dance while the night was captured by the anticipation for the fireworks. However, that wasn't the only reason. 

Seated next to you, was Sanemi. His hair reflecting the colored lights from the lamps only made him radiate beauty; they danced across the white canvas. His face looked so peaceful, there was not a single wrinkle on his forehead as he ate the food you had prepared for the night. For a moment you forgot he was really there with you. It all seemed part of a dream, but not even your dreams could come up with such a dazzling view. 

To say that you were surprised when he invited you to come with him to the festival, was an understatement. It took you so long to process the information that he thought you had denied; and it was almost a battle to make him believe that yes, you really wanted to go with him, and no, you only hesitated because you were caught off guard. Truth be told, a few days had passed and you still couldn't believe. Not even now, when you were looking at him from the corner of your eyes. 

It also took you long hours of begging and whining for him to tell you that his favorite food was ohagi. You couldn't believe how silly he acted when he told you; almost as a kid, stomping his feet and all. You tried your best not to laugh, but failed miserably, which only made him even more embarrassed. When he left, you had your hair all messy but the smile on your face didn't disappear for the rest of the night.

You had prepared everything in anticipation, counting the days and hours to this moment. Your father gave you a day off only for this occasion — he would never admit, but after the white haired man had helped fix a few things in the restaurant, lending a hand whenever they needed, he came to like Sanemi. 

Your mother happily helped you prepare the ohagi and a few other things for the festival. Even suggested buying new clothes for you, which you denied. It wasn't a date, at least he didn't say it was. You were only keeping him company, right? Oh hell, who were you trying to fool? You wanted this to be a date so bad. 

The spot Sanemi chose was near the lake. As you looked around you noticed that there were reflections of the lamps on the water; like an infinite mirror, you could find stars in the sky or down there on earth, even in Sanemi's eyes. An infinity of beauty surrendering you, bouncing around like shooting stars; all you could do was close your eyes and make a wish. 

“I don't know, just…” You trailed off, thinking about his question, “You only die when you are forgotten, memories can keep you alive throughout the decades, don't you think?”

“You sound awfully like someone I know.” He throws his head back with a smirk on his face, drinking the sake.

He had promised it was only because of the festival, just for fun. And you didn't need him to promise that he wasn't drinking anymore, because you believed. You trusted him enough to know that he knew what he was doing. Also, you had seen his journey, there was no need to be reassured when you knew by heart. 

“Hmm, I bet they are wise and smart!” The sake tastes strong on your mouth, but you didn't mind. It wasn't often that you drank, but the feeling was nice and very welcomed.

“No, actually he’s a really annoying brat,” Sanemi chuckles, “But you aren't annoying.” He confesses, and if it wasn't too dark you could see a hint of red on his cheeks. 

“But am i still a brat?” You raise a brow at his direction. The smirk on his face tells you everything.

“Don't you dare finish that sentence or else there's no ohagi for you anymore.” You try narrowing your eyes as a threat, but the tiny smile tugging on the corner of your lips is enough to give you away. 

Sanemi’s smirk is still visible even in the low light, it has become a trademark of him by now, the curl on the corner of his lips, the chuckles that would follow after. And you would take notes of each of his mannerisms, remember every word, pay attention to what he liked and mostly what made him angry. Even if he wasn't someone that talked about himself in general, you had your own way to find out about him.

He picks another ohagi, and you watch him as he takes a bite, humming in delight. It makes your heart warm, your skills with cooking finally paying off for something else rather than just for the restaurant. Watching him eat your food and liking it hits you differently than anything else. You take another sip of sake, the drink burning a little as it goes down your throat is a welcomed feeling. 

“Genya,” Sanemi suddenly says. You look at him confused; the smirk long gone, replaced by the same melancholy look that would everytime cloud his eyes, “It was my little brother’s name.” He explains.

You look down at your hands holding the cup, contemplating. It was the first time Sanemi ever spoke about his family, his past. Even knowing him for quite some time now, even after becoming his friend, building a relationship with him from scratch and turning into something you can’t see yourself without it; his past was never brought up. Moreover, you truly believe he was a good man, there was no need to open old wounds only to satisfy your curiosity. 

“You don’t need to talk about it if you don’t want to,” You immediately ensure him, touching his shoulder. 

The last thing you wanted was him feeling like he owed you an explanation. Yes, you wanted to know, of course you did. Because you wanted to help, pick his pieces and put them back together, Sanemi wasn't a broken man, not entirely - he still had a bright and beautiful light inside him, it was only obscured with a few debris, leftover of a hurricane that he never recovered from. 

“It’s fine…” He’s gazing at the lake, mind elsewhere, far from reality, “I feel like I’ve been mourning for so long that I can't think about anything else.”

It breaks your heart seeing him like this, even harder than the night when you found him crying in the alleway. Because now you knew him, his name, his personality, his favorite food. Because now you held him so close to your heart that you were afraid of crushing it. Because you cared, more than anything. 

“But that’s why we struggle. It never goes away,” Your hand shifts from his shoulder, running down his back, caressing with small movements. Almost embracing him with one arm. “It only gets easier.” 

Sanemi goes quiet after that, closing his eyes. But you keep rubbing his back, face so close to his that you could see the difference of the skin that healed and formed his scars; the texture is rougher in contrast with the rest of his face. 

“Were you there? When it happened?” You find yourself asking. There are sirens going off in your head. Yet, you can’t stop. It’s an intense feeling of yearning. If you could only understand, just a little bit; having a glimpse of what the man was so hurt by it, then maybe you could help put his former self back together. That’s all you wanted. 

“Yes,” His voice breaks a little, words caught on his throat. He squeezes his eyes, closing his hands in a fist. However, he doesn't flinch nor say anything. So, instead of retreating, you put your other hand on his arm, the other still gently caressing his back. 

“He… He said I was the sweetest person in the world,” He whispers, placing his hand over yours, “Shit, I wasn’t even a good brother, I treated him badly, I pushed him away. I don’t deserve his words.”

“But he forgave you in the end,” You quickly say before he would go down on a spiraling hate towards himself, words flooding your mouth before you could stop, “He could have said anything, and he chose to let you know that you were still loved by him, even after everything.” 

You didn't know what everything actually meant, there were still so many blank spaces that needed to be filled for you to fully understand the man beside you. However, you knew one thing: blaming yourself was so much easier than forgiving. 

“Fuck… I don’t,” He tries, the grip in your hand a little bit too tight, but you don't pay any attention. All your focus was on his expression, his words, “I wanted him to be happy, to get married and have a family. And now…”

“Sanemi…” The look on his face is devastating, defeated. 

He had probably held all these emotions for so long, all these words of regret and shame, kept inside his heart and let it loose on his mind; torturously haunting him at each step he took. Now you understood why he had resorted to alcohol. The pain in his words touches your heart, making it quiver under it. 

“Please, don't blame yourself. We can't choose which path people are going to take, it’s out of our hands.”

Silence falls between you two, but it isn't uncomfortable. And you are more than happy to sit there and hold him close, trying your best to show through actions how much you cared about him. If your words couldn't do the job, at least you hoped your touch was reassuring him. At least, it worked for you — every time your grandfather patted your head was enough to remember to keep going, even when the longing was too much. 

“You deserve to be happy, Sanemi,” There were so many things you wanted to say, but you couldn't find the right words, “Your brother wouldn’t want any less, right?”

You hold his calloused hands in your small ones, slender fingers touching and tracing his scars, feeling the roughness of it. Since the first time you saw him, It had awakened something inside you; something about his hands, arms, his chest, his face, drawn with a pattern that made him so fascinating and interesting, traced with stories of pain and joy; a map that you couldn't help but want to explore every inch of it. 

“This world is cold and we are desperately fighting to be heard, to be seen.” Because it was the truth. Every day when you open your eyes; every day when you close them; each day is a small battle you need to live through. “Being alone in a place like this it’s just cruel.”

You don't know what possessed you at the moment, but when you realized, your lips had touched his skin, planting a gentle kiss, overflowed with affection, on his fingers. 

“That’s why I’ll be here for you, whenever you need me.”

The first firework explodes behind Sanemi, lighting him in an endearing aura that takes your breath away. Although, you can’t hear them; your heartbeat is even louder in your ears. His face is so close to yours that you can feel his warm breath against your skin. His hand comes to rest on your chin, squeezing slightly. He tilts your head in his direction and you close your eyes. 

Then, he kisses you.

[curewhimsy]

Outline for Sea Star’s storyline that I have so far.

It’s very angsty. I need to put in more happy, whimsical, and humorous moments to balance it out, because right now it’s 90% angst.

I also need to put in some magical worldbuilding and lore elements along with introducing the bigger plot... like the fact that Rhona can talk to sea life and has tons of friends who are marine animals. Right now the parts in the outline are mostly just about Rhona and Nagisa and their emotions...

Luana’s backstory is also pretty fantastical, it’s just not a part of this outline yet. Also the main plot is villains wanting to drain the ocean, along with evil pirates stealing from people (they also took Luana’s older sister, Oliana, from her parents when Oliana was a baby, and made Oliana into an evil pirate as well.) But with the biggest evil being the hatred of the group who wants to drain the ocean, the pirates have to turn over a new leaf and work with the good huntsman and huntresses to save their precious ocean...

Trigger warnings: Character death, needles, bullying (physical and emotional), PTSD, suicidal ideation, holy shit this story is angsty...

———————————

Nagisa was in 3rd grade when she met Amara Mendez, a cheerful mixed Latina girl with a toothy grin and sunny personality who cheered her up when nobody talked to her. Amara loved the ocean, which helped inspire Nagisa’s own love for the ocean as well. One night, after an argument with her mother, Nagisa called Amara and decided they would run away together. They ended up going to a cave, discovering a pool of magic water, and making a fun and adventurous memory related to the water. However, Amara would soon fall ill. Nagisa called her mother on her phone to notify her that Amara was ill and for both of them to be picked up and sent back home. In summer camp, Amara was the only one who remembered Nagisa’s birthday, and got her a present, a stuffed pink seal with a friendship necklace. Nagisa had worn the necklace and kept the stuffed seal ever since. Three years after they met, right before they were to enter 6th grade together, Amara and Nagisa had a phone call together one night. Amara was about to go on a cruise, and excitedly told Nagisa about her aspirations for it. They told each other about how they would miss each other, and Amara told Nagisa she would bring back many souvenirs and maybe even discover something great. But sadly, the cruise ship sank. Amara, who loved the ocean, passed away tragically in a shipwreck in the middle of the sea, at 10 years old on August 22. Nagisa fell into a deep state of mourning, and even thought about taking her own life to be with Amara again. Ever since then, Nagisa hated the ocean, because it took Amara away. She once loved the ocean because of Amara, but after her death, Nagisa never wanted anything to do with it again. 12 years later, even though 22-year-old Nagisa’s feelings have mostly subsided, they have changed very little. She still is traumatized by the incident, and is scared and repulsed by the ocean. The incident has pushed her back into her shell, and she hadn’t come back out since. Nagisa is too depressed, lonely, and anxious to live a productive life on her own. -One day, Nagisa’s mother falls ill, and she goes to get medicine for her. -On the way, a violent storm comes, the weak bridge to the pharmacy collapses, and Nagisa is thrown off the gap between two cliffs into the water. Underwater, she feels Amara telling her to be brave. When Nagisa surfaces, heavy rain batters her face, and suddenly, she feels land... and everything become dry. Opening her eyes, nothing looks right. She had ended up in a Dissonance. -Nagisa is attacked by a monster in the Dissonance. Rhona, a traveling Huntress who fights monsters and rescues people in Dissonances, saves her. -They end up on the deserted island. Nagisa is very nervous and feels like a burden to Rhona, who is protecting her. Rhona is equally as shy as Nagisa, only she doesn’t show her emotions well.) (That night they sleep in a clearing in the jungle.) (The next day...) (That night they sleep on a tiny island. Nagisa slowly becomes more comfortable around Rhona. She opens up to her and tells Rhona about her sick mother. Rhona comforts Nagisa and says everything will turn out okay. They finally break the ice and become friends, and are now a lot comfortable around each other.) (The next day...) (Nagisa tells Rhona about Amara, and starts crying to Rhona. Rhona holds Nagisa tightly as she pours her heart out to her.) (Nagisa confesses she thinks she’s weak and wishes she could be strong like Rhona. Rhona tells Nagisa that everyone has strength, and that she senses a lot of it inside of Nagisa.) (The next day...) (Nagisa sees a whale shark up close as they are thrown into the water by a monster. The whale shark is named Quartz, and he is one of Rhona’s sea life companions. Quartz was there to rescue them, and the two ride the large whale shark to safety. Rhona comforts a scared Nagisa and tells her that Quartz is friendly and won’t hurt her, despite his large size. They bond a bit...) (Rhona eventually gets badly wounded... Nagisa has to fight to defend Rhona!) (Nagisa summons the courage to protect Rhona however she can. She becomes fulfilled. She gains a weapon, and even though she is untrained, now has powers to fight the monster. She mimics Rhona’s battle moves with the previous monsters. Rhona watches in pain and notices Nagisa is very good at picking up techniques.) (The gigantic monster that Nagisa defeats drops not just one, but two escape charms, which send Rhona and Nagisa right back to the hill by the sea in Nagisa’s town, in brand new white dresses. Rhona’s wound becomes healed as well, which was a side-effect of the charm.) (Once Nagisa is back home, she is crushed knowing that she and Rhona will have to part. Rhona was such a good friend to her, and lonely Nagisa took a lot of solace in having someone to comfort her. Surprisingly, during their good-bye Rhona actually cries bitterly. She knows Nagisa’s story, her emotions, and is crushed having to leave her. Along with her job as a huntress taking a toll on her, she is very worried about Nagisa and knows she must be feeling broken-hearted about everything. Nagisa can’t stand to see her friend cry like this, and for the first time realizes Rhona might also be scared and alone somewhere deep down inside. So Nagisa decides to go with Rhona and train, and help her fight monsters alongside her so she doesn’t have to be alone anymore. Nagisa is making a tough decision to be a huntress too, for the sake of her friend. She had gone from insecure and timid to willing to be strong for a friend. (Flashback, this time to Rhona’s childhood. When Rhona was a 7 years old, she was rather lonely. She found a baby whale shark in a lagoon near the park and befriended it. This is when Rhona discovered she had a magical ability to talk with sea animals. She named the whale shark Quartz. Eventually, Quartz told Rhona that he was born in the ocean, but when he was still small enough to be picked up, he was caught and put into the lagoon. The lagoon was too small for the growing whale shark and he wanted to be released in the ocean. Rhona had to say goodbye, but knew Quartz would be happier.) (Time-skip to another time in the past, two years before the story’s present setting. Rhona is 22 years old. One day when Rhona is free-diving, she got so wrapped up in the scenery underwater that she forgot she needed to surface. Just as she was about to run out of oxygen, Quartz happened to be there and pushed Rhona to the surface. This is how they reunite after all those years.) (Back to the present. A week passes from Nagisa’s decision to her enrollment into the hunter’s academy. Nagisa’s excitement and her intermittent week of (harsh yet encouraging) training is summarized before the enrollment into the academy’s ANB (Absolute New Beginner) branch. Rhona takes time off for one week to train Nagisa.) (Nagisa enters and registers for the ANB branch at an odd time of the year. Given her odd timing, she is now currently the only Absolute New Beginner in the entire academy... and a potential easy target for teasing and bullying.  Rhona promises to protect Nagisa from any mistreatment. Nagisa is grateful and feels like she would need it, but hates feeling like Rhona’s burden. (It turns out that Nagisa’s training is ridiculously difficult and grueling. She ended up receiving a very harsh and blunt mentor who whips her into resolve and tells Nagisa that she’s out of shape and that monster fighting isn’t the kind of job you just pick on a complete whim. Nagisa wants to give up, hearing these words, but summons her courage and hangs in there to keep her promise to Rhona. Nagisa’s tough mentor also states that Rhona Aequor is too soft of a trainer, even though she was raised on a regimen “five times as difficult as Nagisa’s.” Nagisa can’t help but feel like a complete failure.) (Nagisa can’t take her predicament anymore and tells Rhona what she feels. Rhona says to Nagisa that she believes that the true way to reinforce people is with compassion, which is why she gave Nagisa a lot of room for error and to grow when she was training her personally. Rhona suggests that Nagisa endure the tough regimen, while she secretly trains Nagisa with her own regimen on the side.) (Nagisa asks Rhona why she became a Huntress. Rhona tells Nagisa that her great-grandfather, Zithembe, was a huntsman who rescued people. Rhona, who was depressed and felt worthless with little meaning to her life at the time, finally felt that maybe she could follow in his footsteps and perhaps become someone who saves people.) (Nagisa (SKIPPING MANY PARTS ... ... .... (Nagisa, who had been studying and training very hard the past several weeks, gets picked to go to the flooded library dungeon. She gets put in a group with a group of three other girls who are already friends, Mara, Thana, and Cathy. Nagisa is upset that she isn’t in a group with Rhona, and expresses this. The three girls roll their eyes at Nagisa behind her back.) (When at the flooded library, it is time to split up into groups and explore different areas. Nagisa casually tries to make conversation. She eventually talks about how she wouldn’t be as scared if Rhona were here. Thana sourly tells Nagisa that she needs to stop depending on Rhona so much. Cathy goes even further and adds that she wonders why Rhona and Nagisa seem to be so close when their skill levels are so different. Mara, the meanest of them all, finally adds that “Rhona probably feels so burdened by Nagisa holding her back all the time.” Nagisa wants to talk back, but can’t find any words. Now she feels like she wants to prove herself to the girls and make them eat their words, so she devises a plan.) (During the next fight, Nagisa uses the “genius maneuver” plan she thought up, but it ends up being a disaster because she couldn’t execute it right. She ends up almost putting her entire group in danger, and one of the lit candles on the wall ends up falling on a stack of paper, starting a fire. It ends up singeing some mystical books in the library that were filled with arcane knowledge of magic. Rhona, who happened to be nearby, ends up seeing the flames and panics... This is the first time Nagisa learns that Rhona has a phobia of flames. Rhona’s phobia started in childhood when she was trapped in a burning house once, before she had the ability to manipulate water and could put it out. Her fear, though a bit ironic, is intense enough to trigger an anxiety attack. Rhona confesses to Nagisa she has a phobia of fire, and Nagisa ends up slipping out that she has a phobia of needles. Nagisa ends up failing the expedition for her whole group due to the disaster she caused. They all get kicked out early, and miss their chance to get to the beautiful center of the flooded library while everyone else can keep going. The rest of Nagisa’s group is very angry at her and ends up wanting to get revenge on her.) (Mara, the leader of the group of mean girls, begin to bully Nagisa, who end up finding it in her to stand up to them. However, she still feels hurt... But one day, the girls ambush Nagisa and hold her down, and they have a box filled with needles. Thana remembered Nagisa mentioning she had a phobia of needles that day, and had the idea of torturing her with needles. The girls plan on sticking needles in Nagisa’s body one by one until her whole body is covered in pricks, “like a voodoo doll.” They hold her down, and start with her shoulder. “Don’t worry, it’s just a little sting.” They say. Nagisa screams loudly as they laugh. The noise and commotion ends up attracting Rhona, and she is very angry.) (Rhona is ready to fight the girls, with her trident and all. She is so enraged that they would hurt Nagisa, that she isn’t holding back. Nagisa is touched, but she hates the fact that she’s a damsel in distress AGAIN. She hates the fact that Rhona has to defend and rescue her AGAIN.) (The incident, and Rhona having to rescue her again, finally pushes Nagisa way over the edge, and now she wants to prove her strength and capability for independence to everyone. (At one point Nagisa wants to go take a rescue job on her own to prove her strength after a small disagreement with Rhona about her worth that left her depressed. Nagisa feels she’s depending on Rhona too much. But when Nagisa tries to do harder things on her own, Rhona stops her and says she’s not ready for a solo mission yet.) (Eventually Nagisa tries to prove herself by going into a dangerous area on her own. The last time and place Nagisa was seen before she disappeared was at the beach in the early morning two days back, by fellow guild member Longwei. He reports that Nagisa then appeared to be headed towards the whirlpool abyss, a dangerous area. He didn’t think much of it, and was sure Rhona was there protecting her. He however became concerned when a category 5 Dissonance had been reported to open up in whirlpool abyss the very hour Nagisa was out. He didn’t tell rhona because the chance never came up.) (Rhona gets irrationally angry at Longwei for not stopping Nagisa before she put herself in danger, and not telling her on top of it all. She loses her temper and starts shouting at Longwei before breaking down in tears. This is the first time anyone in the guild had seen Rhona “The Stoic Rescuer” get so upset and even cry. Rhona really cares about Nagisa and everyone can clearly see that from her outburst. Rhona is devastated that her and Nagisa’s disagreement had lead to this. She feels responsible. This time, the ocean took away Nagisa. Rhona too, begins to associate the sea with sadness and loneliness.) (Rhona begins to doubt herself and her strength. She contemplates if she should’ve become a huntress in the first place, or if she was ever cut out to be one. She begins to consider herself weak, cowardly, and unfit to be a warrior for letting Nagisa’s loss shroud her in these feelings.) Rhona is overcome with fear and panic and regret. Rhona doesn’t even know if Nagisa is still alive or not. She spends the next three months in anguish and intense emotional distress. Rhona becomes very withdrawn and contemplates retiring from being a huntress. However, she feels dutiful to her job and continues to fight with a heavy heart. During this period, Rhona feels empty inside as if she is missing her soul. It can be interpreted that Rhona is deeply in love with Nagisa. One day, Rhona ends up staying at an inn room with a woman named Claudia. Rhona is back to her solitary ways, this time due to a broken heart. Eventually, Rhona does introduce herself to Claudia, but she is so stressed and exhausted that she hallucinates a monster inside the inn during their conversation and starts attacking at nothing. Claudia asks if Rhona is okay. Rhona lies, saying she is okay. However, she is choking up with tears. Claudia tells Rhona to tell her what’s wrong. Rhona breaks down in tears and tells Claudia everything. Claudia comforts Rhona and gives her an emotion she forgot the feeling of. Hope. She tells Rhona that she believes Nagisa is still alive and that she will always keep the thought in her heart. Even though Claudia is not a huntress, she tries to help Rhona the best she can. However, due to them having different jobs, Rhona and Claudia find themselves having to part. However, they never forget each other, and might just meet again someday... One day, Rhona meets Luana who is a friendly pirate who still has a somewhat rough attitude. After a bit of bickering, Rhona feels desperate and wants Luana to help her find Nagisa, thinking that since she’s a pirate, she’d be good at it. Luana misunderstands Rhona’s attitude. She thinks Rhona is devoid of emotion because she’s trying to be cool, and not because her heart is broken. Luana picks a fight with Rhona and they battle it out. After realizing how strong Rhona is, Luana gives up. She still doesn’t like Rhona, and argues with her. Eventually though, Luana and Rhona find common ground and start to become friends. Shortly after this, Luana catches Rhona crying and at first she finds it unexpected that such a tough girl is crying, but then gets the heart to comfort Rhona and ask what’s wrong. Rhona tells everything to Luana, and Luana finally understands. (Nagisa is still alive, but she’s having a whole other adventure trying to make it back out alive to Rhona. Nagisa is stuck in a dangerous part of Whimsica, though this time she’s by herself. During this time, Nagisa is shocking herself with how strong she is deep inside, becoming a lot more tolerant and even using her wits to get out of a lot of dire situations in a pinch. (She then meets a girl named Umiko who is also lost. Umiko is a nereid, a humanoid who can live in the sea and breathe water.) (Eventually Nagisa and Umiko get captured by villains from Planet Monochrome. Nagisa ends up running away with Umiko and soon after Rhona ends up finding them. They all fight against the villains who captured Nagisa together...) Rhona notices Nagisa is a lot stronger now. She comments on how she’s like a whole new Nagisa, but the things she liked the most about her stayed the same... However... Nagisa can’t help but feel that the trauma that Rhona faced from losing her had made Rhona a shell of her former self. Rhona now often trembles during battle—something she never used to do. She beings up ideas of life’s uncertainty a lot more, which worries Nagisa. Once again, Nagisa blames herself. She shows a strong face to Rhona, but on the inside, she feels like the same “weak” Nagisa she always was. This goes on for another month, before they truly get the counseling they both need to recover and close the ocean of sorrow that had been stretching out between them both.

[dresupi]

Because I live for angst apparently - both our spouses passed suddenly and we found common ground in that, it's been a while and we're claiming we're just friends but oops we might have made out after a bottle of red and now what?

Here you go! I’m sorry it took me so freaking long to write this.  

Ship: Draco Malfoy/Hermione GrangerRated: MOther tags: Past Character Death, Snogging, Grief, Angst, Heavy Angst, Feels, Canon Divergence, Not Epilogue CompliantWord Count: 1560

Hermione's head pounded like a runaway drummer as she softly padded through her living room.

It was filled with smiling photographs of her family. The children playing outdoors. Happily frantic photos from King's Cross at platform nine and three-quarters. Hers and Ron's wedding day.

She turned away, her eyes stinging. She couldn't look at that one without tearing up. Even now.

A green scarf was still on the coat tree by the fireplace. She knew if she sniffed it, it would smell of green tea and licorice. It would smell like Draco. Her throbbing head was the only thing that kept her from burying her face in the soft wool blend.

Nothing in this house smelled like Ron anymore. She hadn't even noticed when his scent had gone, but it had. Gradually. She wasn't sure what she thought about that. It didn't make her eyes burn and tear up as the wedding photos did. It mostly just made her realize how bloody long it had been since she'd gone out.

A year. It had been a year. And technically, Draco's visit the night before didn't count. Because she still hadn't gone out.

She'd gone an entire year going between work and home. Home and work. Down to the train station twice. Once to pick up the children and once to drop them off for school. The first time doing either on her own. The first time without Ron.

That past September felt as if it were ages ago. Harry and Ginny had tried to help, but nothing they did seemed to assuage the pain she felt that she was here and Ron wasn't.

Draco had been there too on September first. Alone, as well. She'd heard the news through Harry. Astoria had succumbed to the illness she'd had her entire life.

Draco had appeared stoic, but she could tell his shoulders were a little too square. His smile a little too fixed. He held his son a little too tightly as Scorpio squirmed to be let go and to run to the train as well. He'd caught her gaze only briefly, but lingered until she turned away.

It was three days later that she'd received the first owl.

On Malfoy header, penned with exquisitely smooth green ink. An apology took up most of the space. An apology for even deigning to contact her while she was in mourning, but… was there any chance they could meet for drinks? For lunch? For a coffee? He needed someone to talk to. And none of his friends seemed to understand.

She'd refused, but the owls kept coming.

After that first one, the ice had been broken. He spoke of his grief without preamble. Asking her if she still felt Ron's presence? If it had stopped. When it had.

She asked him if photographs brought him to tears. If it was painful to look at Scorpio sometimes. If there were things he did that reeked too heavily of Astoria.

She both wanted him to say no and yes. She didn't want anyone feeling this same pain, but she also didn't want to be alone.

Hugo had Ron's laugh. And damnit. It hurt to hear it.

She hadn't even spent much time in the company of her best friend for fear of seeing the same sparkle in her eyes that Ron used to have.

Around two months into their correspondence, Draco asked if it was better to watch one's spouse waste away for years and years or to lose them all at once as Hermione had. That he'd never known an Astoria who wasn't ill. No one did. If there was an afterlife where he'd meet her once more, he'd never recognize her. Was that better than kissing Ron goodbye one morning and identifying his corpse that afternoon? Was it worse? Did it matter?

Hermione didn't have an answer for him. She knew neither was fair. But instead of telling him that, she invited him over for wine.

Her eyes clouded as she stared at the glasses where they sat on the coffee table.  Both empty. The bottle between them empty as well. She'd thought she herself would feel empty too.

But she felt as if she were packed to the brim with butterflies. Bursting to get out.

Her cheeks burned as she reached down to scoop up both glasses in one hand, the bottle in the other.

She could magic it all away, but the act of cleaning felt therapeutic. It was how she'd done it when Ron passed. She'd slowly, methodically packed his things, keeping a few items for herself, but the rest was sent off for donations.

Now that she thought about it, that was likely when her late husband's scent had started to leave the home they'd once shared.

The home she now padded through alone unless it was summer and Hugo and Rose were around to liven it up.

Between the months of September and June, it was only her.

Until last night.

She'd no sooner sent the owl inviting him than he was flooing into her living room. Hanging his coat and scarf on the coat tree and sitting upon her sofa like a cat. Crookshanks had twittered at him, rubbing around his ankles before tottering off to his favorite napping place.

Draco was formally dressed. Robes still on from work, most likely, whereas Hermione was in her usual weekend attire. Flannel pyjama bottoms and one of Ron's old Quidditch t-shirts. Draco hadn't batted an eye, he'd simply produced a bottle of some very fine red wine, prompting Hermione to summon the glasses.

Although she'd waited until well after her second glass to act upon it, the desire to kiss Draco Malfoy had consumed her from the second he'd arrived.

He always looked put upon, as if he was doing you a favor by deigning to grace you with his presence. This wasn't like that. She'd wager that he'd no sooner read her invitation than he'd set off for the floo.

He didn't look bored. Or boastful or swaggering.

He looked…

Hopeful.

And she'd wanted to kiss him right then and there.

The urge surprised her. She'd never wanted to kiss Malfoy in her entire life.

But in that minute, she wanted those dextrous fingers tangled in her hair. She wanted his lips on hers because he was the only one in her life who could truly understand her melancholy. And why that was being coded as arousal by her very confused mind wasn't her concern.

Still, it took her two and a half glasses to go for it.

And it was sloppy.

She leaned over, her lips finding his and tasting the wine lingering there. He didn't move for a long moment and she dreaded pulling back, having to look him in the face and own up to what she'd done.

But then, he sent both of their glasses to the table and cupped her face in his hands, deepening the kiss and laying her back on the sofa cushions.

His tongue delved into her mouth, flicking around and driving her mad.  Her mind went absolutely blank and for the first time in a year, she wasn't comparing this to her life before Ron had been killed. She wasn't drawing any comparison, because there wasn't one.

This was new. It was exciting.

And she didn't want it to stop.

But stop, they did. She wasn't sure when the snogging had started, but it ended around one in the morning with her legs wrapped around Draco's hips as he ground helplessly against her warmth. They were both still clothed, but very mussed.

He'd broken off the kiss softly. "Granger… unless we want to take this further, we should stop now."

She'd gulped and nodded. And he'd sat up, downing the rest of his glass and standing to take his coat. He'd lingered at the fireplace, sending a dark, longing look her way. "Next time, you can come to mine."

And he'd gone.

She was here now, cleaning out their glasses and blinking back a hangover and wondering what in the bloody hell she'd been thinking.

What she was still thinking.

Because she had to remind herself that it was poor judgment. Because it felt so very good.

A rapping at the kitchen window brought her from her thoughts. She recognized Draco's owl, a message for her tied to its leg.

She fed the owl a treat as she read through the short missive.

H,

I seem to have misplaced my scarf. Why don't you bring it 'round this evening and stay for dinner? Arrangements can be made in the event you'd like to stay later. 

D

She frowned, wondering exactly what tone he meant for that last bit, nearly missing the postscript at the bottom of the letter.

P.S Stop overanalyzing, Granger. If I hadn't wanted to kiss you, I wouldn't have. I thoroughly enjoyed myself, so I hope to see you this evening.

Her cheeks reddened considerably and she quickly penned an acceptance on the opposite side of the paper, sending it back with the owl.

It wasn't poor judgment. Her past year of self-inflicted hermitism had been. Besides, if there was any judgment to be endured, it wasn't going to come from Draco. Nor from Hermione for that matter. And theirs was the only verdict that mattered.

[gifsbysimplysonia]

Untitled - Roman Reigns Gladiator FanFic - Prologue?

GIF by @romanvreigns

So I wrote this TWO YEARS AGO; May 2017. I saw a prompt on the blog of someone I followed at the time and for some reason, it inspired my brain and I remember opening up Word at work and just writing. Of course, as is the case with me 99% of the time, I never followed up on it. 

But I’m reposting it now to see if it piques anyone’s interest? 

I wish you would write a fic where reader is a wealthy Greek who buys a gladiator (Roman and/or the shield) to get him out of the fighting life and she has to rehabilitate him to regular human life and not the life of a man fighting for his life (think feral children/severe abuse victims etc) like he’s so blown away that he can /sit on a chair/ and she has to constantly reassure him that he’s not going back to fight. Mostly fluff and angst. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE! 

In the story, Dexios = Dean Ambrose

Stolen prompt from @savmontreal

Despite the pointed stares and blatant whispers, she’d entered the arena with her head held high.

“Let them talk,” she thought to herself, grinding the teeth in the back of her mouth. She knew the decision to make a public appearance so soon after her husband’s death would draw attention. To choose The Games to appear at would be considered even more audacious. Labels did not bother her; if they did then she would have been broken when they called her a whore on her wedding day. Or she would have collapsed when her husband took to beating her regularly for the looks of desire thrown her way by other men, despite no encouragement from her at all. So when he choked to death while literally raising his hand to her, she did not mourn, not for one second. She stepped over his still warm corpse to pour herself a glass of wine, sat in his chair, and silently wept, thanking the Gods for delivering her from the evil that had been plaguing her behind closed and supposedly respectable doors for far too long.

As she approached his seat, located high above the arena in a place of so called honor, instead of whispers she heard unnatural silence. His peers all watched her now, no doubt wondering how she dared to live her life. She was sure to look each man and meek wife that stood with him in the eye, offer a meaningless bow of her head to feign respect, and then removed her cape, handing it to her servant as she took his place, now her rightful place, and waited for The Games to begin.

To be honest, this was one of the more difficult tasks to pretend to tolerate as the wife of a wealthy Greek. She found The Games deplorable. While some gladiators were volunteers risking life and limb to appear in the arena, most were slaves. The life of a slave was a life she was all too familiar with, and one she swore to never again return to. That familiarity is what made watching The Games so painful for her. As a slave she was stripped of her freedom, of choices, and even her humanity. Many would believe that being removed from her life of slavery by a rich and powerful man meant that this man must have been some kind of hero.

The truth was much blacker, as that man was in no way her liberator. She really just traded one type of prison for another. While prison with him provided her with finer shackles in the form of gorgeous clothes and adornments, an actual bed to sleep in and a table to dine at … nothing belonged to her & he was sure to remind her every chance he got, be it with harsh words, stinging slaps, and worse, if the mood overtook him.

When she was scoffed at and looked down upon, she was not sure how to react. She never dared to believe she would be accepted into this new world, but being accustomed to being ignored, attention was brand new to her, even if it was negative. Being a slave did not mean she did not have a heart, even one as hardened as hers thanks to a lifetime of slavery. She knew her freedom was an illusion, even if all around her did not. Even now, with him gone and no obstacles in her way, she was still a prisoner … of her own doubts and fears. The feel of her nails digging into the soft flesh of her palm brought her back to the present as she contemplated how long she would be haunted and wondering what it would take to break truly free from all she had endured.

The Games had gotten underway while she had become lost in her own thoughts, and as the crowd roared, she turned her attention to the arena. She grimaced as she realized it would soon be time for The Decision to be made. She had been allowed to defer the decision to her former’s 2nd. Normally this would not be allowed, but as Dexios was the only person to ever not show her disdain or cruelty…she suspected he might be the first actual man she would encounter.

Dexios gave her a nod, his unruly brown hair hanging in in his eyes. Despite the fact his hair appeared as a curtain, shielding his eyes from view, Dexios was astute and saw more than others realized. He had noticed the careful way she moved the days after she was beaten, even though He had always been sure to hit her in places where the bruises would not show in public. Dexios caught on to what was happening fairly quickly, and the looks he would throw His way … the way his eyes looked in those moments, she truly believed he was capable of a violence that would sweep him away forever, perhaps into an asylum. But just as quickly as the storm would show in his eyes, Dexios would calm himself and turn his attention to her, taking quiet and almost unnoticeable care of her when he could. That is to say, nobody else would notice, but she certainly did.

Now, he stood to her left, hands one atop the other as he waited on her to pass the decision to him. The crowd roared as one gladiator towered over the other. The soon-to-be winner had the other by a handful of hair, down on his knees, chest heaving and curved up from the blade of a sword, eyes cast downward. The sword at his throat seemed to not affect him at all; this gladiator seemed to be done.

Some unseen force pulled her to her feet, and as she felt the rough wall beneath her own callused fingertips, she felt her brows draw together as she intently stared at the almost defeated gladiator. Why she was willing him to look at her, she did not know. All she knew was that she felt a tugging deep down within her, not only in her gut but on her heart and she needed to see the eyes of this gladiator. As though he heard her thoughts, the nearly beaten man gazed upwards at her. She felt her breath catch; even at this distance, there was something in his eyes, something so familiar…

Dexios hovered closely at her side, waiting for the responsibility of deciding whether this man was to live or die. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his mouth open and turned her head to him. She shook her head no, and her expression must have told him that he was to have no responsibility this day. Her right arm began to raise. She had to swallow the lump in her throat at what she was about to do because she had never done this before. She was not sure what the consequences would be, that she suddenly and without warning stepped in to make this decision, and surely speculation would run rampant. All of her doubts and worry rushed through her head, showing clearly on her face, as she seemed to move in slow motion.

As her eyes raised to the gladiator once more, she bit her lip….and suddenly, he was unleashed. He jerked from his opponent’s slightly lax grip, as that man had been waiting for the decision to be rendered. The long haired man sprang to his feet from his knees, headbutting his opponent under the chin, causing that man to stumble back. He took the opportunity to grab his sword, run and jump into the air, slashing at his opponent, slicing open his adversary’s throat. She gasped as she watched the man fall to the ground amidst the joyous, blood thirsty roar of the crowd. The long haired gladiator threw his sword to the ground forcefully, and when he turned to look at her over his shoulder, his face was angry. She was taken aback at that strong of an emotion being directed her way, but after only a few moments, his face transformed from anger to a more pensive and frustrated nature.

He tore his gaze from hers and looked at the people around him, in the stands, on their feet with hands in the air, cheering. The anger returned as his face gathered and he opened his mouth and let out a bellowing yell. While it served to pull more raucous sounds from the crowd, she was certain it was not meant to be celebratory. His head fell, his long dark hair shrouding him from her as he made his way back to his prison.

“Dexios…” she whispered, reaching out to him. When she turned to look at him, he looked worried.

“Yes, my lady?” Her lips opened but she floundered as she felt the gazes of everyone around her. They had seen her rise from her chair for the first time and almost act as judge & jury. It was unexpected and suspicious and there was no way around it. She did not know what overcame her, or what she was feeling now because she had an urge to go find that gladiator.

“Dexios…”

“My lady, let me escort you,” he offered, giving her his arm to take. She did so, gratefully, as she attempted to work through what had just happened. Once Dexios had her out of the arena, he spoke.

“My lady, I am not certain what inspired your actions today but I fear that you will be the subject of much speculation and possibly retaliation. And though you have not requested, allow me to offer advisement …” His expression was intense and as serious as she ever remembered seeing it. “Think over what you mean to do very very carefully. I know where you come from, and to go down the path you seem to be wanting to follow now….might return you to a life I know you do not want to return to.”

She worried her lower lip with her teeth, weighing his words very carefully and thoughtfully, wringing her hands. Dexios knew her well and she knew he only had her best interest at heart but this feeling inside of her … it could not be ignored.

“Is it possible for me to see him?” she asked, looking up into his face. Dexios sighed heavily, looking down at the ground as he cupped her shoulders. When he looked up, half of a smile touched his lips as he leaned forward and kissed her forehead.

“I knew one day your heart would lead us here,” he told her quietly. He took both of her hands in his. “May the Gods be with us on this journey.” He closed his eyes and took two deep breaths. When he opened them, she saw a look in his eyes she had never seen before and it took her breath away. “My lady….follow me.” She trembled slightly as she wrapped her arm around his, but somehow, his large warm hand upon the back of hers calmed her stammering heart. She let him lead her…down this path that was unknown to her but she somehow knew, by Dexios and her own heart, would lead her back to somewhere she knew all too well.

[veliseraptor]

share your fave underappreciated writers/works!

I mean, I feel like I have a whole list and it’s basically “the writers I follow.” but I guess to name a few people who are new to me/the MCU fandom, I’d put down @iguessyouregonnamissthepantyraid, @anamelessdragon, and @bereft-of-frogs.

and if I were gonna do fics…I made the completely arbitrary decision to go through my bookmarks and pull out ones with under 100 kudos - I stuck with MCU for this one because if I did that it would basically be every fic for the other fandoms I’m in, and I didn’t want to do all that work. 

(but basically every fic for small book fandoms is underappreciated, so.)

there were also a number of fics that were just a smidge over 100 that would also qualify for this list, and basically - this is far from complete, just a selection of a few. 

like petals from a rose by andibeth82

This is just…a lovely, emotional fic about some of the ladies of the MCU (Gamora, Nebula, Natasha, Maria Hill, Wanda, and Okoye), and Infinity War, and endurance. I loved this one.

We Can Act Like We Come From Out of This World (Leave the Real One Far Behind) by Tandirra

Just some beautiful dark Loki/Grandmaster. You know, the good stuff I love.

Lessons by AliceinKinkland

I feel like I don’t read nearly enough Gamora and Nebula fic, but part of that is that I struggle to find Gamora and Nebula fic that I like. This fic definitely hit the spot, though. Pre-canon, the two of them on a mission for Thanos, and the tension between them (and particularly with a younger, more (relatively) innocent Nebula, is so well done.

zephyr by ikijai

A beautiful fic about Thor post-Ragnarok, trying to deal with the new burden of rule.

i fight for my nigga, take a life for my nigga (bang bang) by mayaschuyler

Do we know the name of Erik’s girlfriend in Black Panther? I don’t know that we do, but this is a fic about her, and her point of view. It’s very well done and a fresh look from the outside at canon from an (obviously) underwritten character’s point of view.

Closure by Eustacia Vye

A mortal Loki, Natasha/Loki femdom, angst, it’s tagged with “self hatred”, you know it’s my jam.

get used to the dust in your lungs by 100indecisions

I don’t feel there’s enough Natasha and Wanda fic, and this fic set post-Ultron hit the spot - exploring some of Wanda’s past, and her guilt, and her complicated feelings after the movie. I always want more female friendship fic, and I have a really hard time finding it - I was delighted to see an author I know mostly for her Loki fic picking up some of that slack.

Headstone by telm_393

I went looking a long while back for fic about Sam and Riley, or just general Sam backstory fic, and to my sorrow did not turn up much - but I did turn up this one. Sam’s got loss in his background, too, and I love this short exploration of his relationship to Riley.

as we were, no longer, not be at all by 100demons

Sam, pre-canon, with Riley and mourning. As I said above,  there’s not enough fics like this, but this one is lovely.

Lay Your Head Down by CatKing_Catkin

I’m here for every “Clint introspects about Loki after the events of The Avengers” fic, and there’s not a lot of them - but there’s this one, and it’s one that I really like. 

And okay, cheating a little to include two from Greek Mythology because I love them both a lot and they’re of course underread by virtue of fandom–

Klytemnestra, in fragments by prozacpark and The Kassandraia by Hokuto. The latter especially fills a hole I have always wanted more of (namely, Cassandra and Clytemnestra fic) and is just beautifully done besides.

[havenoffandoms]

To the End of the World and Back

Pairing: Endverse Destiel

Summary: “Look, Cas” Dean stood up, interrupting his lover in the process, “we all know that the end is approaching. You know it, I know it, and there’s no point kidding each other. Very soon, we will both be dead” 

Warnings: angst, fluff, Endverse, some crude language

There were not many days where Castiel was not high. Being awake, being aware... it had become far too painful for him. Without the drugs, Cas had more time to think about things that were and things that would never come back. And God knew he definitely did not want to think about the past. It was a waste of time, anyway. Nothing he said, or did for the matter, would bring back the Dean he had fallen in love with. So, to forget this tragic and depressing realisation, Cas used drugs. They provided a refuge from the Croatoan-infested world he lived in. They allowed him to escape the bitter reality he faced daily when Dean came back from a mission. Because it was easier to endure Dean fucking him rather than make love to him when he was high. It made it easier to ignore the fact that Dean never returned his ‘I love you’ anymore. It became easier to blame his tears on his comedown from the substance than to admit that, actually, Castiel was mourning past Dean. Nobody really understood. 

This evening was different, though. This evening was the anniversary of the day Castiel had pulled Dean out of Hell and reconstructed him piece by piece. This evening was a special evening, and Cas wanted to remember the event. It was the one thing he did not want to forget. He did not want to forget how bright Dean’s soul shined even after the angels managed to pull him out of the underworld. That was all but distant memory now, of course. Dean’s soul had changed with the years, it had become less and less bright. Effectively, Dean’s spirit had gone extinct in the most literal sense of the word. Dean Winchester’s soul had died, and Castiel felt the effect of that occurrence on a daily basis. 

The fallen angel heard the wood creak softly under his lover’s weight as Dean entered their shed. Castiel had tried to keep the place as homely as he could with the torn carpet he had nicked out of an abandoned shop, as well as the oil lamps found in an empty house. That was the only luxury they possessed, and frankly it was more than enough. Nothing could really make Castiel feel at home in this world. He, who had known the glory of his father’s creation; he, who had seen the beauties of the Earth manifested in trillions of different ways... seeing this world destroyed was slowly killing Castiel from the inside. However, he knew he had to stay strong; for Dean, for everybody still alive and fighting, although it was getting harder with each and every day. 

“How did the mission go?” Castiel asked solemnly, watching Dean intently as his lover took off his boots and went to absent-mindedly place a kiss on Cas’ hair. It seemed like a loving gesture, but really it had become more of a mechanical reflex on Dean’s behalf. 

“Just the usual. We saw a bunch of Croats, we shot them. Nothing terribly exciting”

“I see...” 

Dean poured himself a glass of whiskey as he stripped down to his trousers. Castiel could not help but let his eyes wander over his lover’s well-chiseled chest. Dean Winchester was good-looking, there was no denying that. The things this man made Castiel feel... even after all these years, even after all the carnage, Dean managed to make the angel squirm with lust. 

“You seem surprisingly clean tonight...” Dean commented, and Castiel would be lying if he said that his tone did not pinch a little. 

“Yeah... it’s just one of those nights again...” Castiel explained, remaining vague. 

“You mean it’s the night...” 

The words surprised the angel more than he cared to show. He had not expected Dean to remember, or to acknowledge it if he did. Dean had never made an effort to recall this night in the past, why would today be any different? 

“I...”

“Look, Cas” Dean stood up, interrupting his lover in the process, “we all know that the end is approaching. You know it, I know it, and there’s no point in kidding each other. Very soon, we will both be dead” 

“What does that have to do with this conversation?” Cas enquired, genuinely confused and mostly saddened. Dean sighed as he rubbed his face with the palm of his hand, undoubtedly in frustration. 

“Is it not obvious, Cas? Tonight could be our last night together. We are this close to finding Lucifer and killing the son of a bitch. Every night could be our last night. And I guess I just...” 

Dean was getting gradually more and more agitated, and Castiel recognised this pattern of behaviour. It was the way his lover acted before sharing his feelings for Cas. The angel’s heart skipped a beat at the thought. 

“Dean, what is it? You can talk to me... I’m clean, like you said”

“Yeah, I know, just... give me two seconds” Dean downed his drink before carrying on, “all I’m trying to say is that... I love you, angel. I really do, and... well, now that the end is near I guess I’m starting to realise that I’ve been a douchebag to you, and... that I might be the reason why you are so messed up now. And I’m sorry, man. I really am... I know it’s too late for an apology now, but... I can’t live with myself knowing that I did this to you” 

Dean’s words were followed by a long silence, broken only by the pouring of whiskey into Dean’s empty glass. Castiel did not know how to react, or what to say. He felt like crying, laughing and screaming at the same time. One thing the fallen angel had not managed to cope with very well were the cacophony of human emotions, and when all of them manifested together... hell, it was not easy to handle. And the nickname Dean used... the man had not used this nickname in years, and it made Castiel feel warm and giddy inside. 

“You do know that I followed you of my own free will, right? You never made me...” 

“Cas, stop, if it weren’t for me you would not be in this crap hole right now...” Dean barked, but Cas would have none of it. 

“If I had to do this all over again I would, Dean. For you, I would go to the ends of the world and back if it meant that you would get to live. There is nothing in this world I would not do to keep you safe... and if tonight is our last night on Earth, then I vow to look for you every single day I spend in Heaven until I find you and we’re reunited. I will never stop looking for you, because a Heaven without you is my definition of Hell...”

Tears were welling up in Cas’ eyes as he spoke from the bottom of his heart, and he could see that his monologue was also starting to get to Dean. The hunter turned his face so Castiel could not see the tears forming and running down his cheeks, but the angel was not one to be fooled. It was in that instant that Castiel went to embrace Dean tightly, burying his face in the crook of the hunter’s neck and inhaling his scent maybe for the last time. 

“I love you too, Dean. I’ve always loved you and I always will”

“Always is a long time, you know” Dean said with a small smile, wrapping his arms around his angels and burying his nose in the dark locks. Nothing else mattered in this moment. It was just him and Cas, enjoying each other’s presence and maybe also the last hours they would spend together alive. 

“I know” Cas replied, kissing his lover’s neck tenderly, “and I’m ready to face all eternity by your side” 

That was a promise Castiel intended to keep. 

[unfortunate-rp]

Congratulations, LIV! You have been accepted as your desired character, AVA COLEMAN. I especially loved in your app the amount of detail you went into the Anything Else section to show what makes Ava Ava. Please be sure to complete the steps listed on the NEW MEMBER CHECKLIST and send in your account within the next 24 hours.

Well, young lady, have you been good to your mother?

OOC        Your Name: Liv    Your Age: 21    Your Pronouns: She/Her    Time zone: EST    Activity Level: 5; I’m in grad school-enough said there. I can be on pretty reliably a bit each day though.      Tumblr account (for contact purposes): ooopsydaisy or thatparkinsongirl    (If applying for second character) Characters played: NA    (If applying for second character) Will you be able to handle a second character?: NA    How did you find us?: The lsrpg tag I think.    Triggers: None IC    Character you’re applying for: Ava Coleman    Why did you choose this character?: Before I even knew if Sybil’s wife would be a playable char I was fascinated with the idea of her. Right out of the gate, there’s so much potential for her. Ugh the angst, the character development, the mystery sh’s now caught up in.    Secondary character preference: Ruby Cohen! If I have time I’m apping her too.      A sample in character: The cats, Rosalind and Aslop, were crying in their carriers in the back seat and eventually Ava started too. With every mile, every turn she drove further and further from home; no, that wasn’t right, 667 Dark Avenue wasn’t home, not really. Home was Sybil. The truck was packed full of their life together, at least; every scrap of paper, every trinket, Ava didn’t dare get rid of anything or even place it in storage. Anything could be a clue, a message, an answer. She’d been around enough grieving families though by now to know that answers were a bandaid on a gaping wound and it was a gaping wound. Days after the funeral, but before the whispering of her own guilt began, Ava had woken in their bed to a noise in the kitchen, just the cats, but for a moment, sleep still clinging to her, it was any other morning, Sybil puttering around the kitchen as the coffee brewed. The car crash impact of realization, of remembrance, knocked the air out of her lungs, left her gasping alone in a bed for two, knees drawn up to her chest, trying to lessen the stomach deep pain. No one had ever explained to her how physical an emotional wound could hurt you. Pulling into the driveway of her new house, Ava tried to see it with Sybil’s eyes. It was charming enough with the view of the lake, butter yellow door, shutters, and creeping ivy. Some of that was detracted by the perpetual gray skies and the mist rolling in off the lake. It would’ve been a nice place to get away for a vacation but Sybil had always liked being in the city, in the bustle of things. Ava’s only instructions to the realtor had been for a small place out of the city, anything to get away from the whispers about her guilt. She’d have to endure it still at work, particularly where the motto was, it’s always the spouse, but at least here she was far enough from any neighbors. She slid out of the truck, grabbing the cat carriers first, Rosalind had finally settled down, having given in to her circumstances, but Aslop had switched from mournful meows to low hisses. Sybil had always joked about how each cat took after them. “We’re gonna be all right,” she murmured quietly to them, praying it wasn’t a lie. She shoved her way through the door, stopping just inside. It was so horrifically empty, bare walls, nothing but open space. The room opened straight to the living room, hard wood floors everywhere, and the kitchen tucked in the corner beyond her. At least here where Sybil had never been, she didn’t see phantoms of her everywhere-laughing over the stove as the pot of spaghetti boiled over everywhere, on the couch, cello laid out before her, carefully tending to the strings, at the desk in the study, poring over her commonplace book, a small wrinkle between her eyebrows. Ava wanted to cry, to just give into the sadness. Instead she knelt down carefully and opened up both of the cat carriers, letting them both slink off to explore. One box by one, she dragged everything in, leaving them all in haphazard stacks against the wall. She’d carefully labeled each and every box to ensure the smoothest unpacking but even still, it would be a long process. The boxes with Sybil’s name on them glared back at her. The only piece of furniture she bothered with for now was the disassembled bed, the wooden slats deposited in the one bedroom and the mattress on the floor in the living room until she could find the energy to get it down the hallway. Collapsing onto it, she rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. Her heart ached for home, fruitlessly, uselessly. Eventually, as day faded away around her, the room growing dark, she felt the pressure of small cat paws against her chest. Eyes still on the ceiling, she reached a blind hand out, expecting to meet Rosalind’s furry head; instead, it was Aslop, and her one nub of an ear. Aslop had always been the more independent of the two cats, always exploring, sneaking outside even sometimes. And yet, here in an exciting new place, she curled up  on Ava’s chest and started purring loudly. Ava let out a shaky breath, loud in the silence.    What headcanons or plans do you have for this character? (Please take any current plotdrops into consideration):

Mostly just vague ideas at the moment. I feel like the direction I go will have a lot to do with her interactions with other people and with the development of the plot. That said, in my mind Ava’s always been one of the more background members of VFD, she joined late, she’s more into research than fighting on the front lines. Poor girl’s asthmatic and petrified of planes and quite simply not that type of person. BUT, god is she desperate to know what happened to Sybil, I think it’ll be very interesting for this desperation to push her outside of her comfort zone, to slide more into the action. OR alternatively, again a lot of this hinges on where the plot goes, I love a good moral quandary, Ava either making a fishy, not great deal with a firestarter for information or even her finding something out in her investigation that makes her doubt the holy mission of the volunteers (particularly since many of them even ones she considered friends doubt her innocence). I think her connection with Adam will be very interesting to explore. His doubt in her, their workplace relationship, his lack of knowledge about VFD. Super excited. Her and Lauren’s connection should be super fun as well. Nothing like a good arch nemesis plot. I kind of can’t wait.    Do you want any additional connections for your desired character that you’d like us to add to their bio?: I didn’t see either of them in any of the characters and I don’t know if you had something planned for them down the line but I’m very interested in Ava’s sister in laws, Clara and Isabella. I think it would be nice and heartwrenching for her to still have a family of sorts even after Sybil’s death. I mean plus they both just sounded super interesting.

   Anything else?:  A few valuable, factual details,   Ava, a young girl, curled in the old green armchair in the sitting room of her grandmother’s house.The heavy book in her lap was too old for her and boring moreover but it was a better alternative to staring out the window, watching, waiting for two people who wouldn’t be coming back (Ava had known it was the last time during the last time her parents came, she could feel it in the air, in the lingering kiss to her forehead her mother bestowed, her father tucking her in that night. Every movement whispered goodbye. It was a good thing she had this experience-it meant she knew how to recognize nonverbal goodbyes.). In a month’s time, Grammy Ellie would take pity on her and make the trek up to the attic to bring down her daughter’s, Ava’s mother, childhood book collection. She never could stop watching though. Wanting. It didn’t take long for her to read every book of her mother’s twice over. The library two streets down from Grammy’s was a small affair, homey, with not enough shelves for all their books. It was love at first sight. If she wasn’t home, she was guaranteed to be there. She didn’t play at the playground like the other children, didn’t run and scream up down the street. She was largely alone as a child; no one else understood her and she didn’t understand them. They had no interest in anatomy and chemistry and constellations, didn’t want to listen to her excited explanation of what black plague did to the body. It was okay; she didn’t even know she was lonely (that would come later). Primary school was merely a series of disappointments. Medical school might have been as well if not for that fateful taxi drive. The VFD was full of people just like her, full of that gnawing yearning for knowledge, for importance, for saving the world. It was a group of people who had as children all been told at one point or another to tone down their excitement about something. She made her first real friends there, her family (she discovered just how lonely she’d been all along). Friends she was desperate to protect in any way that mattered; for her that was using her medical skills to patch up the members of the VFD risking their lives on the front lines. A year after joining, she’d graduated from med school as an internist. Having a purpose among her family filled her with joy. Ava was often called into headquarters to patch someone up, small burns and other minor wounds mostly. That was until the panicked, late night phone call from one of her friends. Ava rushed across town her heart beating in her throat, hearing the words, poison, oh god, Ava, what do I do, I can’t lose him, over and over. She got there just in time, just in time to watch him die. She was still performing fruitless CPR, his wife sobbing on their kitchen floor, when the ambulance arrived. It would not be the last death. Going back to school for a residency and then fellowship in forensic pathology was an easy decision for her. If she couldn’t save her friends’ lives then she would do her best to respect and speak for them after death. Sybil had once asked how she could possibly bare it and Ava, unsure herself sometimes, had told her that she saw it as being a translator of sorts, passing on the last words of the dead to the family. Sybil, staring back at her, leaned up and kissed her forehead and it felt so much like a goodbye that Ava had whispered, please don’t put me through that (she would, of course, and there was a part of both of them that knew Sybil would). Sybil Holloway was a tornado carving a line of destruction through her from the first moment to the very last. She was Ava’s first everything, first friend, first kiss, first date, first time, first love. From the very moment Ava laid eyes on her, Sybil at a party, playing her cello for a small group, the music bleeding out of Sybil like a tide, she knew Sybil was special. They were as many people told them a disgusting couple, eyes following each other, soft touches, easy companionship, trust, support. Understanding. That, more than anything else was what Ava thought people were searching for, understanding, to hear an answering echo of your own spirit in someone else. Even so, it wasn’t a perfect relationship, no that would require perfect people and neither Ava or Sybil were that. Sybil never hesitated from taking on dangerous work for the VFD, dangerous, secretive work. Whispered conversations, late nights poring over notes she didn’t share, and sudden trips she claimed were just for searching out antiques. Ava knew this wasn’t the full truth and though she wanted to give Sybil her privacy she was terrified too—so many of their friends had died lately.

They fought over it occasionally when Ava’s worry became too much. Sybil accused of her of not trusting her, of acting like Sybil was just never going to come back one day just like her parents. No one could hurt you quite like someone who knew you well. They fought about it publicly at a small VFD gathering a week before the fundraiser and though they later made up at home that night, Ava knew that fight was still ringing in people’s ears as they looked at Sybil’s vacant fragile dead body sprawled on the sidewalk.