#even when i’m with people i feel a deep clawing loneliness

[niaotix]

.

[zadralien]

He wanted Dib to beg for his life.

Dib has become his life.

Ficlet under the cut.

“Fuck, Zim!” Dib reaches up to gingerly press his fingers to his nose and feels the thick blood pooling down past his mouth. “I swear to god, you fucking bug, if you’ve gone and broken my nose again I’ll-“

“-Shut up!” Zim shrieks, pak legs unfurling and clanking onto the concrete. He rises above Dib and encroaches slowly, legs clacking with each step. “You.. you worm! Do you have any idea what you could have done?”

“Dude, it was just some papers. I didn’t even read them for christ’s sake. They’re in Irken, you of all people should know I’m slow at translating that chicken scratch of yours.” Dib looks forlornly at the stack of crumpled papers a few feet away, scattered and likely marked with a spray of Dib’s blood. He turns back to look up at Zim when he snarls, reaching out a gloved claw to shove Dib back hard.

“They’re not for you, they’re Zim’s private papers!” Zim leans further over Dib, tongue curling and spitting flecks of saliva onto Dib’s face. Dib scrubs at his face, remembering how disrespectful spitting is considered in Irken culture. It burns a little.

“I don’t give a shit what they are. I didn’t even mean to touch them! I just wanted to put my crap down.” He meets Zim’s eyes. They’re a deep red and set in a foul expression. “I’m not interested in your secrets. You can keep those. It’s not like I don’t know everything anyway.”

Zim stiffens and Dib’s expression softens despite himself. He runs a tired hand through his hair and steels his gaze.

“You don’t really think I’m that big of an idiot, do you? You’ve just been quietly shoving your fat green head into my life over the last year and suddenly you save my life. I don’t know man, a guy spends his entire life trying to kill you and then just stops you from bleeding out some random Tuesday? That was weird.“ Dib shrugs, looking away briefly.

“That does not mean anything, Dib-worm. You were bleeding all over my base, it was disgusting. Zim had to stop it somehow.”

Dib shakes his head.

“It’s okay, Zim. I know we’re friends. I don’t know why, and I don’t care to know - but I know you’re lost and don’t know where to go. I know, and it’s okay. I’m lost too. We can be lost together. Your leaders, the Tallest -“.

“Don’t.” Zim grits out, quiet in a way Dib has never heard, didn’t know was possible. Physically, he begins trying to reach one hand out to soothe, to touch, to reassure. Mentally, he begs his sister to come collect his corpse once she realises what most likely happened to him. Damn it, he hopes she realises.

He isn’t that surprised when Zim lunges at him, but he wishes he’d had more time to brace before an Irken claw punches into his chest to grab at the material of his shirt. He wheezes a little.

“You do not know what you speak of, you pathetic slime! Do not mistake your loneliness for Zim’s. Zim doesn’t need you, Zim doesn’t need this dust bowl of a planet. One more fucking word and I’ll finish what that disgusting cryptid creature started last year.”

The human swear word sounds weird coming out of the alien’s mouth, but it’s not the first time. He’d only ever heard Zim swear once before - specifically when he got shredded by a cryptid in the woods and, in a blood-loss haze, made his way to Zim’s base to start bleeding out on his frenemies floor. He knows how hard it is to admit how miserable you are on the inside, especially to the people that matter most.

Well, he had made it this far.

“I know you Zim, and it’s okay.”

Zim’s quiet for a moment before he speaks, clenching his jaw.

“Beg.”

“What?”

“Zim told you, one more word. Now you beg for your pathetic life, you insolent worm.”

“I’m not going to - Zim, stop it. You know I’m right. I care about you too! It’s fine!”

Zim snarls, fist clenched, pak legs raising him to his full height. Dib’s heart drops when he sees one leg glint as it lifts itself behind Zim, preparing to strike.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. He might actually die today. Shit.

“Beg!”

“No!”

“Beg!”

Shit. The leg is calibrating.

“I’m all you have! Kill me and you’ll have nothing. You know it too!”

Zim stops. The leg pauses. His eyes are wide, frightened, conflicted. He chokes out a pained sound, continuing to clench and unclench his fist. He yanks Dib closer by the shirt still tangled in his fist. Dib breathes heavily.

“Beg Zim not to kill you.” His voice is raw, tired. His eyes roam over Dib’s face, carefully categorising and assessing. The stilted pak leg drops back to the ground.

Dib’s whole body un-tenses despite the proximity. The alien’s face turns slowly into a somewhat unreadable resignation.

Dib swallows the lump.

“Please.” He whispers quietly. Swaying, pressing forward.

“You fool.”

[ackerfics]

family line — a house of the dragon fanfiction | aegon ii targaryen x oc — masterlist

AESIRA TARGARYEN is not her father’s daughter.

He may have played a part in how she wailed in her first duet but she doesn’t crave bloodlust the way he did when he slayed the masked monsters that terrorised minds and cut off men’s cocks for their crimes. She’s sure that when the gods flipped her father’s coin, it never landed, still flying in the air — he was both a slayer of men and a natural doer of sins and debauchery; a figure so loved and so stigmatised by those who weren’t likened to the deities of the Old and the New. She doesn’t have the urge to swipe the throne from underneath the court’s eyes, doesn’t have the urge to soil and taint the innocence of her younger nephews — straying them from their birthright. Though named after a fairy tale warrior children revered so much, she steers clear of anything that her father ever touched. The way of the sword and warfare circulates her twin brother’s blood. Being the best dragonrider is her little brother’s dream, never hers. 

She is not her father’s daughter.

While the second prince who had nothing to inherit (but the cries of the people) wore their House with pride, she thought it was a burden to carry. She knows the gods knew on which side her coin landed but she tries hard enough to erase it. (Can she truly change her fate, though? When the whispers in between the red bricks haunt her so about how deep her parentage is?) Instead of wearing the blood red and the coal black of their colours, she chooses everything easy on the eyes; pastel demeanour and soft disposition — I am light and he is dark; I am separate from the blood running in my veins; I overcome him through thick and thin, as the novels and the sayings go — Light conquers Darkness whichever way you see it. 

She is not her father’s daughter.

Why would she be if he abandoned her and her siblings as he married the next innocent thing? Why would she consider him as her father when her twin brother cried about him never loving their mother one night when they were five name days old? Why should she be his daughter when he couldn’t even look her in the eye when the day required the family to be together?

She will never be her father’s daughter.

But she is in every way her mother’s. The lies flowing from her mind are all inherited from how her beautiful, lovely, caring mother crafted them as the woman stroked her slender fingers through the waves of her hair, “He will come back to us, darling sweetling; He loves you both so much and this little one I’m carrying as well.” Because of her mother, she can lie to save millions.

However, the anger she holds for her father makes her burst all of the edges of her being. She wants to stab him with her brother’s sword, make him hurt like the way she has been hurt when he gave them his back. Scream at him until he becomes deaf with how loud her thoughts are. The more she thinks about what could have been, the more she can see the coin the gods flipped at her birth. The madness of loneliness is truly the most pitiful thing. She’s surrounded by people who claim to love her but she longs for the family in her distant nightmares — the one that lights up a hearth in the cold of the longest winters in the lands, sharing blankets on the carpeted floor; one that rings laughter and padding feet on stone floors and expansive windows; one that has a father and a mother to cherish. She wants to burn down everything with her dragon’s flames so that everyone can feel the heavy, suffocating grips preventing her heart from breathing. She wants to claw her eyes out after hearing the remark that she has that lilac shade everyone keeps saying a certain prince holds, just as she carries the last name he is so proud of.

We are not the same. We are not the same. We are not the same. We are not the same—

And as she stares into the looking glass, all she can see is her father’s face.

There’s nowhere to hide from the truth.

AESIRA TARGARYEN is truly her father’s daughter — a piece of greatness and madness meshed into one.

AEGON TARGARYEN, the second of his name, is not the prince that was promised.

The weight of being the unnamed heir is too much for even the Skybearer to handle. He doesn’t want the moulded circlet of heavy stones simply because he knows he is the living embodiment of a disappointment — to his father who wistfully stares at the only piece his first wife left behind, to his mother who he stole a girlhood from, to his grandfather who had dreams bred out of greed and thirst for power, to everyone who dares glance at the king’s firstborn son with irises lined with disbelief. He doesn’t have to hear their words to know what they were thinking. This poor boy with wine for his blood and daring exhibitions for a daily schedule … is the most awaited son of The Peaceful King? The blasphemy is horrendous.

He is not the prince that was promised.

Because of how his father doted on his older sister even when the woman gave birth to two bastards and is pregnant with probably another one, he’s not the heir — Seven Hells, he’s not even the spare. A large part of him is whispering that it’s better this way. More time to inebriate and find himself in the places that he felt most comfortable with, where adventures welcome his insatiable need to discover. The thing about never being the apple of his father’s eye is that he can be free or as free as Mother and Grandfather allow him to be. It means he can marry for love (prays to the gods that he does; he can only think of one person anyway), and have spontaneous trips to the streets of King’s Landing with his closest friend — it means breathing through the littlest areas of his life. Yet a smaller (most likely better) part of himself dyes the roots of his static silver hair into the most melancholic shade of blue at the fact that it’s easy for Father to be this neglectful of his other children that don’t bear the name of his greatest delight. Everything he did, it was for Father. All of it to feel the sliver of pride he reserved in a waterfall for the loved child. 

He is not the prince that was promised.

It’s seen in the way Mother looks at him. He’s convinced she doesn’t love him. Mothers are supposed to love their children, people say; but not when you’re the reason why she has to accept the heaviness of reality. Her anger manifested the more he grew up. A single misstep is all it took for her to shout his name. All of the things he did (he tried learning a different language in the dead of the night, read the books recommended to him by the Septa, practised the sword until he perfected the right grip, tasted dirt in his mouth with how much he stumbled) but it will never be enough like his entire existence isn’t enough for her. And despite wishing she could love him more, he strayed even further to not feel the harsh sting of her rings, which resulted in Mother taking back the smallest amount of love she has for him.

He will never be the prince that was promised.

The first sip of alcohol, when he was a babe, cemented his dependency on his eleventh name day. The numbness, carefreeness, and the occurrence of fading into black that it brings is absolutely freeing. He’s the god of intoxication and the patron of exhilaration. Nobody can touch him.

Except for one.

His personal Maiden, the girl who sauntered in the Red Keep clutching her baby brother close to her chest, the beauty every beholder says is the image of salvation, the hands that he doesn’t mind cupping his face — the remembered princess of the realm. She is in every gasp of air he intakes; in the corners of the halls; in the whispers at the back of his head, urging him to look at her from the corner of his eyes as if she’s the secret the castle never tells; in the thoughts plaguing him; and in the dreams that paint different kinds of smiles on his lips. She always smells like the lemon candies her brother munches on, the pastels she wears are ingrained in his core memory; the books her hands have touched are extraordinary; the scrunch on her face, when she finds something borderline revolting in her walks across the castle, is beyond adorable; and the way her face lights up as she picks the next ugly insect that she will give to his own sister stuns him in place. Fuck him to the Sevel Hells and back, he’s consumed with her. It’s amazing how because of her, he is willing to change. Why consume all the cups in all the lands, when a single glance at her, he’s already under the influence of her existence? It’s a fact he only realised upon reaching a certain age.

One look at her and he sees himself being a better man and a better competitor for the throne.

She is a constant in his life.

AEGON TARGARYEN, the second of his name, is not the prince that was promised, oh, no.

But with his AESIRA by his side, it will be through his bloodline that this promised prince will breathe their first breath. 

And with all this chaos, there is you.

contents:

act zero: the prince and the siren

act one, chapter one: aesira and aether, aether and aesira

act one, chapter two: the red-bricked road

act one, chapter three: little boy gone

act one, chapter four: first, a dead wife; second, a dead mother

act one, chapter five: the birth of the golden

act one, chapter six: the queen of love and beauty

act one, chapter seven: ravens caw, dropping strings on smooth palms

act one, chapter eight: matters of the heart

act two, chapter one: the story has yet to be written ...

an aegon x oc story bc my love for what could have beens overpowered my need to enjoy my vacation <33

reply or send an ask if you want to be added to the taglist !! mwa

[campbluelake]

Then fight until you deserve to win.

Though Vual had grabbed Malyce by his very muscle fibers and puppeteered him, every nerve in his body was still his own. The kicks and swings and slices still made contact with him, and set his body on fire. This was Hell, and this was his penance. His mind writhed as he struggled to break free from his prison. Vual had his soul, and now he can never be free. 

Was this the price of power? Of fame? Something so pathetic... All Malyce wanted, all Marion wanted, was someone to see him and truly understand him. He thought for a long time that fame was the answer to his loneliness. If millions of people adored him, then that means at least one person out there in the sea of souls loved him. Truly loved him. 

But fame wasn't love. It wasn't even close. He never felt so happy he could run laps around a camp because of fans. He never cried because seeing fans fall in love and find happiness. Adoring viewers never warmed his heart and made him feel like he was home. That was love, and even if he never sees them again, Marion Faustino loved the counselors of Camp Blue Lake. Each and every one of them. 

[♫♫♫]

With every attack to his body, Malyce's soul grew stronger. The twitch of a fingertip was the start, but then he could feel his body react to his own mind. His own thoughts became his own actions, and eventually, his voice became his own again. 

"We're fucking done here, you conniving, cruel, manipulative, and shallow son of a BITCH!" 

Malyce cries out, reaching clawed hands into his inky black face. He grabs hold of something, and begins to wrestle it from him. 

"I love everyone here, including Abbie! Fucking sue me!" 

Vual grunts in frustration at the rebellion, sending jabbing pain all throughout his body. Not only physical, but psychological. Years of rejection, pain, abuse, and neglect all relive themselves in the matter of seconds as Malyce screams in pain. 

"My body is not yours to control! My soul is not yours to own! No one here is ever going with you! When I leave this place..." 

The world seemed to distort around Malyce as his fingers dig deep into his own face, improbably so. He finds the one he once called master. The Duke that called him a genius, and a prodigy. For a long time, Vual was one of the few who made Malyce feel like his hard work paid off. Now he realizes it was all a Demon's trick. But Malyce won't be so easily tricked anymore. A gloved hand leaves Malyce's body, pulling the black ink with it. 

"... I'm taking everyone with me!" 

Malyce slams down the figure to the ground, howling in pain from severing his entire being from the demon. The ink begins to melt away as the true form takes shape.

"And that includes Abbie, you fuck!" 

The demon duke stands from where he had been ejected, and you’re able to see your true enemy for the first time. A great, towering figure with the body of a man but the head of a camel stands before you all as he brushes the dirt off of his suit. His expression is that of immense displeasure, and a sneer grows on his face. If you didn’t know better, you would even say that there might be…fear?

“Traitorous thing! I give you all you have ever longed for, and you treat me this way!? You would leave Abigail for the likes of these humans?!”

A scoff.

“Very well, then, slithering, treacherous thing. You shall meet your end in the same manner that the other ilk will.”

The man(?) turns to face you all, fury etched cleanly on his face. Like a loyal dog, Eve rushes to his side, crouching down low and baring her teeth as her wings flare out behind her. His hand raises and points towards you, counselors. Though you have fought hard, it appears this may be the end.

“Now, submit to the flames--”

[starliitstories]

nightshaderps​:

Xion gave an small laughter at his response. It seemed like they were now hanging out together for more than just a moment. It wasn’t something Xion would have anticipated, but she was glad. She enjoyed having company and tried to interact with someone on almost daily basis. She had gained so much from hanging out with Roxas and Axel when they were part of the organization. Xion had changed from a blank canvas, a puppet, to her own person. Her friendship with those two was everything. And those days had instilled her an need to be part of something, that she wasn’t an outsider. She wanted to keep on cherishing the bonds she had created, but also create new ones. People always said worlds were filled with ugly people, but she would never forget that there were many good people too and she would be excited to meet them. She inserted a coin inside and looked at him as he talked once again with such friendliness. “I could have an slushie. It’s a deal”, she nodded with appreciative smile as she grabbed the deep blue gun. Two options appeared to the screen: One player or two player. Xion pointed her gun at the second option and pressed trigger, starting the game for two. After that targets started to appear as cartoony men with guns. Xion wondered how this game would go. Aiming would be easier than controlling a character for sure, but would she be fast enough? “Since we’re now a team - ” Xion started with pleased smile on her lips as she did her best to get their opponents. “ - it’s only natural to know each other’s names. Mine is Xion.”

Devon could help but smile at her. It was just genuinely fun to hang around her. Their height difference just made it even funnier and Devon found it amusing to lead her by shoulders. It was easy for him to feel comfortable around her. New friends had been hard to find since his release day from a prison. Almost everyone of his old friends preferred staying away from him. It was fine by him. If they couldn’t handle his past, it was better this way. Andy had moved to the Spiral Universe because of Amethyst and Devon was just happy for them. He was still able to spent a lot of time with his former cellmate. But Devon also wanted to give him enough time and space to focus on their relationship with Amethyst. So Devon had been just wandering around, trying to kill some time alone too. Because of a loneliness which has been lingering around him, meeting this black haired woman felt even better. “Nice to team up with you, Xion.” He said back, flashing a friendly smile at her. “I’m Devon.” A man nodded at her before shooting an enemy right in front of him. Honestly, he didn’t care how good they were in this game. Devon would still buy her a slushie. “We should do this more often. Play games and spend my money on claw machines. I bet your dolphin gets lonely at some point.” He chuckled with a boy-ish grin on his lips while focusing on shooting as much as possible. 

[its-deputy-caleb]

Karl Heisenberg HC’s

okay so i’m actually in love with this man and i couldn’t help but write some soft generic HC’s for him! this is really rushed and unedited but i hope it’s good anyway!! it’s unedited like always and is pretty gender neutral so that everyone can enjoy!

—————————————————

Karl Heisenberg has always had difficulty in letting his walls down. He’s got this metal wall around him, and it’s not just the gates outside his factory. This poor man has been lonely for some time now, sealing his heart away behind a metal wall.

He’s always found it difficult to talk to people, always trying to act confident and like a know-it-all but deep down he’s missed having someone who he can really be comfortable with.

That’s when he found you one day by the gates of Castle Dimitrescu bleeding and barely clinging to life. You had deep gashes along your abdomen, a tell tale sign that you had escaped from the wrath of his sister.

At first Karl had no idea how to interact with you. After he took care of your wounds and did his best to patch you up and wipe the blood from your face, he looked down at your sleeping form dumbfounded.

He couldn’t deny that he thought you were beautiful even with the bruise on your temple and the slight cut to your lip so to distract his shaking hands he gently wrapped a blanket over your shoulders and hoped you’d be okay.

It was awkward at first, Karl spent most of his time tinkering away in his factory working on projects, doing his best to perfect his machines for his army but he found himself slowly wanting to spend more time with you. He began to leave his workshop more and more to see you and he would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it.

One night when you weren’t in his quarters his heart broke. The small living room was empty from where you usually sat on the couch reading. The room was dark without you in it, the air in the room thick without your sweet laughter and smile to keep it light and Karl realised just how much he wanted you to stay...

However, when you walked through the door holding a bag of fine meats and fruits from a trip to the Duke, all walls Karl hoped in keeping up came crumbling down.

He instantly rushed into your arms, his slightly taller frame knocking the bag from your hand as he clung to you for dear life, hiding in your shoulder.

A stray sob fell from his lips as he felt your arms wrap around him, for the first time since childhood Karl didn’t feel like the world had abandoned him. Your fingers moved through his hair in soothing motions as you held him. The food completely forgotten.

“Don’t leave, please... I don’t want you to go”

You two spend a lot of time together after that. Each night you’d stay up late chatting about all sorts of things that interested you both. Some nights you would tell Karl all about your life before you were captured by his sister and your favourite things to do around the village.

Other nights Karl would tell you all about his latest projects and experiments which ended up with you falling asleep when the sun was coming up, your face tucked under his chin as you fell asleep cuddling together.

Eventually he’d open up to you about some of the darker things that trouble him like his past and his big plan to betray Mother Miranda but you wipe away any stray tears and kiss him gently, promising to remain by his side until the very end.

That’s when he felt it, the feeling of comfort and home, he couldn’t help but kiss you again, needing that constant touch of yours that makes his heart melt and heat rush to his cheeks.

He practically melts into you, treating you so gently with lingering kisses and tender hands along you face and in your hair. He’s gonna worship every part of you because he’s so happy that you want him back and he wants to cherish that forever.

Of course, he’s absolutely shit scared to lose you as well so he’s extremely over protective of you. Half of it is that he doesn’t want any of his family near you because he knows the minute Miranda or Alcina hears about you they’re stop at nothing to take you away, but the other half is that he doesn’t want you to leave. He doesn’t want the loneliness to come crawling back and he’d never forgive himself if something happened to you.

He’s very clingy in that he always wants physical contact because he’s touch starved. He’s constantly going to want to hold hands or cuddle up to you or even just have an arm wrapped around you when you go for walks because he craves your affection.

Karl is extremely creative and finds working with metal extremely calming and almost therapeutic so he’s going to be bringing you all the gifts he can craft.

At night when you both lie in bed together, he’ll take the opportunity to worship everything about you. Kissing all over your body, leaving light bites and marks that make you shiver. He’ll whisper in your ear how much he loves you, how beautiful he thinks you are and how he is the luckiest man alive to have you in his life.

“Fuck... you’re so beautiful- I love you...”

He’ll kiss along the scars on your stomach, left there by his sister’s long claws, vowing that no one will ever hurt you like that again. He’s promised himself that he’ll protect you, making a mental note to get revenge on his sister for ever hurting the only person he could ever love.

[mcdonaldsnumberone]

insanity

finally read mhyk anni 2 story and it destroyed me so bad i had to write for sanbaka

spoilers for mhyk anni 2 story

Mithra, at his core, is a man of ambition. The difference between wanting to be strong and wanting to be the strongest is a different of only three letters and an infinity of agony and bloodlust. You would never imagine that a man as undetermined and selfish as him would be the face of compassion—let alone empathy. He doesn’t try to be kind or particularly understanding towards anyone, but seeing his drenched and half-dead body trekking across the sand makes you realize that even the strongest are not invincible.

It’s easy for him to wave you off and scoff in your face, muttering under his breath that he’ll destroy you next if you don’t let him brood by himself. He’s reminds you of one of the old-fashioned punching dolls: down on minute, and up the next to destroy Oz. But you still take the leap of faith as you’ve always have with him, and when you reach out to touch the wounds crisscrossing his body, all Mithra does is wince slightly in pain but doesn’t push you away.

If you were any more selfish yourself, you would use whatever humanly power you have to wrench a promise out of him to never fight Oz again. But that’s a death wish, both literally and spiritually, and when you see that undying venom flickering behind his deceptively listless eyes, you come face-to-face with that roaring loneliness deep inside of him. Maybe the reason he faces Oz with such vitriol day after day is to simply feel something again. Setting himself ablaze with rage is better than fading away into nothingness.

And that seems to be the Northern mantra Mithra has carved deeply into his heart. When you pad at his chest with a warm washcloth and he complains about the sting, you wonder if he can feel the warmth and sadness that wells up inside your own chest. He surely must be able to, if he lets you tend to his wounds to this extent. You can’t replace the hatred in his heart with just love, but slowly, you want to show the terrified little boy who knew only the lake that there’s a world out there where people love him and can teach him something greater than the despairing apathy that threatens to swallow him whole.

But for tonight, you let the wave pass. There’s no use scolding the past, and his assertion over Oz’s power is his own coping mechanism. You can’t turn back the clock, but you can change the way it moves forward. Utopia may be a hopeless dream, but teaching Mithra the same courage and kindness that drew him initially from the Lake of Death is something within your power. And you’re sure, by revealing your heart to him until your time in this odd world runs out, that Mithra will one day develop his own immunity to the tragedy that gnawed away far too long at his naïve and ailing heart.

“...I’m tired. Hurry up, and hold my hand. I’m going to sleep, and when I wake up tomorrow, I’ll find a way to destroy Oz.”

Owen bleeds not from his heart, but from his eyes. There’s an irony to that: seeing him clawing at his own face while he waits for his own healing magic to kick in. It feels like you’re watching a wounded animal crying for the end rather than a powerful wizard piecing himself back together, and you finally understand what Cain means when he says he feels no malicious intent towards the venomous wizard. Owen’s world is both truth and deception—Fate has designated him to be their Schrödinger’s cat. Neither knowing or unknowing, it’s only through stolen glimpses that he can find himself.

You can barely register the curses he spits at you when you step closer, tipping his hat up so you can assess the damage. The magic is working fast, and soon enough, he sits before you with his hands threatening to crack your life open and letting it waste out. But he stops when you reach out to brush your thumbs over the freshly healed skin of his eyelids. He stares at you, his expression that of pure shock rather than the usual frustration and coy manipulation he tosses down at your feet.

You wonder what kind of mysteries his eyes must hold. With no recollection of who he is, he’s forced to witness the world not through his eyes but the eyes of what everyone says he is. Even his biological eyes aren’t his, he quite literally views the universe through the lenses of another wizard. Owen is an amalgamation of countless other wizards and their conflicting emotions building up inside of him, and he brands them inside of him as if they were truth.

You don’t know what to tell him. Doing anything to help him find himself would be to force your own perception of who he is onto him. It’s a journey he has to take alone, to grapple with the snippets of his past, to decide how he’s going to live from now on. All you can do is pray that no matter what face he decides he’s going to keep, whatever life he’ll come back to after refusing to die again and again, that he’ll remember the way you’ll keep your arms open for him time after time. Even if he might steal your eyes away and drain your life right from your body, you want him to know that the confusion he faces is one that you’re privy too as well.

You two look like a scene straight from the climax of a painting, cradling each other while worlds apart. Wallowing in your own respective miseries and crises, you swaddle him in your embrace while sitting in a pool of his blood. It stains you, much like how he’s tried to stain you with his fear and power multiple times, and you welcome it with an open heart and what you hope is an open mind. Your time with him is short, but maybe through a miracle and many wishes on your part, one day, Owen will come to see the world not with the metaphorical eyes of others, but with eyes of his own.

“You’re pitying me. I hate pity the most. Be good and run away when I tell you, or I’ll pluck your arms and turn them into decorations for my walls.”

It feels foreign to see Bradley as anything other than a wizard, but watching him scarf down Nero’s cooking while he’s been battered to Hell and back makes him seem more like a being of flesh and blood like you than that of magical mysticism and moonlight. Your heart pangs with a desire to make sure he knows he’s loved, and when he trudges to his room to be alone, your feet find themselves following him all the way to his door. He looks up at you, a new array of scars adorning his body, but he doesn’t tell you to leave.

Bradley’s intelligent, and that’s most likely why he’s the hardest out of the Sanbaka trio to fully understand. He predicts the edge to your empathy faster than you can even recognize it yourself, and he licks his lips as if he wants another plate of dinner. He looks nothing like the sniper that was pointing his gun at the crown prince of Central Country mere moments ago, and the empty sigh that falls from his lips is proof of the betrayal and the growing emptiness that claws inside of him.

He’s no fool, and he yearns for that community again. Someone to hold him and love him unconditionally, someone to hold him up by his feet during his times of need, someone who’ll laugh next to him and share a beer after a long day. The many souls that must have fluttered past him far outnumber your own understanding, yet the only one that stands before him in this moment is you. A plain nobody that doesn’t even come from this world, you’re the only one that extends your heart towards the bandit boss. 

It isn’t physical healing that Bradley needs then. It’s closure—closure for his own abandoned emotions, closure for the past that’s being revived right before his eyes, closure for the future that everyone else is squandering before the moon tears the world to shreds. It’s unreasonable to demand that closure from you, a bystander with a side act in his own dramatic play, but when you take him in your arms and cry for him as if you were the one that had been betrayed and run over, he selfishly wants to be unreasonable. 

Bradley doesn’t forget. He’s sure that once you’re long gone, be it safely in your world or god forbid by some wicked mechanism of this one, he’ll sweetly keep your memory in the scars on his body. But for right now, the memory he wants to keep is the warmth of your arms around his rough skin and the tears that wet your cheeks and fall onto his face like rain to prove to him that out of the infinite questions he won’t find answers to, he’ll find the answer to at least one through you.

“What are you all blubbering for? If anyone saw you, they’d think you’re the one that took the ass-whooping instead! C’mon, quit it. You’re worse than Mitile, I swear!”

x

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Mark of the Beast

Please be kind. I haven’t written werewolves before and this is an unedited drabble I did to distract myself. Hope you enjoy werewolf!Thor and needless to say it’s dark.

Reblog and comment if you like, please and thank you.

Warnings: noncon and rape, exophilia, blood, biting.

You sat along the edge of the yard, just at one of those picnic tables set with chips, salsa, and other finger foods; most of it crumbs and smears as the night wore on. The fire licked up into the sky as the strangers chatter drunkenly, laugh loudly, and sing and dance wildly to the music floating from the bassy bluetooth speaker.

Parties were never your scene and you don’t know why you agreed to come. You didn’t even know why you were asked. You never were the fun friend, hell you were often the forgotten one. The one who found out they weren’t invited or when you were privileged enough to be asked along, it was because someone else fell through.

Well you couldn’t take another night in your boxy apartment, sitting there alone as you watched the same shows over and over again. Restless as nothing ever seemed to change and yet time continued to pass you by.

You noticed how as the sky darkened, the guests began to couple up and trickle away from the flames of the tiki torches and the empty keg. You thought this kind of thing was better left to college kids. 

The early summer night was cool and dull blue as clouds streaked the sky. You hadn’t seen the sun directly since noon and it cast an odd haze over the party. Even so, there had been much screaming and shrieking on the oversized slip and slide. Again, these people, you included, were too old to be throwing their drunken bodies around.

Valerie giggled as she hung off the slender man with the black hair. He wore a green button up and black jeans. His clothes were pressed and pristine. He looked out of place amid the group. He looked like you felt.

She grabbed his collar and led him away from the few stragglers still grinding around to the retro tones of TLC. You stood as she headed for the trees. She was your ride and you didn’t feel like staying all night so she could get laid by some stranger. You didn’t even know how she got invited to this.

The sky shifted and dimmed a little more. You collided with a large body as you made to catch up with Valerie. You recognized the blonde man. He’d been lurking throughout the night, socializing over the top of red plastic cup, at one point chatting with the black-haired man Valerie was flirting with and helping tap the keg when it was overturned in some dumb stunt.

“Oh, excuse me,” you said as his large hand settled on your arm, “um, I’m just…”

“You don’t like the party?” he asked in his booming voice.

“What? No, I--”

“You’ve been hiding over here all night,” he said, “and you haven’t looked very happy about it.”

“I’m sorry, who are you?” you countered.

“Well, this is my party,” he said lightly, “Thor.”

He removed his hand from your arm and offered it to you. You looked at it reluctantly then glanced around him.

“I’m here with my friend. We should probably go--”

“The one who just disappeared with my brother?” he chuckled, “I don’t think you want to walk in on that.”

“Then maybe I’ll just call a cab,” you shrugged, “but I should get--”

“Why did you come? To glower in the corner and feel sorry for yourself?”

“No, I… you don’t know me.”

“No, I do not but that is not my doing. You sit here and isolate yourself to the point that anyone who approaches you, cannot break that barrier you’ve put up. The one you blame on those around you but you’re the only one enforcing it,” his blue eyes were pale, almost silver as the clouds darkened, and you realised in that moment how big he was.

“I didn’t ask for your--”

“You wouldn’t know what to ask for if you found the nerve,” he gave a crooked smile, “you don’t know what you want, what you need.”

He leaned in as his voice turned to a growl, something animalistic as he leaned in and his shadow shut out the sky.

“I know I want to leave,” you said as you stepped back, only to hit the low bench behind you.

“Did you not notice?” he asked.

“Notice what?” you sidled along the wood and he stopped you, this time his fingers gripped your arm tightly.

“That everyone else is gone. They’ve found their mate…” he lowered his voice to a gristle, “the moon is close and they must consummate their pairing.”

“What are you--” you gasped as you saw the way his canines pointed dangerously and grazed along his lip.

“All in my pack made their claim,” he whispered as he leaned in and the silver moon flickered behind the wisping clouds, “I’m making mine.”

“Get off--”

Suddenly you were spun around and flung so you landed in the grass, your knees and the heels of your hands scraping against the twigs and pebbles. Before you could try to stand or turn, he was behind you. His large hands braced your throat and he pulled you onto your knees so that your back was to his torso as he lowered himself behind you.

His nose tickled your ear as he inhaled your scent and a growl crackled in his throat. His fingers tightened and you felt sharp claws prodding at your flesh. His breath picked up as you felt his body tremble. The clouds parted at last and the full moon painted the grass silver.

“You have no purpose, I see it,” his voice grinded roughly, “you are lost but I have found you…”

“Let me--” you rasped and wheezed as he choked you harder.

“You don’t know. How can you realise that I have chosen you for a greater need?” he slid one hand to the back of your neck and pushed you down sharply so that you were face down in the grass, “I can smell it on you… ripe for a pup.”

He flipped your over harshly and his hand pressed to your jaw as he squeezed it painfully. You grasped his wrist in terror as the moon limned the fine fur that had risen across his skin, his long blonde hair blending into his thick main as his eyes glowed eerily.

“I… I...what are you?”

“What are you?” he repeated back, “can you tell me that?”

“Please, don’t--”

“You’re mine,” he snarled as he dragged a long nail over your shirt and sliced through the fabric easily, his other hand still framed your jaw, “if you survive, you will carry my pup, if you don’t… an honourable death.”

You slapped at his hand as his fingers hooked in the front of your jeans and he janked them down in a single motion. Your panties caught in the denim as he brought his foot up to push them down to your ankles. He pushed his knee between your thighs and dug a nail into your hip. Hot blood rose around his claw.

“I can smell it all. The loneliness, the desperation, the fear… it’s delicious.”

His claw flicked over your clit lightly as he pushed your folds apart. He played with you as you squirmed helplessly and gripped his arm, one hand on his wrist and the other on his bicep.

“No, no--” you murmured as your body went into shock, the pleasure of his teasing like a muffled shout in your core.

When his hand moved from your cunt, you felt its absence more intensely. He brought his other knee between your legs and pushed them further apart until your jeans slipped from one ankle. He lifted your left leg and hooked his arm under it and leaned on you as he lined himself up.

You pushed on his chest as the moonlight limned his silhouette above you and clenched as he prodded against your entrance. He cradled your face and dropped his head down beside yours as he pinned you under his weight, your leg bent uncomfortably as your other splayed against his hip.

He poked at your resistance and when he finally pushed through, you cried out into the night. He was thick, so thick, and when you thought you could handle no more, he pushed further in. You strained around his cock as he snapped his hips up and when he filled you entirely, you whimpered as you felt him in your stomach.

You tangled your fingers in his hair as his hot breath tickled along the crook of your neck. He pulled back and you let go of the breath in your chest only to suck it back in as he thrust sharply. You whined as he jolted your entire body and sank his teeth into your flesh. The shock of pain mingled in your core and filled your veins with an irresistible heat. He removed his fangs from you and dragged his bloodied lips down your neck.

“If you fight it, you will suffer,” he purred, “give in… you feel it, don’t you?”

He rutted faster as his breath kept time with his hips. Your body was alight against the cool grass as your eyes rolled back. Your moans added to your horror as they rose without thought, roused by the friction of his pelvis against yours and the slapping of flesh on flesh.

He fucked you faster and harder with each tilt and held your head between two hands as he looked down at you. His thumbs rubbed your cheekbones as he kissed you hungrily and the taste of your own blood stained your lips.

You felt hollow and light. The weight of him faded and you were on high and your lashes fluttered as the silver nights and his dark shadowed coloured your vision. You curled your fingers over your chest as you came and arched beneath him like a wild animal. The orgasm sent heat through you from head to toe and you whined and whimpered desperately.

Thor hammered into you even harder and his growls filled your head. He snaked his arm under you and slammed his hips down so viciously that every bone in your body ached.

“Oh, little one,” he snarled, “you take me so well…” his thumb brushed over the bite on your neck, “you wear my mark like a true bitch.”

He buried himself completely and panted rampantly as he spasmed. His cum flooded you and seeped and squelched around him as he gave a final thrust. He held himself as deep as he could and nuzzled your cheek as the smell of his sweat filled your lungs.

“Mine,” his teeth brushed against you and you shivered as a sudden fatigue weighted your eyelids, “that’s it…” his voice grew further and further away, “let it take you, little one.”

[zmwrites]

#FridayKiss Tag Game III

I was tagged by @the-orangeauthor! Thank you!

Rules: post a smooch between your OCs for Friday. It can be as light as a peck or intense as a makeout. It can be romantic or platonic or familial. As long as a smooch takes place it’s free reign!

Going back to Remnants again! A total of 977 words.

I’ve skipped ahead to The Kiss, aka the first real kiss between Radka and Damir:

“I’m sorry, I know you don’t like being touched. I’ll try to make this quick,” she said, tilting his head so she had the best angle. 

He hummed his understanding, watching her closely as she started her sutures. The cut was a little less than four centimetres long, so she figured six would do the trick if she placed them about seven millimetres apart.

She tied off the second stitch and paused to press a fresh cloth to the wound. Rinsing the cut had helped somewhat but it was still bleeding more than she liked. “Let me know if you start feeling uncomfortable or crowded; I can pause for a bit to give you some space.”

“You don’t make me uncomfortable,” he said, voice pitched even lower than usual.

Radka’s brows pulled together. “I thought you don’t like people touching you.”

“I don’t. You’re different.”

“Oh.” She studied him, gauging his willingness to elaborate. “Why?”

He shrugged. “I trust you.”

“Then I’d better stop letting you bleed out,” she replied.

He smiled and she removed the cloth to start her next suture. Even though she’d already known that he trusted her, the added information that her touch didn’t make him uncomfortable because of that trust still warmed her insides. It was an odd sort of accomplishment and one she was fiercely proud of. It probably wasn’t healthy to have formed such an intense attachment in such a short period of time, and probably spoke to the deep loneliness they both carried, but it was still comforting to know she wasn’t so broken as to be unable to form new connections. There was no reason to be afraid of it, not until she felt fate’s claws in her throat.

“Do you—” Damir stopped, frowning and fiddling with the cloth she’d handed him. “Do you regret what you did in the forest? Or in Brenik?”

“You mean the times I’ve saved your life?”

He hummed an affirmative.

Her smart retort died on her lips as she took in his dark, pensive expression. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason.”

“Would you have preferred it if I’d left you to die?” she asked. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer.

There was a pause. “No.”

“That wasn’t very convincing,” she replied with a frown of her own as she tied off her last suture. She stepped away from him, immediately missing the warmth that radiated off of him, and packed up her medical kit. He didn’t respond, didn’t move, and when she looked back at him, he was staring at his hands. She sighed and sat next to him on the edge of the tub, fixing a stray hair above his ear. “No, I don’t regret what I did.”

“You could be in Brenik still, or building a life for yourself in Yetrar.”

“Or I could have frozen to death in the woods or been hanged by the Liberty Conclave,” she countered. “There’s no use wondering about what could have happened, or where we could have been. We’re here now. We’ve got to do the best we can with our current situation.”

He still looked doubtful, and had yet to look up from the bloody towel he was fidgeting with.

She reached over and laid a hand on his. “If I regretted either of those choices, I wouldn’t still be here.”

Finally, he raised his gaze to hers. His beautiful brown eyes were focused on her, intent yet soft in a way that took her breath away. They were too close again, shoulder to shoulder, pressed together for no reason other than that they wanted to be. Damir turned his hand so their palms were touching, his fingers tracing the inside of her wrist. The now-familiar tenderness bloomed in her lungs as a shiver ran down her spine. 

Gods she wanted this. Wanted him. Not just physically, though her entire body thrummed with an electrifying hunger, but in every way possible. She wanted to know every corner of his mind, every centimetre of his soul. She wanted to know every part of his past and to be by his side wherever the future took him.

Her breath caught in her throat. This isn’t allowed, a tiny voice whispered, but then he wavered closer and she couldn’t find it in herself to care. His forehead pressed against hers and she had to shut her eyes. Their noses bumped together, his light exhalations whispering across her cheek and down her neck. They were close, so close, all it would take was—

She tipped her face into his, brushing her lips to his as softly as she could. Softly enough that she could tell herself it was an accident.

Whatever was left to hold them apart crumbled. Damir cupped her face with one hand, pressing even closer, yet being so achingly gentle with her as though she would break. She pushed back and tangled their fingers together, bunching her other hand in the front of his shirt for leverage. He smiled against her mouth. 

She thought her heart was going to burst with how full it was. Everything felt so right—from the warmth of his palm against hers, to the soft press of his lips, to his calloused fingers on her jaw. Like she’d finally found what she’d spent so long searching for. She’d forgotten what it was like to be so full of love and joy that nothing else in the world mattered.

A frigid knife of terror slid between her ribs. The words that had haunted her since she’d been twelve years old echoed sorrowfully in her mind. [Redacted.]

Radka slipped, almost pitching off the edge of the tub, and Damir pulled away enough to steady her.

“Radka?” His brow furrowed with concern.

Love. How had this happened? Guilt, rotten and cloying, spilled through her veins as the truth overwhelmed her.

I love these two so much and I hope you enjoy the long lead up to a relatively short kiss.

I tag @drabbleitout, @josephinegerardywriter, @starry-sky-stuff, and anyone else who wants to play! As always, no pressure!

[enneadau]

Finally, finally, finally caught up to “Help Me” lesson of the day always double check you are subscribed to author. Even if you are positive you are.

And first of all. I absolutely love everything about it!!!!!! Does Yugi being a boy throw me for a bit because I’m back in the trenches of Ennead? Yes. Do I particularly care. Not at all.

I absolutely adore how in character it all is! I love how unhinged Kaiba is while people are missing from his life. It’s just so well done!!!!

The stages of Kaiba’s instability were and are just so intense. It’s wonderful! He was able to sort of keep it all together while Atem was missing because he refused to let that be the end. But as soon as he loses Mokuba he goes off the deep end.

He literally takes the one person that he can’t predict and can hardly control and puts him in a box. (At one point literally!) He spends so long just trying to keep him in said box. He gets increasingly agitated when he can’t get said person to just stay in the box and behave in a way he can understand.

I also absolutely love the teetering on protective and possessive emotions. Those are so well done, especially without the default lust that’s usually so common with those themes because it’s easy to fall into. That takes serious skill!!!! (Or I’m just completely blind towards attempts of shipping because I read through ~27 chapters super fast.) but whatever it is it takes a lot of skill to write that kind of stuff and have it come across as authentic.

I also loved the way you show that Kaiba hasn’t been alright since Atem left, it was just awesome. It didn’t hit me until I was laying in bed thinking about it. Like Kaiba was still doing a lot of morally questionable things before he lost Mokuba in an attempted to being back Atem. Which you could argue he was doing before Atem left but I consider it because Kaiba always discounted magic before Atem left. But the way you show it where he keeps regressing and trying to claw his way back until he has a relapse. It didn’t hit right away but when it did it hit hard.

But I will be honest. I fully expect one of the conditions for Kaiba to have forgiveness from someone in the future will be agreeing to go to therapy.

Because ohhh boy does he need it. Even if he doesn’t talk about the voodoo shadow magic, past lives, and participating in games for his literal souls he he has years of trauma he needs to work on. It’s concerning that a place that was his literal prison for years is still his primary place of residence (it’s been years since Kaiba inherited everything, he could have started building and completed a new mansion with even better security than what he already had)

Now onto Yugi. And poor Yugi! You could just write Yugi dealing with his issues that come from losing someone stronger than a friend and closer than a brother and I’d probably cry but love it. You do such a good job with it!!!

I knew I would be sad reading this. I knew he would be hurt from the tags. You never shy away from the repercussions of Yugi being injured. But man, I was not expecting the soul deep loneliness to be the most painful part of it all!!!! Especially when some of your past descriptions of injuries have left me feeling sympathy aches.

Yugi working through and dealing with self worth problems is always a joy to see. Especially during this moment in his life and this situation he is in. But man does it hurt!!!! Yugi needs a lot of hugs.

And I’m chomping at the bit to see more Atem!! I was waiting for someone to point out that there was a chance that Atem trusted everyone to keep Yugi safe while he passed on. Or to be more exact, that if the trust is broken Atem won’t remain in the world of the living, Yugi might be the one to leave.

I really want to see Atem’s take on this whole thing. Part of it is because I want to know where he is in his headspace being the powerless one in this situation. Because, as you indicated before, Kaiba isn’t the only one with control issues. By this time Atem is usually finishing up a penalty game on the people who hurt Yugi or summoning a monster to end a duel. Instead he is stuck watching. It has to be hard.

On the other hand I’m also curious as to where his brain is at. If he had all of his old memories back by now he might have trouble adapting back from being a literal God in ancient Egypt and he most definitely remembers being a King in the past and in the great beyond. I sort of curious as to what a combined god complex and Messiah complex does when mixed with Atem’ near primal instincts to protect Yugi and end all threats to him and his friends.

It’s probably bad that I want to see Atem get corrupted and decide to keep Yugi. And Yugi then has to deal with a different form of capture that is completely foreign to him.

Ok that’s probably a bit much but I love it so much!! I’m probably remember more later. Thank you so much for sharing!!!

Hi!

I'm glad you like the fic. I knew it was going to be a little dark when I started but it's turned out so wonderful that I'm happy about it too.

Kaiba has never been entirely ok, and has never dealt well with loss in any of its forms. He was not okay in canon and then adding Mokuba being stolen from him and well... I remember him playing his Chip of Life at Duelist Kingdom. I could not doubt him tumbling over the edge here.

He has a lot to do to make up to Yugi for what he's done and there's a ways to go before the end yet. I'm just working on Battle of the Gods for NaNo because I realised that fic has been being worked on for nearly 3 years now behind the scenes and I just need to get it written before I replan the entire thing for the 9th time.

He DOES need therapy. To be fair most of the cast of YGO, right across the multiple series do. They are all awesome but boy would a therapist get a lot from them.

Yugi is not okay either and has not been okay for a while. The last thing he needed is the abuse he has taken and while getting a chance to see Atem again has helped, he's about ready to scream. He really does need hugs but right now the only one available to give mental hugs is the demon in the Ring and... well that would be bad.

Atem, right now, is going out of his mind and he will have WORDS for Kaiba in the future. From his perspective things were going well for years, he was beginning to balance his old and new memories, adapt to his ascension to Godhood upon reaching the afterlife, and then the shit hit the fan all at once, his aibou was hurting, his friends threatened and he is trapped in the afterlife and can barely do anything about it.

He has the powers of a God and cannot do anything because he can't interact with the living world any longer. Not without the gates being opened for him.

It was driving him up the wall before the thing in the stadium happened.

And now... well...

Do I give you a sneak preview of a future chapter?

[asweetprologue]

this is for @pencilscratchins​ who has been plaguing my dash with TFA era dinluke concepts. I did not think my first star wars fic would be about rey and luke but here we are! based on this post and more specifically a scene in rebecca’s google doc lmao

a·wak·en  to rouse (a feeling)

Rey finds him at the edge of the city, where the rough geometry of the buildings crack and fragment apart as they give way to dust. It’s one of the areas she’s avoided most intensely; the dense fog of loss lingers here, clawing for her attention. The more she opens herself up to the Force lately, the more she feels the echoes of the life it touched before. The land remembers, and the bones beneath them speak to her in sharp little bursts of time lost.

Beyond, the desert stretches out in its infinite, unforgiving ambivalence. Where the city is a roiling mass of lives long since passed, the ocean of sand before them is a void. No suffering, no pain, no agonized voices crying out. No joy, no love clinging to the rocky surface. There is Force there too, she knows, permeating the stone and air and even the smallest insects scuttling below the surface. No more or less pure than that found in the city, but quieter. She takes a moment to breathe it in, tasting it on the backs of her teeth.

He isn’t meditating. She can feel his disconnect from the Force like a wound, jaring and discordant. But here at the edge of what has become her home, the home he scraped together with the Mand’alor for a dying people, it doesn’t feel so abrasive. Rey hovers for a moment, unsure, before taking a seat beside him. When Luke says nothing, she tries to drop into meditation herself, but as always her mind fights her. She wonders what happened to cause such a great disruption in Luke’s psyche. Such resistance to opening himself to the Force. She thinks about trying to cut herself off from it, now that she has felt its presence in and around herself, and balks. It would be easier to cut off her own hand, she thinks.

She shifts slightly, looking for a more comfortable position, and Luke huffs. It’s an amused sound, and Rey’s eyes blink open to regard him curiously. Luke is looking at her, something bittersweet on his face. “What?” she demands.

“If you’re trying to meditate,” he replies, “you’re not doing a very good job of it. I can feel your mind going a parsec a minute.”

“Well I’ve not exactly had the best instruction,” she grumbles, relaxing from her more formal meditative stance.

Luke’s beard twitches, and though he’s smiling, she can sense his wariness in the air around them. No one hides in the Force. “What makes you think you’re ready?” he asks.

It’s a question that she’s been expecting, that she’s spent hours building arguments around. I’m strong, she had planned to say, or I can already do so much, or I have nothing. I have no one. Make me into something of use. But now looking into Luke Skywalker’s sad eyes, she only has one real answer. There is only one real thing that makes her feel like she must do this, one thing that makes her desperate for guidance. The truth that brought her here.

“There’s no one else,” she says, and for a moment the vast loneliness of the statement washes over her, smothering. It’s probably the most honest thing she’s said since her feet sunk into the sand of New Mandalore. “If it’s not me, there’s no one. So I’m ready. I have to be.”

Luke takes a breath, a glacial motion that seems to carry all the weight that she feels within it. He looks up at the sky above them, shoulders slumping. The moonlight reflects on the desert sand, turning it into a silver sea stretching out infinitely beyond them. The lights of the city are far behind them; the only creatures that keep them company here are the stars, and the ghosts.

“I can’t be a good teacher to you,” Luke says. His voice is clear and crisp; it offers no opportunity for rebuttal. “I failed before. I can’t be a father, or a mentor. I’m not even a Jedi anymore, not really. Maybe I never was.” He laughs, a harsh, cracked sound. “I barely knew my old masters. Most of the teachings of the Order are lost. I tried to rebuild it, and I just forced history to repeat itself.” He drops his chin down, meeting her gaze again. His eyes are very blue, she realizes, maybe for the first time. They’re younger than the rest of his face. The Force suddenly brushes against her consciousness, offering her a fizzling image of a young man with windswept blonde hair, in a desert so similar and yet so different from this one. The man is bright and shining, desperate for adventure, ready to be someone. So deeply, terrifically afraid of the burden the galaxy had placed on his shoulders. The image fades, Luke’s face aging before her, but his eyes are the same. Still bright, still scared.

Rey understands.

“You don’t need to be anything to me,” she says. This does not ring with the truth that she offered moments ago. “I haven’t had anyone, ever. I’ve been alone all my life. I can be what they need without you.” She pauses, takes a deep breath. Steadies herself, forces her rapid heart rate to settle, lets her emotions leak out into the Force until it washes back into her with all the calm of the wide open desert. “I don’t need you, Luke Skywalker. But your help would sure make my life kriffing easier.”

Luke laughs again, and this time it doesn’t seem so bitter. He shakes his head, gray hair flopping across his forehead. “Well, Din will be pleased,” he says lightly, and Rey feels a sense of relief wash through her that’s so powerful for a moment she can’t breathe with it. He’s going to do it. She’s got a teacher. She laughs too, feeling bright and shining and afraid.

They sit together at the edge of the world together, and in the face of the endless desert she finally feels something like hope

[snackhobi]

pairing: jungkook x reader / word count: 7.4k / genre: pacific rim au with brief smut (NSFW, 18+)

summary: there are no secrets in the drift. if jungkook were to see the mess inside your head and heart, laid utterly bare, he’d turn away from you.

warnings: sexually explicit content (briefly), unprotected sex (please be safe when you have sex) / reference to injuries but nothing graphic, giant robots powered by love punching big alien monsters

a/n: this is a birthday gift for the amazing @yeojaa​. happy birthday, erin. this is completely self serving and is stuffed full with inside references that I hope you’ll enjoy. I wrote this in two days and it kicked my ass because I did so much reading and researching that turned out to not even come up in the story 👁👄👁 you know when I said I was studying? I lied. I was writing HAHAHAH ily I hope you like it hhhh (this is unbeta’ed so please forgive any mistakes it’s 1:30am as I’m scheduling this) (also summaries are so hard, I’m sorry)

Jeon Jungkook really is the perfect posterboy for a Jaeger pilot.

Broad across the shoulders and trim at the waist, all sharp punches and hard muscle, resilient and tough, with a face that’s the perfect balance of angles and softness; the cut of his jaw easing up and into his pretty mouth, the line of his brows subdued by his warm eyes—he’s a Goddamn vision, raw masculinity overlaid on rich veins of boyishness, glittering stratum that sparkle and shine even under the harsh lights of the Shatterdome. 

He pouts when he thinks and his hair hangs a little in his big, big eyes and he has dimples that appear when he grins, teeth poking out onto his pretty pink lips, like someone took a rabbit and turned it into a man and packed on pounds of muscle alongside. Undeniably powerful and strong, but youthful and sweet, too.

Alongside Kim Taehyung—arresting and beautiful and somehow affable and approachable, all at the same time—they’re exactly what South Korea needs right now, propelling the country’s new look for their renewed assault against the kaiju. They’re the lucky new Rangers who’ve claimed ownership of the only Mark-5 that their homeland has produced, Bulletproof Striker, a fucking gorgeous Jaeger bristling with the latest and greatest technology that the world has produced.

But that doesn’t mean they’re the best that South Korea has to offer.

Cypher Zero is smaller, lighter, older, but she’s fierce. Just like her pilots. You and Yoongi might not be the burning beacons of hope that Jungkook and Taehyung are, polished and buffed to a squeaky shine, but you don’t need to be. You’re vicious and victorious and show no signs of stopping. The kaiju kills painted on your Mark-4’s shoulder are evidence enough of that, notches for each monster taken down, spray painted in one tiny corner of the huge swathe of burnished metal plating, the red edges of her midnight skin.

Bulletproof Striker is almost untouched, deployed just once since her recent launch, flawless exterior so at odds with Cypher Zero’s battered facade. Cypher’s beautiful, of course, but bears the history of your skirmishes, inside and out: scuffed paintwork, dented metal, rust dripping down from the ladder rungs dotted across her, melting into the obsidian of her hull. 

Jungkook and Taehyung move in a way that’s practiced, disciplined motions of combat that their Jaeger echoes in turn. Her mechanical movements reflect those of the men inside her head, skilled and superb. Stunning. But you and Yoongi? You fight dirty, violent and rough; messy bar room brawls; shattered glass and clawing hands in beer soaked backrooms, tinged sulphur yellow under dirty lightbulbs; two kids who fought against a world that was against them. 

(Two damaged people coming together in the Drift to make something even stronger than the sum of your parts.)

(Two damaged people who survived the rough hands of the Jaeger Academy, trying to take them, push them, shape them, break them.)

(Life isn’t kind. You’d learned that young, surrounded in the splintered remnants of your childhood home, the facade of family and happiness already gone, long long long ago, leaving you aching and lonely and cold. The prospect of fighting thousands of tons of alien hatred, lifting out of the depths of the uncaring, dark sea? At least you can see the kaiju coming. Broken households and loneliness? A little harder to lay your hands on.)

(But out of everything you lost, you’d gained one thing—Min Yoongi, another quiet, damaged thing, but with the biggest depths of warmth and love underneath that hard surface; your best friend, your brother-in-arms, growing alongside you, with you. Damaged kids turned bitter teenagers turned razor-edged adults, outcasts in solitude, but together. Not alone.)

(The deeper the bond, the better you fight. Falling into the Drift with Yoongi had been easy, years of tangled connection bleeding into the images that flashed across your brain. The same memories from different angles, overlaid with different emotions, undercurrents eddying under the surface that caught both of you and swept you up in its flow; the same mind, bridged by hundreds of tons of metal and technology and firepower underneath you, linked together in the silence of the Drift.)

There’s reverence, in the way these two new pilots look at you both, reverence and awe and respect alike: older Rangers, more experienced, history written across the worn edges of your Drivesuits, the paint flaking away from your battle armour, scuffs and scrapes on the once unblemished veneer; knowledge etched into the feline slant of Yoongi’s eyes, the turn of your shoulders and hips. 

You know Jungkook’s track record. You know of the endless months of assessment and sparring and psych evals and Drift tests and simulation drops that every successful Ranger has to go through, and Jungkook had trumped them all, stood atop them like a conqueror surveying his hard-won lands—gifted, talented, some even said God-touched. And yet for all this indomitable talent and skill, there’s still humility at his core, a willingness to defer with respect.

That deference is obvious whenever he sees you. Jungkook’s dark eyes will touch your own, for a moment, dark and deep and bright—and then his gaze will skitter away, cockiness and bravado dissolving into something submissive, yielding. (Shy.) You’ve watched him orbit you, the younger ranger caught in your gravity, always nearby—the Shatterdome is only so big, for its magnitude and sprawling corridors—but never broaching that final gap, that little step, into Cypher Zero’s space, Yoongi’s space, your space. Keeping himself at arm’s length.

South Korea’s golden boy, less afraid of the Kaiju than he is of his sunbaenim.

Jungkook and Taehyung are both beautiful. But you and Yoongi are less so, unapproachable in ways that the younger pilots aren’t, private and prickly, like grasping a patch of stinging nettles with bare hands, stinging and burning.

As if Jungkook isn’t terrifying and gorgeous in his own ways. As if he doesn’t shine brighter than the sun himself. Taehyung moves through the world with a thoughtless, charismatic ease that Jungkook doesn’t share—but he’s still magnetic, bold and brilliant, monstrously skilled at everything he puts his mind to, training again and again and again to get it right, get it right, get it right. 

To get it perfect. 

But there’s no level of perfectionism that can surmount the twisted, unpredictable nature of the kaiju belched forth from the breach. No matter how good you are, how strong or fast, how smart or seasoned, sometimes you still get caught in that hurricane, even in a Jaeger.

It doesn’t matter how many engines are packed into each muscle strand. It doesn’t matter how fast the pistons and levers and gears shift and move. It doesn’t matter that the pilots in her cockpit are impeccable and incredible. Under the cloak of deepest night and pouring rain, blanketed in darkness and water from the heavens above and the sea below, movement is impossible to track—and when Steelbrute rises from the waves, no one sees the kaiju coming.

Bulletproof Striker takes the hit. Jungkook and Taehyung fight back but they’re blindsided and overwhelmed, and their Jaeger falls to her knees in the churn of the Pacific Ocean, salt water crashing over her in choppy waves as Steelbrute’s merciless maw gapes wide open.

Cypher Zero is 250ft tall and weighs 1410 tons. You and Yoongi are tiny specks of organic matter in a fearsome behemoth of titanium and tungsten and graphene and circuitry, commanders of a weapon that’s the same size as a skyscraper—and yet you wouldn’t think that for how fast you move. Zero hesitation. No verbal communication. Cypher’s legs cut through endless waves and gain momentum with each crashing step that slams into the seafloor before you leap forward in a flurry of motion and Drift powered fury. 

Your motions in the Conn-Pod are ragged and incensed, your arms and legs moving in sync with Yoongi, with Cypher Zero, a snarl ripping out of your co-pilot’s usually quiet mouth as the kaiju lurches underneath you. The world narrows down to this: throwing yourself into the fray, jagged knuckles edged with plasma pummelled into Steelbrute’s skin in a scuffle that’s vicious, aggressive, until Bulletproof Striker regains her footing.

The sun is rising, grey and cold on the horizon when Steelbrute finally sinks into the sea, toxic blood flooding the water with neon blue. When you step out of the cockpit, Yoongi’s fringe is matted with sweat, and you can feel all the places the circuitry suit sticks to your skin—piloting a Jaeger is mentally and physically exhausting, every muscle and organ and bone working overtime for endless hours as you fight tooth and nail. Without the helmets in the way, there’s nothing stopping you bumping your foreheads together, heedless of the sweat slicked there; Yoongi’s hand rests at the back of your head, a familiar cradle.

“All good,” you say. Yoongi lets out a quiet bark of a laugh, rough and exhausted.

“I want a nap,” he says, like he always does, even if you’re a long way away from that, still fully suited and due to speak to the Marshalls. There are so, so many things separating you from the bliss of sleep.

One thing that’s not part of the normal routine, though, is the other pilots catching you, demanding your recognition, respectful (Taehyung) but insistent (Jungkook). You know that Yoongi doesn’t like attention or hero-worship, but there’s nothing except gratitude, here, bent heads and words of thanks. You’d saved their lives, after all. Saved their Jaeger from being torn apart, pain screaming through their own bodies of flesh and bone, connected to their metal monster. Of course they’re grateful.

You dismiss it with a hard cut of your hand.

“It’s nothing,” you say. 

You’re speaking the words you know are in Yoongi’s head—years of friendship and shared Drifts leaving his thought processes wide open to you—although you know you’re sharper than he is, harsher than he is, even, for all that he looks like the cold one from the outside. Long lashes and silken hair don’t translate to something soft and feminine and pretty, and you’re all ragged edges and rough parts, bleeding into the delivery of your words. Yoongi rounds the words in his mouth and places them into the world with a rumble of quiet strength that belies his past, but you? Your tongue is cutting and terse and drips with distrust, even when you don’t mean it to, staring at these two boys, Jungkook’s eyes so brown and large when he stares back at you.

The truth is that you care about humanity, of course. You care about humanity and you care about the millions of people in the cities that line the coasts and further inland, and you care about your fellow pilots, skilled but soft-hearted as they are. You’re stronger. You have to be. That’s what Yoongi is, that’s what you are: fighters. You fight dirty because you fight to win, not to protect yourselves. You’ll fight and you’ll die for this, for them, even if there’s no friendship there. Not yet. You’re still too distant, for all that you’d thrown yourself in the line of fire to rip the kaiju from the younger Rangers. 

And when Jungkook levels a look at you, there’s a flicker of something. A spark. All the glittering of his warm eyes comes together like the cascading sparks of molten fire that fall when metal is cut through— his eyes score through you, down down down, right to your core, underneath all the armour you’ve laid about yourself throughout your life. Your heart stutters. You’ve been watching Jeon Jungkook, and he’s all cocky Ranger bravado, or innocent brown eyes and shy, curving smiles, and yet. 

And yet. You know he sees this soft part of you, somehow. Past the thorns and sharp leaves, past the hard husk, into the rich, bursting sweetness inside, oozing red gems of pomegranate that yield so easily to the fingers and mouth.

(He’s temerarious and modest and wickedly perceptive too, it seems.)

“That was our kill,” he says suddenly. Taehyung—the voice piece of the two, the one who’s been smiling and speaking, easy and slow—goes still at his side.

“What?” Yoongi’s eyes pierce through him, but Jungkook keeps his focus on you.

“Steelbrute. Our kill. It was a hit from our rockets that took him out,” Jungkook says, eyes still glinting with that sparkling shine. Slicing through you with an explosion of light. “Not your blades.”

Silence steals over you, for a breath. It’s never truly silent in the Shatterdome, an iron fortress that never sleeps, but for a second, there’s quiet. It wraps around you. Tight. Almost deafening.

But then you break that silence.

You laugh. 

You laugh at the cheeky grin that pulls at Jungkook’s lips, the boyish lift to his face.  You laugh at his shamelessness, the sudden 180 from his earlier fear. You laugh at the way he’s diluted this astonishing, formidable thing—humanity coming together to destroy alien predators that threaten the planet—into a competition.

“You’re a menace, Jeon Jungkook,” you say.

Stinging nettles you might be, but if you’re grabbed hard and fast by confident hands, you don’t wound. Jeon Jungkook defers to respect, avoids confrontation, bows his head and quiets his mouth, but he knows, now, that he can do this. That he can push you like this, and you’ll let him, sway against it, let yourself be pushed.

Yoongi slides you a glance out the corner of his eyes, a light touch, a tacit agreement to an unspoken question.

“You can have it. Steelbrute’s yours.” There’s the smallest curl to your lips as you speak for you both. There’s something weirdly easy and familiar to this, to this interaction, even if you’ve barely exchanged words before now, giving this triumph to the other pilots hand over fist.

(Giving it to Jungkook on a platter.)

You can see the flare of triumph in Jungkook’s eyes. You know it’s not for the notch of their first kill, one they can add to their Jaeger. It’s for something far harder to achieve, something far more ephemeral: digging down and past your cool veneer and lifting out a smile, spreading it across your lips like warm butter, liquid gold.

And he keeps making you smile. 

Jeon Jungkook, you find, is a force of nature, relentless, an ocean. Sometimes he’s soft, loving waves of glittering blue that crash on pearly white beaches, playful and bright. Sometimes, he’s intense, the crashing waves of a storm tossed sea, powerful and unstoppable. Always, he’s striking, even when he’s not trying—even more so because of it, moving without thought or uncertainty, a silence settling over your thoughts whenever you see him like this. See him in this raw state, so unafraid where before he’d curbed his tongue and bent his head in front of you. Now, he’s just himself, without filter.

Taehyung is there too, of course. Both pilots join your small, fiercely private circle, not just a path from you to Yoongi any more. They become intertwining lines, a pattern that’s drawn between the four of you, pilots, friends. And you learn, that for all that you’d thought that Taehyung was the dominant one outside of their Jaeger, social and extroverted and unabashed, Jungkook isn’t quiet. Not when he’s comfortable.

(Not, now, when he’s with you.)

He’s a myriad of things, endlessly deep, so different from you, from Yoongi, but—the truth of it settles inside you, your joints, the marrow of your bones, the blood that pulses forth from your heart each time it beats in your chest, liquid life running through you. 

Drift compatibility.

Not that it matters. You already have a partner. You’re never going to open yourself up to anyone that isn’t Yoongi, who’s seen every part of you already. There’d been no fear about letting Yoongi see inside your brain, your heart, the raw, bleeding parts of you—because he’d already known them. Just like you’d known his. Yoongi stands to your right, inside the Conn-Pod and out, a driving force, even in his silence. 

But Jungkook is softer, sweeter, for all his raw power and skill, respect engraved into his every motion, even when he’s teasing and making you laugh. Even when he ignores the social guidelines that he should follow, does follow for others, everyone except you. 

And you don’t mind. You don’t bite out insults at him when he slides into the quiet hollow you’ve scraped out, a small space with just enough room for the people you keep in your heart. You’re still barbed and spiked, warding away unwanted attention, but for Jungkook, the claws retract. 

You’re still you, of course. Jungkook calls you mean, says that you bully him, even as he’s flopped across your bunk, eating your rations, shovelling coveted popcorn into his mouth. He might pout and sigh and cry oppression, but you’re soft on him and he knows it. That quiet hollow in your heart is a little larger, now, a little louder. Jungkook is brazen in his claim of this space, spreading each of his limbs wide as he fits himself into every part of it. He doesn’t know every piece of your past, and you don’t plan to let him see all the messy parts bundled in your chest, but. But he’s still there.

And you let him stay. You make a home for him inside you and let him take the key. He might tilt his head and goad you, might pretend there’s a genuine challenge in the set of his jaw, but you know it’s all tempered with admiration, veneration. Friendship.

(And where he clearly respects you, you admire him in turn. You’re reminded of your differences every second he moves and breathes and just exists in front of you, but you don’t have to be similar to someone to realise just how incredible they are.)

(But though you’re different, there are similarities. You’re not a mirrored image, a reflection, like you are with Yoongi. Instead, you’re a line drawn between two separate places, an isohel, sun lighting up your world for the same sweep of the clock even for how far apart you are. Sharing that same, tenuous thing, for all your contrasting parts.)

(This thing that’s growing, held in your hands. This soft, gentle thing, shimmering, frail, unfurling slowly but undeniably. Tinged with happiness, disbelief. Disbelief that you’ve found this, that you can see Jungkook across the echoing cavern of the Shatterdome’s main hall, so far in the distance, barely visible at the foot of his Jaeger—and something will settle in your chest. Featherlight, iridescent. Something comforting.)

When you fight the kaiju, now, it’s with a deeper reserve of desperation. Taehyung and Jungkook aren’t just fellow pilots, dongsaeng that you’re obliged to look after: they’re your friends, something more than that too, part of the rare handful of people in the world who understand, this overwhelming pressure to fight and win and protect the things you love. The people you love. They understand what it’s like to step into someone else’s head, to be connected to that person on a level that’s unfathomable, anchored in a depth of love that’s endless. You’re their aegis, now, their shield.

(Jungkook’s shield.)

Maybe that’s what’s to blame. Maybe that’s why you’re so sloppy, this time. Maybe that’s why you throw yourselves in the way of the blow that was meant for Bulletproof Striker. Maybe that’s why Ojousan shreds Cypher Zero’s chest apart, her head, why Yoongi is almost ripped from you, his fear and pain screaming through your neural connection. You feel everything he feels and more beside, your heart hammering in your throat as you scream, Jaeger’s arm swinging up and around in tandem with your own motions as you try to rip the kaiju away, anything to protect Yoongi, so scared of losing him, always always always, scared of being left alone.

But you’re not alone. 

Bulletproof Striker lifts up like an avenging angel. Her horns roar a challenge, an echoing battle cry as the younger pilots move in. Heavier and stronger, keeping her balance even in the turbulence of a fight, she takes the hits, gives back her own, sends the kaiju down into the crashing waves, waits for it to rise. But the monster is crafty and quick and even as you’re lifting your left arm—Yoongi’s hurt, so hurt, you know this, feel this, but he moves with you to ready the plasma cannon buried in the mechanics of your Jaeger’s hand, even if he’s keening with pain—you watch as the other pilots, too, fall victim to the clawed tail of the kaiju, screeching through layers of alloys and across their Conn-Pod.

Terror strikes through every part of you and morphs into hate. You hate the kaiju, hate your own weakness, hate the pain that’s been saved from being written into your own body while Yoongi screams and sobs even though he still fights. Your motions are anguished and desperate as you battle to overcome this beast that’s almost taken away everything that matters to you—and Cypher Zero, Yoongi, as damaged and hurt as they are, come through. (Like they always do, for you, always.)

And somehow, despite everything, for all the self-hatred and pain and fear, you pull through. You pull through. Damaged and hurt but alive.

Barely.

Barely alive. 

(One hand gives, the other takes away.)

It takes hours for them to pick Yoongi’s Drivesuit from his body, crumpled around him from Ojousan’s claws, cutting into the soft flesh of his body, body ruined further by the fighting he’d been forced into despite his injuries; so many of Taehyung’s bones are shattered, and when you finally see him awake and with his eyes open, there are burst blood vessels that cast red across the usually warm expression, his friendly eyes.

You should be grateful that they’re alive. You should be on your hands and knees, weeping, benedictions dripping from your graceless mouth as you thank whatever merciless God above decided to turn their gaze on you and grant you this leniency. So many pilots have died and will continue to die, you know this, but somehow your partners are still alive.

And you are grateful. You are. But there’s bitterness on your tongue, twisted across your palate, sour and acrid and filling you with its taste. You’d been foolish and reckless and you’d almost lost the things you cared about most, even if you’d destroyed the kaiju, torn it apart and left its fluorescent indigo blood to corrode the ocean. 

That’s what’s important, isn’t it. Saving humanity. One person, two people, four people—you’re the tiniest cogs in a whirring engine of billions. Unimportant. Just a spinning part that keeps the machine going.

When you’re not with Yoongi or Taehyung, an unmoving presence from their hospital beds, a hovering gargoyle carved from stone, you’re with Jungkook. Always, always, always. Somehow you’d both escaped without the injuries inflicted on your partners—you’d manage to break your little finger, and Jungkook had a black eye and a twisted ankle, and the both of you had mottles of bruises cast across your skin, pulled muscles, an ache carved into your bones, but that was it. That was it. It was almost laughable, how unscathed you are.

You hate it.

(It should have been you.)

Your legs—unbroken, unharmed—hang over steel scaffolding, motionless as you watch the tiny specks of people scuttling across the catwalks that criss-cross Cypher Zero’s body. You can see under her skin, damage peeling back all the layers of metal that should be holding her together. Endless showers of sparks fall and scatter as she’s stitched back together. Your beautiful girl is so damaged, so disfigured.

(You’d caught Yoongi as he’d fallen from the harness, listened to the horrible noises that had torn out of his lips as he’d dripped blood and pain over your shaking hands.)

The bland food you’d scraped off your dinner tray settles fitfully in your stomach, still one second, nausea bubbling up your throat the next. 

It’s one of the rare times you’ve been alone, since… since everything. You’ve been taking comfort in Jungkook’s presence, unwavering and understated, needing someone there when staring at Yoongi’s battered face proved too much. Even with his own upheaval Jungkook’s been there, at your side, always close. Eyes locked on you and taking everything in, the tired set to your face, the expression that tugs down your lips, and still, he stays.

But he’d disappeared after you’d eaten, a peculiar look on his face—you know him well enough now to recognise that look, that it means he’s got something in his head, some plan he means to unfold. It’s the first time you’ve seen it since Taehyung had been pulled out of the Conn-Pod. It’s some semblance of normality, an expression of something other than pale-faced dread and bone-shivering guilt. 

(You feel it too, that survivor’s guilt. Taehyung and Yoongi will recover but it’ll take time and so much suffering and you wish you could take that from them, heft that burden onto your own shoulders.)

(You know Jungkook feels the same.)

(You see it written in the tense lines of his body. Hear it unspoken in the words he shares with you. The bruises on his skin melt from red to purple to blue to yellow, but even if his body heals, his brain and heart bear the scars of helplessness.)

Jungkook reappears, finds you at the heavy steel door that leads into your room, rusted and worn but silent as it swings open in front of you. His eyes are wide and he’s breathless, like he’s been running, chest heaving as he sucks in air through his parted lips, a flash of teeth and tongue as he smiles.

Despite everything, you smile back. Helpless for that smile, always, happier now for the sight of it, for how little you’ve seen it. You want to see that smile every day. You don’t want him to worry for anything. You want him to feel the same way you do, when you see him: that quiet, maybe selfish thought that things are okay. 

Maybe he does. (His eyes are so warm.) He presses something into your hands, something soft and round like a well-practised secret, and then he’s gone. You can tell by the gait of his stride that he’s going back to Taehyung, giving you a moment of lonely reprieve to wash the grime and dirt off your useless body before you follow in his footsteps, stationed at Yoongi’s side.

The door swings shut behind you.

You lift your hand.

It’s an orange.

It’s a small, overripe thing, hard nub of the stem falling away from the skin with only the lightest brush of your fingers. You stare at the fruit, its brightness cutting through the muted sepia tones of your surroundings, a point of colour in an otherwise dull room.

You haven’t seen an orange in months. Rationing is tough on everyone, even Jaeger pilots. You’d mentioned in passing, so long ago, an old habit of yours. Before something else floated above it, more important and interesting, you’d made a fleeting statement that had flitted across the surface of the conversation: you liked eating oranges in the shower. Liked that nice, cool citrus sweetness in your mouth while the rest of your body was caught in the fall of warm water.

It’s such a small, tiny thing. Just the briefest lament—there are more important things than the fact you can’t have shower oranges any more, after all—and you’d forgotten you’d even mentioned it.

But Jungkook hadn’t.

It’s almost syrupy sweet, this orange. You savour each slice, pressing them between your teeth, feeling the rush of juice burst forth through the pith and skin, and it’s so good you could cry. 

You do cry.

Your mouth is full of orange and your eyes are full of tears and your head is full of—of—something, something so all encompassing that it overwhelms you, water cascading down the aching planes of your body as you crumple inwards. Jungkook had protected you with the overwhelming power of Bulletproof Striker, and he’s protecting you now, soft and considerate and kind, vulnerable and human. Stripped of tons of metal and technology, Jungkook wears his beating heart on his sleeve and is none the weaker for it. 

This seemingly small thing means so much, so so so much. You understand him, and he understands you too, knows that this gesture is indicative of support and care and nurturing, a tiny fragment of peace he can offer you in the tumult of everything out of your control. 

A tiny fragment of peace that’s part of a greater whole, all the things that Jungkook gives to you.

When the Marshalls gather you and tell you the plan going forwards, you’re unsurprised. 

It makes sense, of course. Four pilots down to two still leaves a pair, and Bulletproof Striker is nearly functional even if Cypher Zero will stay out of commission while she’s rebuilt. Simple maths. One Jaeger, two pilots. You and Jungkook.

You’re scared.

You know you’re Drift compatible. Every fight in the Kwoon Combat Room is evidence enough of that. A dialogue, each challenge is meant to be a dialogue to show physical compatibility, and it is: there’s perfect sync in how you each move to strike, even if your motions are so different, muscles burning and breaths coming faster each time you attack, parry, strike, block. It’s not about winning or losing. It’s a conversation, one that you and Jungkook fall into without thought.

And he would be the perfect partner. That much isn’t in doubt. Loyal and open and strong, honourable and brave and kind—and you know him, have grown to learn so much about this golden boy, this bright, brilliant boy. He’s fucking indomitable and anyone would be lucky to find themselves in the same Jaeger as Jeon Jungkook.

But there are no secrets in the Drift. 

To let someone in, you have to trust them. And you do, you do trust Jungkook, probably far more than makes sense, some unspoken thing between you burning like a wildfire. But while you trust him, confident in his strength and his heart, you trust yourself less.

You’ll be flayed open, naked and defenceless. He’ll see right to the core of you, every dirty corner of your crumpled soul, every shameful part of your foundations, uneven brickwork layered into your shaky temperament; strong one second, weak the next. He’ll see that you’re hard inside, too, biting and acidic right down to your shrivelled heart. This nascent thing that you’ve been building with Jungkook, been keeping safe in the cradle of your careful hands, will sputter out and die.

“Baby.”

Yoongi’s voice is comforting, a familiar rumble that rolls through your ears as you rest your head in his lap.

“And I mean that you’re literally being a baby,” he continues, and you curl your lip back from your teeth in a small snarl, menacing.

Yoongi just continues to thread his hands through your hair.

You’ve Drifted with Yoongi often and long enough to know how every thread of thought unspools in that skull of his. You know he has every confidence in the unshakeable pillar of your soul. He’s a brother to you, a connection that thrums deep in your veins even without the intimacy of the Drift, and the love you hold for him is undying and true.

But whatever you have with Jungkook is so timorous in the face of that.

“It’s different.” Yoongi looks down at the twist of your face. You know his thoughts and he knows yours too, your face and heart an open book to him. “But different isn’t bad.”

You keep your mouth shut, keep the words swallowed down in your throat, shoved down to the pit of your stomach. Keep it secret. Keep it safe.

“Baby,” he says again, softer, lower. This time, you know it’s an endearment. 

At the end of the day, no matter what fear grips cold and endless at your insides, you’ll do it. You’ll Drift with Jungkook. You’ll throw everything you have into the pyre, watch it burn and turn to ash, if it means you can keep everyone safe. To save Yoongi, Taehyung, Jungkook—you’ll open yourself up to the mortifying ordeal of opening up, laying yourself bare. You have to.

It’s chaotic, anyway. The day that your practice Drift is scheduled is the day the next kaiju rises out of the breach, that dreaded rift between our world and theirs, because why would you be allowed to breathe, even for a second?

It’s a scramble into the cockpit. There’s no time for trial runs or test Drifts. You fly or you fall. Everyone’s in a state of orderly upheaval as you’re suited up and left to stride forwards into a Conn-Pod that isn’t yours, in a Jaeger that isn’t yours.

(Left to stride forwards to stand next to someone who isn’t yours.)

Your Drivesuit is grey. Jungkook’s is white. There’s a subtle hologramatic sheen laid across the planes of his armour, leaving him a multicoloured vision that shines out under the flicker of the cockpit’s endless tiny buttons and lights. Your own suit is a matte, gunmetal with accents of burning scarlet, far more battered and worn. Dark and wild in the face of Jungkook’s radiance. He’s the perfect answer to the kaiju invasion. You, though, feel like an interloper in a space that wasn’t designed for you, this circle room that’s been home to Jungkook and his true, real partner. 

But he’s looking at you like there’s no one else he’d rather have by his side. 

He doesn’t care that everything about this moment just cements how he’s too good for you in every conceivable way, elevated above you. Doesn’t care that you’re just a temporary stop gap. There’s trepidation, of course, skittering nerves that dance across his face for this first Drift, surrounded by all the commotion that’s swallowing the world up outside the cockpit. But there’s also that fire in his eyes, one you’ve learned to expect: Jungkook is a wildfire and will surmount any obstacle in a blaze of white-hot light.

And he wants you along for the ride.

(Burns bright for it.)

“You ready?” He asks, and the tiny tremor in his words takes you off guard even as it soothes a balm over the rash of apprehension that prickles across your skin.

(Because he’s nervous, too.)

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” you answer, truly.

His eyes crinkle into a smile, crescents of happiness as his lip peels back from his teeth. It should be jarring, seeing his sweet bunny smile in the pit of a Jaeger, so at odds with the military polycarbonate that girds his body with protection, the masculine edges of his face—but it’s not. The world is just a backdrop to Jeon Jungkook, dropping away as you fall into his eyes, twinkling stars of brightness and warmth that hold you safe, even now.

Peace and contentment steals over you. You’re almost shocked by it, the way your own face softens into a smile, the rising beat of your heart. Every ragged messy edge in you is smoothed over by Jungkook’s presence and you glow for him.

When the Conn-Pod drops, there’s the familiar weightlessness, the sway of your body in the harness as you fall. Anticipation roils through you as Bulletproof Striker’s head locks into place, whirring mechanisms securing you to nearly 2000 tons of metal, so much heavier than your own Jaeger. You’ve taken Jungkook’s usual place and he’s taken Taehyung’s, the right hemisphere, the dominant pilot, familiar with this machine in a way you’re not.

Not yet, at least.

“We’ve got this.”

Jungkook’s voice cuts through the noise, the AI talking at you, a narration of events you’ve long grown used to. You turn your head to look at him. He’s already looking at you, intent and sincere. Like always.

“Yeah,” you say. “Yeah, we have.”

There’s no point being afraid. In a few seconds, Jungkook will be in your head, washing over every part of you—and you’ll be in his, pressing your ethereal touch into every facet that comes together to make Jeon Jungkook who he is.

Seconds pass. There’s a little hitch in his breath, a stiffness to his limbs, and he shuts his eyes. You breathe in deep, deep, deep, sucking in a harsh breath into your greedy lungs—

—the timer hits zero—

—and then the Drift slams into you all at once, all encompassing and consuming, threading your minds together.

(Drifting with Yoongi is easy, the familiarity of coming home after so much time away.)

(But this?)

(This is throwing yourself into a cold lake on a hot summer’s day, bracing and refreshing and breath-stealing all at once, shocking life into every one of your limbs, so sharp and fast you’re scared you might drown before you breach the surface, water holding onto you and not letting you go. This is driving reckless and fast down empty roads, watching the world pass you in a blur, laughing in delight at the pleasure of it all. This is scaling a cliffside with nothing but your own hands and determination, digging your fingers into the unyielding rock, pulling yourself up-up-up, never letting yourself fall.)

(This is having Jungkook beside you. This is having Jungkook diving into the lake with all the grace of an Olympian before he rises to the surface, tosses his hair carelessly out of his face, and spits a mouthful of water at you with laughter in his eyes. This is having Jungkook behind the driver’s wheel, shifting gears without thought, looking away from the road to watch the way your hair dances in the wind. This is having Jungkook climbing beside you, waiting for you at the top, holding a hand out to pull you up and over so you can sprawl out beside him, exhausted and exuberant at the top of this mountain, basking in the sun with Jungkook just a hair’s breadth away from you.)

(He takes one look at you. He takes one look at all the dark of your memories, the cascading mess of your insides, the hidden things that are open to him in the Drift, cut open and peeled back for his gaze—and he doesn’t look away.)

(He sees everything, past skin and muscle and bone and nerves, even deeper, right into your heart—)

(—all the torrents that eddy the deep waters of your soul—)

(—and he doesn’t look away.)

(He doesn’t look away.)

(Can’t look away.)

(Doesn’t want to.)

(Never wants to.)

(Jeon Jungkook takes one look at you, your whole being, and he knows you.)

(And he doesn’t want you any less.)

It’s just a second, a flicker, a breath, this first connection in this Drift, falling into each other. But it’s also a lifetime, two lifetimes, four lifetimes; your memories, Jungkook’s memories, Yoongi’s memories in yours, Taehyung’s memories in Jungkook’s. Layers and layers and years and years piled over one another, a tumbling sprawl—but it’s easy. It’s easy, so easy, Jungkook seeing you, you seeing him, everything he is, everything you are, everything you are to each other, with each other, for each other. The important things. The things you need to know to navigate this together, in sync even before now, reading each other to a level neither had even realised.

And when you’ve killed the kaiju. When you’ve walked Bulletproof Striker back to shore, brought her back to the Shatterdome, back home, it doesn’t end. You lift out of the Drift, step out of your Drivesuits, as different as they are (as different as you are), and it doesn’t end. 

Jungkook’s eyes linger, as heavy as a physical touch, and even as congratulations for a successful drop are bandied about you, he doesn’t leave your side. He keeps his hand against yours—not intertwined, but brushing, the curl of his fingers against your own. Touching. You’re not the protector here. He’s protecting you, in a way that doesn’t leave you feeling inferior or weak. You feel soft and warm and small and safe, pulled inexorably towards him, supported, buoyed up, and you don’t feel selfish for it.

Because he wants this.

He wants to be your comfort and your support.

He doesn’t want it to end.

(You don’t want it to end.)

And when you finally break away from those crowds, released from the shackles of responsibility and expectation—when you’re finally left alone, the two of you with each other, there’s no hesitation when you come together.

He lays you out beneath him and has you sobbing, back arching into the pleasure he draws out of your body, playing you like a maestro. Because he knows you, after all. He knows exactly how to trail his lips across your skin, your neck and stomach and thighs, painting marks across your body like it’s his personal canvas. He knows exactly how to have you twisting underneath him, how to pull those pretty sounds from your lips, fucking you with his fingers and his tongue until you’re a shaking mess. He kisses you sweet, merciless, letting you claw at his skin as you beg for more, more more more, wanting it, needing it, wanting him, needing him.

And you know he’ll give it to you. He’ll give himself to you, give you everything you ask for. You know how he wants to see you fall apart and you know how to move your body to have him gritting his teeth and staring in awe. You know how desperate he is to worship you, to show you his adoration and reverence, and you open up for him, unfurl like a flower, dripping nectar. When he finally presses into you, hot and long and thick, it’s so good you could cry. You draw him in-in-in, into your body and arms and heart, pressing your lips to the sweat at his brow, the taste of skin and salt and Jungkook bursting across your tongue.

There’s no Drift here, no curl of memories and unspoken thoughts between you. It’s physical and human, the crash of your bodies against each other, skin on skin, the thrust of his cock pressing into the dripping folds of your cunt. It’s the other half of that connection, the final piece, this thing you have with Jungkook, this perfect balance you have with him. It sears itself across your body and into your soul: it’s pleasure and passion and devotion carved into each touch of your lips and fingers, each roll of your hips, each time Jungkook makes you cum, gasping for him.

When he’s finally come apart inside you, spilling into your willing heat as you shake beneath him, arms and legs wrapped around his body as you pull him as close as you can, unwilling to let go—it still doesn’t end. You’re so wrapped up in Jungkook, in his arms, his heart, and you know he won’t let you go, either. He presses his lips against yours, chases those kisses, quiet and chaste to open-mouthed and dirty as the mood takes you, and then Jungkook rolls over you again, a spark in his eyes as he decides he’s still hungry for you.

You know, now, that all that time ago, when you carved that space for him into your chest, he’d done the same for you. He’d laid his heart at your feet and waited there, kneeling, for you to accept it, patient and willing. Staring at you with all the deep love you never thought you deserved, never thought you’d receive. But here he is. Here he is, love burning in his dark brown eyes. Eyes that have seen all the damaged, aching parts of you and love you anyway.

“I’m yours.”

Jungkook shines so bright at your words, a supernova of joy. His smile is so wide and his gaze is so soft, for you, for you, for you.

“Everything I am is for you,” he murmurs, letting the words curl into the air, settle across your skin, sink deep inside your chest. Your eyes flutter shut as you feel this touch of him inside you, wrapped around your heart.

And when you lift your hands, he comes so easily. He presses his cheek into the curve of your fingers, lets you hold him, lets you cup those lovely cheeks in your palms.

“I love you,” he says.

Right now, in this instant, there’s nothing but him. No kaiju, no Jaegers, no crumbling world, nothing. There’s only him, and you, together.

“I love you too,” you reply—and when you smile, gentle and tender, Jungkook falls in love all over again.

Burns bright for you.

[hklnvgl]

“ it doesn't matter. nothing is more important than making sure you're okay. “ Pynch 🥺🥺

The nightmare wasn’t special.

It was new, though, in that casserole-like way old fears get all mixed up and make up a new thing.

It was leaving lovers and asleep mothers and deadly claws and a loneliness so deep it became black tears that tattooed his pillow when he woke up. It wasn’t nightwash—it was just Ronan dreaming of dying. It was a nightmare of nightwash. It was a shadow of nightwash, made worse by the real shadows creeping up Ronan’s bedroom walls.

He shotout of bed and thought of burning the sheets, soaked in sweat and black. He felt sluggish and tired so he decided he’d do that later, maybe.

He washed his face and peed and let the bathroom bright light hurt his tired eyes.

Downstairs, he studied the kitchen clock for a long time. Despite his glares, its hands didn’t get past half three in the morning.

It was too early to call Adam—Adam had a test in two days and had spent the weekend camping up at the library. He’d sent Ronan a text at eight saying he was going to bed.

The nightmare hadn’t been that bad.

Ronan could get over it. He wasn’t a fucking baby.

He thought of putting on a jacket and venturing outside to try and find Opal to annoy her until she broke something. Fixing stuff other people broke always made Ronan feel better.

He thought of having a long shower until there was daylight so he remembered what it was like to feel clean again.

He thought of calling Adam.

He wanted to call Adam. He wanted Adam to be here so he could shove his phone at the bottom of a pile of cow shit and forget he ever had one. He wanted to hear Adam tell him it was going to be okay.

He drunk some water. He made himself some coffee. He poured some whiskey on a mug and then washed it down with the coffee and hated how something so sour and ugly-looking could make him feel so alive.

He sat for a long time in the toilet. He texted Blue that he was sitting in the toilet, but she didn’t answer. He’d hoped she was in some place whose timezone would mean she was awake to send him a voice note stating how strongly she despised it when he told her he was sitting in the toilet.

He didn’t want to go back to sleep.

At four minutes to four he dialed Adam’s number.

A shaky hand brought the phone to Ronan’s ear, where he heard the first beep, and the second, and was about to hang up when the call connected and Adam’s voice answered.

“Ronan,” he said. Sleepy and low and maybe a bit frightened because it was four in the morning after all.

Ronan felt warm. He stood up, left the bathroom, went back to hide in his bedroom where he could better appreciate the fact that he was talking to Adam Parrish and shove that into the creepy shadow’s face. Not that the shadows had faces—that’d been fucked up. He made a mental note never to dream about shadows with faces.

“Something happened?” Adam asked, sounding more awake than before.

Ronan had yet to say hello. He should just hang up and let Adam go back to sleep. Only Adam would call him back because Ronan had to go and wake him up with his stupid nightmare stories so now Adam was worried and scared and that made two of them when Ronan could have just sucked it up.

“Shit,” Ronan said.

For some reason Adam chuckled on the other side of the line. “Hi.”

“Hi, uh—we didn’t talk earlier.”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry about that.” There was some shuffling sound, as if Adam was exploding shit or adjusting his pillow. Ronan let his own head fall onto his still-covered-in-black pillow, because it felt like he was getting closer to Adam by doing so. “I didn’t even have dinner—I just crashed the moment I reached my bed. I hope it goes well this Thursday.”

Ronan hummed, which was meant to mean that he didn’t like it when Adam skipped meals and also that Adam was of course going to ace his test because even Harvard fuckers had to see how much Adam was worth and also that he wanted to be Adam’s bed to have Adam crash on him.

“So?” Adam asked, when Ronan didn’t add anything to his hum. “Did you wanna talk about something? I know I’ve been a bit out of the loop lately, did I miss something important?”

Just Ronan’s slow decaying. “Your loop is right there, dipshit,” he said, instead.

“Ronan.”

“You know what? We can talk later, when you’re done with your shit. Get back to your beauty sleep.” Any moment now, Ronan would hang up, and the line would go dead, and Adam would be free to go back to sleep, and Ronan would be free to go have another shower because he was stupid and had laid right back on his sticky sheets and now he was sticky all over again.

Any moment now. He just wanted to hear Adam breathe for a second longer.

He just—

“Ronan. Ronan, what’s wrong? What happened?”

Nothing. Nothing happened. Just Ronan being Ronan. Just Ronan’s life being all fucked up.

Ronan took a shaky breath. “I won’t call in the middle of the night again,” he rushed.

“What? It doesn’t matter. What the hell, Ronan? Just tell me, okay? Talk to me. I’m here. I’m listening. Hey, I always want to talk to you, okay? Even if it’s late. Listen, I’ll make sure to talk to you every day, okay? Even if I’m tired. Nothing is more important than making sure you’re okay.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Ronan said, hating that his voice was cracking and that the house was empty and that he was upsetting Adam. “You don’t need to try shit. You’re doing fine. We’re fine. I just missed you and was being stupid about it because I had a nightmare and you were far away. But that’s not on you. That’s on me.”

“You shut up. I’m glad you called. I also missed you. I’m still promising I’ll talk to you every day. I want to talk to you every day. You make my days happier.”

Ronan snorted and had to get up or he’d choke with his own tears.

“That’s my fucking line, Parrish. Get your own.”

“What? I said it first. It’s mine now. You get your own.”

“Okay. I’ll think of something. I’m gonna do some laundry now, you should really go back to sleep.”

Adam sighed. “I know.” None of them ended the call.

Ronan switched his bedside lamp on. All the shadows went away. “Tanquam.”

“Alter idem.”

[doctenwho]

Talk Me Down

Oof, not me disappearing for like a two months. I’m so sorry! I have the attention span of a goldfish and I’ve been fandom hopping. I sadly hyperfocus in and out, and then I’m back (currently stuck on Prodigal Son again, if anyone’s interested!).  D: Still working on the prompts in waiting, if I haven’t gotten around to yours yet!

Anywho! Thank you so much for the prompt! It was a lot of fun to work on, and I’m sorry it took so long! Hopefully this was what you were looking for, I thought it was pretty fluffy! 

Warnings: Panic/ Anxiety attacks, light angst

Word Count: 2,731 (Sorry it’s a bit short!)

Summary: Read the prompt above!

(Gif is not mine! All credit goes to the creator! :D)

You hated when you and the Doctor would get separated. It always filled you with a sense of dread. You knew he didn’t mean it—he'd never try to intentionally hurt you, but the two of you always somehow broke apart.

It wasn’t as bad when you were on earth—defeating whichever alien decided that earth and humanity was an easy target—but in space, when the Doctor would get carried away and leave you to fend for yourself like he tended to do with companions, you always felt like you were suffocating whenever he did that.

You loved travelling with him, and you were confident in your ability to fend for yourself, but you were just filled with a sinking feeling of doubt whenever he’d leave you alone on a planet you didn’t know. 

Today was no different than any other day. 

Then any other adventure. 

You couldn’t for the life of you remember which planet the Doctor had been raving about when he’d landed the TARDIS. You’d followed along like you always did, excited for the adventure, but with that small inkling of doubt in the back of your mind.  

He’d taken your hand with a wide smile and led you along. He talked your ear off, telling you of the planet’s history, the inhabitants. His personal favorites about the planet. You liked listening to him, listening to him ramble and gesture enthusiastically about what interested him.  

And then you were running.  

You were starting to think that there wasn’t a place in the universe where the Doctor wasn’t at least one person’s target. Where he hadn’t accidentally wronged someone.  

He’d dragged you along by your hand before you’d come to a fork in the road. He’d looked both directions calculatingly, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth before chancing a glance back at you. Then, his eyes seemed to go through you and to whomever happened to be chasing you, which seemed to make some sort of decision for him if the way his eyes hardened was anything to go off.  

His hand broke away from yours, and then he was giving you the slightest push towards one side of the fork with flustered order of “Go!” falling from his lips as he turned hurriedly and shot down the other road.

Your feet moved on autopilot as you sprinted down the path he’d directed you towards, instantly missing the warmth and comfort of the Doctor’s hand in your own. You weren’t sure how long you continued down the road. How long you ran—how far you got.  

You were sure no one was chasing you. You couldn’t hear any other sounds besides your own feet pounding along the gravel, and you heart thrumming in your chest in both exertion and anxiety.  

They wanted the Doctor, not you. Whatever it was the man had done to wrong these people, it had been long before you’d started travelling with him. Long before you’d even met the man.  

That still didn’t stop the clawing worry in your stomach. Was the Doctor okay? Would he come find you? Would he find you?  

What if he wasn’t okay? What if you’d be stranded here forever? Not only did you not think you’d ever be able to make it back to the TARDIS, but there was absolutely no way you’d be able to get her to fly even if you did somehow make it back.  

You weren’t a Timelord. The TARDIS wouldn’t fly for you, even if you tried.

You’d be stranded here.

Somewhere deep in the back of your mind a tiny voice was whispering to trust the Doctor. He hadn’t gotten the two of you into any serious danger yet. He took care of you, and you’d never been injured beyond bruises and scrapes. He always came for you. Always found you and swept you back into the TARDIS and far away from the threat.  

He’d always taken care of you--

But the larger, louder calling in your head shouted your fears. He wouldn’t find you. He was dead. They’d captured him. You were alone. Alone on a planet you didn’t even know the name of. You’d never see the Doctor again. You’d never see your friends and family, or planet again.

You were stranded.

Your movements slowed, and before you could fight to keep yourself up, your knees buckled under you. You fell to the dirty road below; your knees and hands scraping on the gravel.  

You were stuck here. On this strange planet. Without the Doctor.  

Alone.

You crawled to the side of the road, hiding yourself the best you could manage in a bush of some sort. It dug uncomfortably into your body, but you couldn’t be bothered. What did it matter?

A gaspy cry fell from you lips as you coiled in on yourself, pulling your knees to your chest as you buried your face in the fabric of your pants. It was a sinking feeling of loneliness—fear of the unknown environment.

You could barely force in any air. It felt like you were dying. This was it. You were going to die of lack of oxygen—which was weird considering the Doctor had told you this planet had the same atmosphere as earth. There was plenty of oxygen, but you couldn’t manage to suck any in.  

You struggled for each gasp of air you got.

Your head was an uncomfortable mix of lightheadedness and pounding headache, and you were sure you were crying. Tears slipping down your cheeks as your thoughts consumed you. The bigger, louder voice washing over the tiny pleading one like a title wave.  

How were you going to make it out of this? How would you survive this strange alien planet without the Doctor by your side? Your fingers subconsciously dug into your forearms where they were wrapped around your legs, holding your knees snug against you.  

“(Y/N)!” You heard, but it sounded far away. Far away and drown out. Why did it feel like you were underwater? You struggled to suck in another breath as a foreign touch settled on your hand, curling to just slightly grip around yours, “you need to take a breath, c’mon, deep in...”

You tried to steady your thoughts, taking a stuttery intake of air like the voice suggested, and it was quick to cool your lungs down. That suffocating feeling eased the slightest amount. The soft voice talking you through this was steadying you—anchoring you back, “good, good, my dear, now out? You’re doing perfect.”

It took a second before you let yourself blow out the air in your lungs, “perfect,” the voice told you, soft and comforting, “very good, another one? Nice and slow, alright? Breath with me, in and out.”

You sucked in another breath, waited for the hand around yours to tighten just the slightest before blowing that breath out too. Now that you could breathe through the mist of anxiety, you were desperate to pull in more air. You weren’t sure how long you’d been lost—unsure how long you’d gone without a decent breath.  

“Good,” the voice whispered lowly as a second hand settled on your forearm, thumb rubbing softly along your arm, “you’re doing brilliantly, (Y/N). Come back to me now, alright?”

You weren’t sure where you’d gone, but you’d try for the voice.  

You forced your eyes open, unsure when you’d really shut them. You couldn’t remember squeezing them shut, but it was almost a relief when you let your face relax. You continued with the deep breaths, replaying the words that had been spoken to you in your head—in and out.

Before you, dropped in a panicked kneel, was the Doctor. He looked out of breath, and frantic. Worried eyes searching your face for... you weren’t sure what he was looking so intently for. The worry didn’t look quite right on the usually so confident and narcissistic man.  

It was definitely the Doctor though.

“Doctor?” you wheezed out, uncoiling just enough to settle a hand on his chest to test if he was real or not. You hand flattened against him, and then one of his hands was pulling away from you to settle over top of your hand.

“I’m here,” he promised, “I’m so sorry, (Y/N). I’m here now. You’re alright.”

You let yourself fall forwards into him with the confirmation that it was him. That the Doctor was real before you. Alive. Here. You weren’t stranded. You weren’t alone anymore. A rush of that suffocating separation anxiety flowed out with your next heaving breath.  

You buried your face in his suit jacket as his arms wrapped tightly around you, “keep breathing, love, alright? Deep breaths for me.”

It was easier to suck in the breaths with the Doctor in close proximity. Even if it really should be harder to get any air through his clothes. You managed to wrap your arms around him too, holding him close.  

The two of you were at an awkward angle, the Doctor still on his knees in front of you, and you in an awkward mess of desperate limbs. Neither of you seemed to mind the odd position much. The longer you sat, the stiffer you got, but it was the furthest thing from your mind.  

“You’re doing so good,” the Doctor whispered into your hair, “I’m sorry. So, so sorry.”

“You’re okay,” you whimpered out against his jacket.

“I am,” the Doctor agreed tenderly, “it was a misunderstanding. I’m okay, and you’re okay. We’re both okay, alright? Deep breaths.”

You just curled yourself in closer to him, afraid that you’d lose him if you let go. Your thoughts still ran rampant in your head, anxious and panicked, but the longer you forced in breaths, and sat in the Doctor’s arms with his hands trailing along your back and petting down your hair, the more everything eased away.  

The Doctor didn’t say much else as you slowly calmed down in his arms. With your breaths finally starting to even out, he didn’t keep reminding you. But whenever you slowed, or swallowed a shallow intake, he’d calmly remind you again.  

You didn’t know how long the two of you sat there on the ground, on some planet you didn’t even remember the name of. The Doctor made no move to get up, to move, and to speak until you’d calmed. Until you were okay, and breath steadily.  

“I’m sorry.” The Doctor told you once more, his chin settled on the top of your head as he held you close.  

“What for?” You finally asked when it no longer felt like you were fighting for every breath. His heart beats below your ear calmed you down, focused your attention. Reminded you he was here. That even if your head was telling you that you were alone, that you definitely weren’t.  

“We shouldn’t have split up,” the Doctor told you, “I should’ve kept you with me, but I needed you to be safe, and I knew they were after me, and not you, so I sent you away.”

“I thought you were gone,” you squeezed your eyes shut, forcing another breath just because you could, “I thought you were gone, and I didn’t know where I was. I... I thought I’d be stuck here forever. I was alone.”

“I know,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your head, “I’m sorry. I was wrong. We should’ve stayed together. I’m so sorry, (Y/N). It was stupid, I know you’re different from other companions, and I still thrusted you into something that made you uncomfortable. I just needed you to be okay.”

“I’m okay,” you breathed out, but you weren’t sure if that was his sake, or a reminder for yourself. You’d never had a panic attack quite as heavy. Never one that broke you down like this one had.  

“You’re okay,” the Doctor repeated, tightening his hold. You didn’t know if he really believed your words—his tone was pretty neutral. “You’re okay now. I’ve got you. I’ll always come for you okay?”

“Okay,” you swallowed, letting your forehead settle against his chest.

“Think you’re okay to stand? You weren’t hurt, were you?”

“No,” you shook you head, pulling away enough to look up at the Doctor, “I’m okay... you were right, no one came after me. I... I just, I tripped, I think.”

You pulled your hands away to look down at them, frowning at the scratches from the gravel. The Doctor took your hands into his own, leaning away just enough to look down at your palms. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” you told him with a small laugh that didn’t sound quite right. Not as okay as you’d hoped it would’ve. You ignored the kicked-puppy look the Doctor shot in your direction as you pushed yourself up, using the Doctor’s shoulder as support before offering a hand to help him up too.  

It wasn’t his fault—he'd been protecting you. You’d always been a bit clingy anyways. The separation anxiety wasn’t new either—you'd just... never expected it could get so much worse on a planet that wasn’t your own. Being alone on a planet that you didn’t know; one not even in your own galaxy had hit you harder than ever.  

The Doctor took your offered hand, accepting the help up, but he didn’t look convinced by your words.

The need to not let go was clearly just as evident in him as it was in you. You went to pull you hand back after he was standing, but he didn’t let up his grip. You didn’t mind though, just squeezing his hand in return.

He pulled you closer by your hand, only letting go when you were close enough to wrap his arms around. This hug was a lot more comfortable, standing instead of whatever odd sitting thing you’d been doing before. You could push closer, and he held you tighter.  

You tucked in against his body much easier.

You melted into the embrace, letting him hold you. You weren’t sure if it was for your sake at this point, or his own, but you didn’t question it. Whether for him, or for you, it was a tenderness you needed right now. Comfort and protection from the Doctor.

“You scared me,” the Doctor whispered against your head.  

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” you murmured.

He pulled back enough to cup your face in his hands, thumbs trailing under your eyes with a feathery touch, wiping away the tear tracks with a frown, “I didn’t think my plan through, and it put you at risk, even if it wasn’t my intention. The need to make sure you were safe was stronger than the logic that you don’t know this planet. That I was pushing you into the unknown.”

“I know you were trying to protect me, I just...”

“Not the right way,” the Doctor decided. You felt him gave a light shake of his head, “it’s not protecting you if it manifests like this, (Y/N). It was the wrong choice because you panicked, because of me. I won’t do that again, I assure you.”

“No more splitting up?” You tilted your head at him. It made you feel very clingy, and you were sure your voice sounded more relieved than you would’ve liked, but the Doctor just gave you a tiny smile, brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear.  

“No,” he leaned forward to press a kiss to your forehead, “no more splitting up—especially not on planets you don’t know. I can’t promise we’ll never get separated again, but I can promise I’ll always keep you safe, and I’ll always find you again.”

“I know,” you swallowed, nuzzling up against him and pulling him back into a tight hug. “I trust you.”

“I’m glad,” you could hear the playful smile in the Doctor’s voice, “now, what do you say we head back to the TARDIS and get off this planet. We can clean your hands up too.”

“Sounds good,” you returned the small smile. You wiped your hands against your pants halfheartedly.  

The Doctor wrapped his arm around your shoulder, pulling you into his side easily. You curled in close, pressing the side of your face against his side. His thumb swept along your shoulder, arm keeping to tight and sheltered against him.  

Protective, but comforting all the same.Comforting to the both of you.

<><><><>

Heyy! Thanks for taking the time to read this! I hoped you liked it! As always, if it wasn’t what you were looking for, feel free to prompt me again!

Hopefully the anxiety/panic attack was realistic enough, I’ve only got me to go off, but I know it’s different for everyone! Also, alternative title suggestions would be appreciated if you’ve got one!

[violets-page]

Shot Down |R.R.|

MASTERLIST

A/N: This was my first request and I was so excited! Hope you enjoy <3

The 100, Raven x fem reader? If your kay with it maybe where reader and Raven are in a relationship and had an argument but then the Murphy situation happens in the dropship so the reader helps raven out and when shots happen the reader protects Raven?

You loved Raven, truly. In fact, you loved her more than you thought your heart was capable of. But you couldn’t help but feel like she wasn’t really over Finn. You saw the way she looked at him when he and Clarke were together. You saw the pain of losing your first love and the crushing weight of having to watch him happy without her. No matter how many times she smiled and told you she was ‘so over him’ , you couldn't help but notice how her gaze always lingered on him for a second longer.

When Raven crashed to earth only to have her heartbroken you were there to comfort her. Brought together by her tech-savvy ways and your creative ideas the two of you spent countless days together, thinking up and prototyping weapons. And when night time crept up, throwing darkness onto all those below her, She’d creeped into your bed shuffling blankets to make room on your lap for her head. You’d play with her hair and hum her to sleep as she cried on your lap over a boy who didn’t deserve her.

As you two had grown close an unspoken thing rose between you.

Little kisses through the day, always over before you could move towards her. Cuddling into her bed at night, warm bodies pressed against each other as you fell asleep to the lullaby of her beating heart. Makeout sessions in the forest when no one was around but the trees and birds and all of earth's problems melted away when her hands were in your hair and her lips planted on yours.

Raven hadn’t been one much for public PDA and for a while you thought that was just how she was. It never really bothered you, so what if she didn't feel like sharing your intimate moments in front of a group of immature strangers.

That was until Finn approached you and asked if you knew what boy she was seeing.

*    *   *   *   *   *   *   *

You rolled your eyes as Finn sauntered toward you.

“Hey.” his voice sounded exhausted. Much like everyone's did nowadays.

His hands were shoved in his pockets and he glanced around as if searching for someone. With all that you knew about Finn, you had never actually spoken to him. In fact, you actively avoided him. Desperate not to give off the impression that you were willing to talk to him you let out a hum of acknowledgment.

“I'm worried about Raven.”

Your eyes shot up to meet him. He had no right to worry about her, anything worry-worthy had been his fault. You bit back all the lectures and insults you'd thought you'd say to him someday, the ones you thought up while wiping tears with your shirt sleeve.

“Why.”

“I heard her talking to Octavia the other day about a guy she was seeing. I don’t think she knew I was there but..” he sighed, his hand going in towards his greasy hair as you tried not to grimace at its look.

“None of the guys here are good for her.”

Yeah, none of the guys.

You shoot him a frown and bit back your laugh. “No, but if she was seeing someone how would I be able to tell?”

“Well, when we were together she was always very affectionate. Holding hands in public and kisses all the time. She’s really big on PDA. Ya know?”

You didn't know.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

You held in your emotions for a few days, desperately trying not to let his ridiculous words get to you. But you couldn't help it as you drifted away from Raven. Every time you were together your mind drifted to her and Finn on the ark, holding hands and kissing in the halls where anyone could see. Your mind soaked up awful thoughts until you felt your heart might just explode.

This led to you storming into her tent in a fit of anger. You waved your hands furiously through the air as you told her about the conversation you'd had with Finn.

“I know you're not over Finn, and I know you're just using me to get over him but you don't want him to know about it in case he wants you back. I won't be your safety guard to fall back on until you're ready to get up and walk away!”

“What? That’s not what’s going on at all.”

“Oh yeah, cause it sure as hell seems like every time we’re out you want nothing to do with me. You won't even hold my hand outside this tent much less kiss me.”

“Y/n listen to me!”

“No, I’m so sick of this shit”

You loved her but you weren’t going to sit and watch her fawn over her asshole ex.

When the yelling had gotten too much for you to handle you stormed out of the tent, sweat running down your back from the hot weather and your bubbling anger. You hate how it felt and how it reminded you of stupid Finn and his stupid greasy hair. You remembered a stream you had seen on one of your forest explorations with Raven.

Raven. Raven. Raven.

You hated how even when you were mad and anger flowed through your veins, you couldn’t escape the thoughts of her. You needed to get out.

The stream was probably a 20-minute walk from camp. You knew the woods weren’t safe but you couldn’t stand being cooped up in camp for a second longer. You took one of Ravens’ guns with you, just in case.

When you reached the steam you glanced around before stripping. The woods were hauntingly beautiful, but every time you looked at them all you could see was Raven. Her back pressed against the trees as her fingers weaved knots in your hair. Your fingers slipping under her shirt exploring the curves of her hips. Her lips against yours, silent gasps for air interrupting the rustling of leaves.

You wadded into the water as if it could wash the thoughts from your mind. The water was like ice and only reached enough to go a little over your knees. The light breeze made goosebumps peak from your skin as the water suddenly seemed much warmer. You squatted down, the algae rocks tickling your toes. Splashing your face with the cool water, you scrubbed it, thankful to get rid of the sticky sweat that had built up over the weeks you’d been on earth. You took a deep breath and tried to relax your muscles.

As you sat in the water you thought about everything that’s been going on. More specifically everything going on with Raven. You hadn’t even let Raven explain herself before you stormed out. Your quick temper was always your biggest problem. Hell, it's how you ended up down here in the first palace. Guilt was a sickly feeling, it nestled into your stomach and made you feel like a monster.

Suddenly the woods felt too empty, The river too dirty and everything too loud. You felt loneliness fill your heart, its claws creeping their way up as you choked back sobs. As Raven's face once again visited your memory you decided it was best to get back and apologize before the sun disappeared and sleep took your lover.

As you got closer to camp you took note of the eerie silence, a major contrast from the usual laughs and shouts that filled the camp. Walking in you saw why. Everyone was crowded around the dropship. Most people looked indifferent or only had slight concern etched across their faces. That was until you came across Octavia standing at the front.

She looked as if she would just about pass out. Fear covered her whole face as she tapped her foot impatiently. A walkie-talkie clenched tightly in her hand as her teeth pulled tightly against her bleeding lip.

“What’s going on”

Without her eyes ever leaving the doors of the drop ship she answered you.

“Murphys got Bellamy trapped inside. I- I think he’s going to kill him. Jaspers under the ship trying to get him out.”

You surveyed the crowds trying to find Raven but nowhere was the girl donning the red puffer jacket anywhere to be seen.

“Where's Raven?”

Octavia’s eyes flickered to you for only a moment before returning to the dropship. But with that one look, you knew she didn’t want to tell you.

“Octavia, where is she.” You moved in front of her, blocking her view of the dropship. Annoyance flashed across her features but it quickly vanished.

She sighed “She's under there helping Jasper but-”

That was all you needed to hear before you turned around and headed toward the dropship. Before you could make it two steps Octavia had grabbed your arm and pulled you back. You considered pulling your arm out of hers or even pushing her down so she would let you go. But the girl had a grip like iron and an attitude to match.

“She’s got this. By going in there you could mess up everything. Just trust her. Okay?”

You nodded and stayed put. But her words did nothing to ease the fear that washed over you like a tsunami, drowning you.

A gunshot rang through the air and Octavia’s grip on your arm tightened. One part in an effort to reassure herself and another part to keep you put.

You weren’t super religious but at that moment you begged whoever -if anyone- above to make sure Raven came out of this alive and unharmed.

Minutes seemed like hours until finally a familiar mop of brown hair appeared from beneath the dropship. You felt every muscle in your body relax and the headache that you hadn't even noticed disband.

You shrugged out of Octavia’s grasp and ran to Jasper quickly engulfing him in a hug. His arms hung limp at his sides and you could see his anxiety written across his face. But at least they were okay.

“Oh thank god”

You peered behind him, expecting to see Raven, but no one was there.

As if sensing your unspoken question he spoke,

“She’s still in the dropship. She-”

But you were already gone.

As you squirmed your way through the complicated working of the dropship you spotted the brunette. Your lungs filled with air and the knot in your chest eased. She was okay.

“Raven ..”

She jumped at your sudden appearance and something within the circuit she was working on sparked. She let out a slight scream as the sparks burnt the tips of her fingers.

You both looked up as the noises from above ceased

And then came the gunshots.

After the first one, you dived over her without a second thought, knocking you both to the ground. You heard her head hit the ground with a loud thunk as the air left her lungs. You covered her body with yours tucking your head into her neck as you covered her face with your hands. You breathed in her scent as bullets rained down on you. You could feel her heart's erratic beating against your chest. It felt like forever until they finally stopped.

When they did Raven wasted no time moving you off of her and getting back to the control panel, finishing what she started.

You however couldn’t move.  

Damn adrenaline.

You took a few deep breaths and calmed your heart as much as you possibly could. You tightened your muscles in an attempt to sit up, the same way you've sat up your entire life. Except for this time, your muscles wouldn’t tighten. It was as if they had stopped working entirely.

“Raven “ you called out to her. You were terrified, your heartbeat so loudly you could feel it in your eardrums. She was too focused on finishing the control panel to hear you. Finally, she got it, shooting you one of those proud smiles you always loved. It quickly dissolved when she saw the fear on your face as tears streamed down from your eyes.

“I can’t move. Oh god. Oh my god. “ Your tears turned to sobs as your body shook. She was by your side in a second as she quickly took to examining your body.

“I can’t find a wound.”

“Please, please, please Raven.” She had no idea what to do but couldn’t bear to watch you break to pieces in her arms.

Slowly she moved you so you were sitting up, and although it took a while she was able to get you up and onto her back.

A bang sounded from above and the whole room shook. Her hand slipped from its grip on your thigh but she quickly managed to catch it.

She held your legs as you wrapped your arms around her neck. Although your cries were no longer audible she felt you shake against her back as warm tears splashed her shoulder.

Before she even got into the camp she was yelling.

“WHERE'S CLARKE. SOMEBODY GET CLARKE.” the blonde rushed to her side, a sharp intake escaping when she saw you.

“She says she can’t move. Murphy shot her. I couldn’t find the wound but I don’t know.” She tried desperately not to cry.

Not now.  Raven thought.  Not when she's breaking.

She carried you into the dropship, laying you carefully down on the table. It took a while but Clarke finally made it in to help.

After sanitizing her hands with what was left of the alcohol she looked at Raven. They both knew this wasn’t going to be good.

“I need to get the bullet out. Can you distract her?”

Raven nodded and held your hand tighter. You could feel her warm palm against hers, the only thing keeping you from falling apart in a fit of hysterics. That was about the only thing you could feel. Everything below your chest was dead weight.

“Remember how you thought I wasn’t showing you public affection because I still had feelings for Finn?” Clarke risked a quick glance at the girls before resuming her work.

You felt her fingers enter the wound in your back and let out a scream.

“Is now really the best time to talk about this” you tried to say between screams and grunts. She nodded, a determined look on her face.

“That’s not why.”

“Okay..” you urged her to go on so you could focus on her voice instead of the fingers probing around underneath your skin.

“No one knows that I am ya know,” although she didn't make a show of it you knew Clarke was listening.

“And I guess I was just- am just, afraid of the way people might look at me.” the raw emotion on her face almost made you forget what was happening.  Almost.

You screamed again as Clarke’s fingers exited the wound.

“Got it. Now comes the painful part” You looked at her in horror.

She turned your head away so that you were once again looking at Raven. The brunette couldn't hide the horror that flashed across her face at whatever Clarke was doing behind you.

“Trust me, it’s best not to watch this part.”

Raven almost couldn’t handle the look of fear on your face. She wanted to wrap you up in her arms and keep you safe and away from this cruel world. She laced her finger between yours, light kisses against the back of your hand in an attempt to calm your pounding heart and shaky breaths.

Clarke handed her a cloth for you to bite on. It would stop you from breaking your own teeth is what she had said.

Raven squeezed your hand in reassurance and placed a gentle kiss on your head as you let out a ground trembling scream. She felt her heart fall to pieces at the sound. The world around you disappeared as you tried desperately to focus on Raven instead of the hot metal searing your flesh.

And then-

It was over.

You just lay there, studying Raven. Her lower lip was redder than the top one due to her gnawing on it anxiously. Her eyelashes were long and cast delicate shadows across her high cheekbones. Her jawline was sharp and unmoving. Skin pulled tight in a frown of worry. The whole thing had taken a toll on you. But you refused to let yourself fall asleep.

“Raven, I’m so sorry.”

She let out a sad laugh as tears started forming in her eyes

“Never do that again.”  She wanted to scream at you. She wanted to hit you and yell at you for being so stupid. For putting her life above yours and trying to be the hero. But she knew you wouldn’t be able to handle that. Not today at least.

Your eyelids were so heavy. You decided you would just close them, not sleep.

As your eyes fluttered closed Raven turned to Clarke.

Is she going to be okay?

“Yes, but…”

“But what”

“She suffered a slight spinal cord injury. I don’t know how bad it is. She might be able to walk again in six months or a year or possibly never.”

As you heard these words your mind drifted as the welcoming arms of sleep embraced you.

As longs as Raven is okay,

I can handle it.

Pt.2

[divinolenta]

one last time

diluc x gender neutral reader, angst/sfw

additional notes: uh randomly hurt myself by thinking of this right as i was about to sleep so here it is! my writing never turns out as good as the initial idea i swear...for this i would recommend listening to "the swan" by saint-saen. just a heads-up, starting tomorrow, i won’t be able to post as often as i’m going to be busier.

word count: 1,272

the winery, once busy and raucous, is now quiet as diluc prepares to close for the night.

you remain at the bar, finger tracing over the rim of your untouched drink, deep in contemplation.

you're jolted out of thought when fingers ghost against your hand, and diluc lets out an apologetic hum as he takes the glass from you.

silence descends once again, and you sigh softly, standing up, the stool screeching against the floor. it's time to go.

before you can make your way to the door, diluc speaks up from behind the bar, almost timidly. "when are you leaving?"

you offer him a melancholic smile. "tomorrow at dawn."

duty calls you to a far-away nation, and you have no choice but to obey. it meant endless exploring and adventuring, but you had to leave behind mondstadt, a place you had come to love dearly, along with close friends. a bittersweet opportunity, indeed.

"have you thought of staying?" the desperation in his voice is fleeting, but it’s there and you hear it.

"it’s not a choice, diluc, and you know best out of everyone."

he goes silent, but the way his jaw is clenching lets you know that he's frustrated. carefully placing down the glass that he was drying, diluc steps toward you.

you stiffen. out of everything, diluc is the only one who ties you so strongly to mondstadt. should you have guarded your heart more closely?

"it really is goodbye, then." he whispers, eyes cast down. you frown, reaching out to comfort him, but your hand hesitates, lingering, before retracting.

"before i leave, lets dance. one last time." you utter. not only to lighten the somber mood, but to remember fond memories, when you first met diluc at a masquerade ball a year ago. only a year with diluc, how cruel the gods were, to call you away so soon.

a hint of a smile surfaces, and he nods, offering you his hand. you grin, placing yours in his. diluc pulls you closer to him, and his hand lays on your waist while the other grasps your hand tightly, like you were grains of sand, destined to always slip through.

swaying gently, the only sound is the rustling of fabric as you automatically fall into the rhythm of a waltz, and you start to sing a familiar melody, lilting notes that are like honey to his ears.

diluc twirls you, and you laugh giddily. you wish for this moment to never end, to spend the rest of eternity in his arms.

yet, moments like these always end. moments that fill you with joy, like watching the sun shine, clouds breaking to show cerulean sky. however, the sun will disappear behind dark and foreboding clouds again, and all that's left is only the faintest memory, only a shadow of its former beauty.

diluc stills, and pulls your body flush against his, leaning his forehead against your shoulder. you blink back tears, dreading the inevitable goodbye.

"it's getting late" you murmur, lifting a hand to touch his cheek. diluc looks up, and you're enraptured by the intensity of his eyes. deep crimson, the colour representing the fiery passion of his very being, the passion that he's loved you with.

diluc is left vulnerable in your presence, and as you stare in his eyes, you hate to know that he's shattering into a million of pieces, and that it's because of you.

he's your anchor, the one you look for to seek shelter from the tumultuous world, to pull you back to reality, so when his eyes gloss over with tears, you find yourself unsteady, drowning in despair.

you're leaving. just like everyone in his life has. diluc should hate you with venomous intent, but all he feels is bitter sorrow, and all he wants to do is forgive you.

diluc presses his forehead to yours. "stay with me." he begs, and you break at how desperate he sounds. he wants you to stay but you can't, and he knows that.

tears begin to fall, and you feel like someone is squeezing your heart, twisting it viciously. it hurts so much, you shake, and grip his coat with trembling fingers to steady yourself.

your lips nudge against his from the proximity of your faces, and diluc captures them feverishly. you taste the saltiness of tears but you're not sure if it's from yours or his.

his kisses convey what he can't. stay with me, please. i love you. don't leave me.

he kisses you like his life depends on you, because it's true. if you leave, he'll be lost to the turmoil of his thoughts, alone to hopelessly claw through memories, sift through his past and climb that ominous mountain to confront the truth. he needs you, just like how people need oxygen to survive.

diluc pulls away, breathless, and he's a mess, but even so, you find him captivating. you reach to cup his face, eyes roving over his features. tears have dried on his porcelain skin, and his lips are swollen from kissing you senseless, but he's still so beautiful.

you want to brand his face into your memory, never wanting to forget the exact shade of his eyes, the way his hair curls, or the curve of his mouth.

slowly, diluc sinks to the ground, too shaky to stand. you follow him, pulling him into your chest as you stroke his hair. he's so strong yet fragile, and for a brief second, you wish diluc has never met you, to save him from this.

"i could write you letters everyday." you mention meekly, but the attempt at comforting him is futile, because diluc knows just as well as you, know that letters will only be a temporary solution.

what comes after letters? after the initial feelings of loneliness and longing, all that would be left of your relationship would be faded memories of times that would no longer be significant to either of you.

he lifts his head, eyes boring into yours insistently. "it's no use." he whispers, and your heart sinks at how defeated he sounds. just like that, he’s given up, knowing that destiny has called, guiding you further and further away from him. 

maybe it’s meant to be. 

his lips curve into a tentative smile as he brushes his fingers against your cheek. "i love you."

your eyes fill with tears at the sheer adoration in his voice. you shake your head, fingers clasping around his wrist, as you lean into the warmth of his hand. "please don't." your voice cracks, and diluc falters.

"i love you." he repeats, more firmly this time.

"i love you too." you answer, slumping against him. diluc holds you, not a word escaping as you simply bask in each other's company, cherishing the little time you have left together.

you want to grow old with him, quit adventuring so you can work at the winery with him and share his burden, enjoying the security of having a home, where you can always return to. you want to travel the world with him by your side, fingers intertwined, just as how you’ve given each other your hearts and trusted the other not to break it. you want to hold him as you sleep and wake up every morning and know that he’s next to you, sleeping soundly. 

alas, it’s too late to regret everything, too late to let yourself get lost in wistful thoughts when you’ve already made your decision. 

as the moon continues its steady climb into the sky, you stay there, in diluc's arms, hearts united, one last time.