#fic: fragile verse

[profoundbondfanfic]

Fragile and Composed

Fragile and Composed by cgf_kat Rating: Teen Word Count: 16k

“What did Rowena say?” he asks. “You called her, right? This isn’t like one of those attack dog spells of hers, is it?” That’s the last time Dean can remember seeing Cas actually sweat like this. Usually, he’s immune to such human inconveniences, but as of right now his dark hair is plastered to his forehead, moisture prickling his skin. It’s disconcerting. Wrong. “No, no not like that,” Cas rasps. He lets his head tip back, compliant as Dean gently thumbs at the skin around his eyes to pull them open farther, to get a better look at them. To confirm they’re not bloodshot and bleeding like they were then. “It’s—there are no other effects...not...nothing’s in my head. It’s just...very painful.”

*drops this piece of 16k words of pure, unadulterated hurt/comfort right in front of your feet*

Don’t you ever dare say I didn’t give you anything 😁

So if you’re really in the mood for all the pain and worry and protectiveness that this special trope has to offer, then please don’t hesitate to click on the link and enjoy all the misery!

In this particular story Castiel is suffering from the effects of a nasty spell, being crippled by sudden bursts of pain, and Dean is just desperate to help him in any way he can and make his suffering a little less bad. Which include lots of touching, moving into Dean’s room together, sharing a bed and Dean mother henning the whole time, not only concerned about his angel but also Jack who blames himself for the whole mess in the first place. 

Yes, they’re all not having a good time right now, but I promise there is a happy end in sight!

So if this is right up your alley, dive right in 💗

[pyrosomatic-metamorphosis]

(ao3)

The worst thing, Bad knows, is the way that nothing changes. 

The clouds move slow across the sky, gentle giants on an eternal trek. The waters dance with fish; the brooks burble and sing. Grass grows. Sheep eat. Grass regrows. 

On, and on, and on, and on. 

Bad breathes in, slow, and holds it. 

It’s enough to go mad over. To become enraged for. To rip everything down just so that everything can match the- the keening lack in his heart. Grass grows. Grass has always grown. There is nothing that could ever stop grass from growing. 

His hands are curled into the ground at his sides. He clutches handfuls of the wretched plant and pulls, almost gently, and doesn’t snap a single blade.

He exhales, slow, and doesn’t inhale again. What point is there? He’s alone. No one will know whether or not he needs to breathe. He’s been alone before- days that Dapper doesn’t wake up, days where the other eggs are with their other parents. Days where he falls asleep in his chair and the ghosts are left to amuse themselves. He’s been alone before. 

He’s lost before. 

There is a sob in his throat. He refuses to let it out. It chokes him, and he takes another deep breath to try to settle it. 

There’s always- he misses Skeppy. Of course he misses Skeppy. He can’t lose Skeppy, but Skeppy isn’t here.

Dapper isn’t here. Pomme isn’t here. Richarlyson. Leo. Ramon. Chayanne. Tallulah. They’re-

Bad tears the grass out of the ground. He stares at his hands, dark claws curled around torn green plant. He tries to imagine the grass is white fur instead, but he can’t find the enthusiasm. That’s okay. The anger will be back later. 

He just- he can’t feel much beyond the loss, right now. The lack. The empty, quiet island where sheep eat grass and clouds keep moving and no eggs place any signs at all. That’s not okay, but he knows that, at least, will change. That’s how grief works. The world ends, and you end with it, and while you claw yourself up from the rubble the world ends again and sends you back under, and then again, and then again, but by the third go around you know what the tremors look like. You start to predict where it hurts the most. Then the world keeps ending but the ending just becomes a part of your world, and sometimes everything shakes but you shake with it and it’s not okay but it’s better. You get so used to the shaking that sometimes you forget that your world ever ended at all. 

How long will it take for him to forget them? 

Bad leans forwards, slowly, until he slumps into a miserable little puddle of limbs. He presses his cheek into the cool grass and when the sob rises up again he bites it back with teeth. The sun is blocked by a sombrero, now fallen awkwardly over his face, that Foolish had cheerfully placed on his head hours before. Bad doesn’t know why Foolish had put it there- except he does, and he’d seen it in the in the slightest tremor of Foolish’s smile, and so he’d kept it on. 

He can’t see them, but he can hear them laughing. Mouse, Jaiden, and Foolish, just around the corner. There have been so many people ‘just around the corner’ today. They’re so loud. They’re not the right type of loud. He feels guilty for the way that they’re comforting him, that he’s taking up their time, and then he feels angry that he feels guilty because he remembers the cage, and he knows what he really means to them, and-

They’re still here. The eggs are gone, and they’re still here. 

Forever isn’t here. 

Forever hasn’t given him a gift basket yet. 

…

…It doesn’t work. It’s a close thing, though- there’s a flicker of irritation at the thought of Forever’s awful, handsome face. Not anger, not nearly enough emotion to fill the void that is Bad’s heart, but maybe it could be. He’ll try again tomorrow. Isn’t that fun? Isn’t that something? There’s so much emotion he can’t feel any of it at all. 

Maybe it’s a bad dream. There were no remains. There was just Dapper’s top hat, and Pomme’s beret. No shell, no dead eggs. No eggs. It’s driving him mad, the maybe-yes maybe-no nature of his children’s fate.

He thinks, maybe, that tomorrow he will build a drill. 

Today, the world is dark beneath the sombrero, and the grass is scratchy and full of small twigs. Foolish laughs once, too loud. Automatically, Bad pushes himself up, because he knows Foolish, and knows how long he’s been away from the group, and he feels sick. He fumbles for his warpstone and- Foolish’s head pops around the corner- Bad freezes. Too late. 

Foolish looks at him, grin bright and neverending. Bad looks back. He can’t bring himself to say anything- he drops the sombrero at their feet. 

Foolish’s smile fades. Bad activates his warpstone again and, though the particles, he sees Foolish give him a sharp, left-handed salute. Bad can’t bite back his little laugh; Foolish knows him, too.

And then Foolish is gone. The world is purple. Then the world ends, once again, in Bad’s home. All of Dapper’s machines have stopped. Echoing noise to almost-echoing silence. Ah. Right. None of the island’s machines are working correctly. Bad will have to make a smaller drill. But he will build his drill, and he will dig, and he will find his son. 

“Dapper?” he calls, his voice cracking. The sound echoes. Only the animals answer back- they’re the only thing that stops the base from being completely silent. Grass grows. Sheep eat. Grass regrows. There’s so many animals here. What good company. It occurs to Bad, suddenly, that they’re good company. Dapper is gone, and his animals are still here, and Bad- 

He won’t kill Dapper’s pets. He is suddenly holding his scythe and he won’t hurt his son’s pets because he can’t trade them for his son and there’s a special sort of heartache to the fact that his son left behind instructions to machines that don’t work and so many animals that can’t keep Bad company the way Dapper kept him company and Bad- 

He’s holding his scythe. He’s holding the Sunshine Protector. He tries to take a breath but it comes out stuttery and he bites his tongue and. Dapper was-is always so sweet. He made Bonnie to keep Bad company, and Bad is always haunted by little ghosts but now most of all he is haunted by the love of his son. 

“Where are you?” His voice cracks on the third word. He stumbles to Dapper’s room and doesn’t think about the fact that they never got to build one for Pomme.  

The hole in his heart could swallow an island. 

Please don’t take- 

The scythe gets left outside. Bad can’t bear to look at it. Protector. There is a secure door in front of him that keeps nothing secure because now there is nothing to protect and Bad- 

-my sunshine away. 

He falls to his knees next to the empty bed. He chokes out, “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you, Dapper.”

When the sob rises again, he lets it.

[swordsmans]

excellent news from usps--i can now talk about this beauty!! i had the pleasure of typesetting and binding @the-furthest-city-light's wonderful zolu fic spill your wine and it was a ride from start to finish (repurposed prototypes and injuries included). overall, i'm extremely pleased with how it turned out!!

this was a full fabric, square-backed case binding with a peek through cover showcasing a heat transfer foiled title on the (red, burgundy, gold) endsheet (and a hidden katana design to match the charm). things got a bit weird near the spine because i didnt anticipate my glue acting funky under the heat, but live and learn! the outside covers turned out plenty clean.

the edges are painted with matte black acrylic and sealed with beeswax, and the bookmark is a little 4mm burgundy silk number tipped with a gold clasp and katana charm (of course). the silk is very thin/fragile, so in the future i think ill double the length i use.

i also had a great time typesetting this! when i first read this i knew i wanted to do something that was both angular/modern and ornately victorian (with a red, black, gold scheme). this had to be decadent and beautifully clash-y, because nothing less would suffice for the kind of author who'd use a verse from the canticle of canticles as the summary for a fic series like this. truly iconic. nerds will notice that this is a little visually reversed from the way books are traditionally typeset, which is also intentional. i think it fits the vibe of the bind and the fic. i hope the vision came through.

this was actually the second case i built; i wasnt happy with the first one so i ripped it up and made a notebook (with the front and back covers) and bookmark (from the spine) for dani, which was a fun little experiment. i just... didnt take any pictures, apparently?

overall this was a really fun and challenging project, and i cant believe its done!!!! wow!!!

[cuubism]

inspired by this Hope!Hob piece by @mashumaru, have a little reverse-verse fic, Hob as Hope of the Endless and human Morpheus

(reverse-verse Hope and Morpheus are my special special little guys, I wrote an extremely long fic about them before. I think about them all the time and at this point they're basically distinct from Dreamling in my mind 😂)

cw hate speech, homophobia, slurs, violence. it's pretty brief though.

--

At this point, Morpheus is no longer shocked to come home and find Hope sat at his kitchen table, knuckles and brow bone bloody, drinking tea as if none of that matters. It still rankles him, though. Bloody. Injured. Always.

Morpheus sets down his messenger bag in the hall with a thump and bypasses Hope entirely to go right for the first aid kit on the top shelf in the bathroom. Hope turns to watch him pass, a forlorn little look on his face. No, Morpheus tells himself, he does not get some sweet little welcome home kiss if he’s going to come back like that.

“Must you insist,” he says, as he drags the kit—packed full, always—off the bathroom shelf and trudges back into the kitchen, “on always starting fights?”

Hope pushes his half-drunk tea away, pouting. “I don’t start them!”

Morpheus sits in the chair next to him and just looks at him.

“…Okay,” Hope concedes. His lip and brow line are bruised. There’s dried blood under his nose. Morpheus wishes this wasn’t his natural state. “Sometimes I throw the first punch.”

Morpheus sighs, tearing open an alcohol swab and starting to wipe at the cut on his brow.

“…Most of the time,” Hope admits.

“Hope,” Morpheus says, exasperated, and Hope cringes.

“You know I can’t really be hurt,” he tries to explain. “I’m not human. Besides. You think I’m just beating the crap out of people for no reason?”

“No,” says Morpheus, and wipes at his split lip with perhaps more force than necessary. “I do not.”

“Besides, I don’t kill people and I don’t like when people do it around me either. It’s not about fighting, I don’t enjoy fighting. It’s about taking a stand.”

“You do enjoy fighting,” Morpheus accuses. “I have seen you.”

Hope ducks his head. “It’s not about that, though,” he insists. “Listen. You know I never really finish these things, but it’s my role to start it. To show that these battles can be fought. And that it’s worth standing up.”

“Bar fights, such a noble cause,” says Morpheus dryly, and Hope tucks his forehead into his shoulder. Morpheus can’t help himself, his hand automatically goes to the nape of Hope’s neck, fingers combing through his hair.

“You attract violence to you,” he says quietly. “I have seen it.”

Hope sighs. “Did you really think that people would like Hope? Sometimes they want to give me a hug but more often they just want to punch me in the face.”

“I thought you were meant to inspire,” Morpheus says, and it’s a little bit mocking of things Hope himself has declared in the past but Morpheus is listening.

“More like get in the way,” says Hope, his face still pressed to Morpheus’s shoulder. He sounds despondent now. Morpheus supposes people instigating fights with you simply because of your nature wouldn’t be pleasant. At least when people instigate fights with Morpheus, he’s usually done something to deserve it.

“You are not ‘in the way,’” he says. “If you are, then you are meant to be there. Like when you stepped into my path.”

“‘Least you didn’t punch me,” Hope mumbles.

“I considered it.”

Hope huffs. He pushes himself upright again, shaking his messy hair out of his eyes. He is so beautiful, even still speckled with blood and grime from the fight. Especially like that, if Morpheus is being honest with himself.

“So long as you never hated me,” Hope says. His voice is fragile now, and it hurts Morpheus’s heart. Hope is like a radiant sunbeam, and still more often than not people are only trying to throw shadows over him.

“I could never hate you,” he says, and Hope’s expression softens. Morpheus kisses him lightly on the lips. “I do not think they hate you either. You are… challenging. Just being around you… it is a confrontation in its own way. Especially for those who may have pushed you aside.”

“Even for you?” Hope says.

“Especially for me,” Morpheus tells him. He leans his cheek against Hope’s, overcome with fondness. Fondness that is greater for how frustrating Hope has been to him over the years, during those times of darkness. “It is how you saved me.”

“You saved you,” Hope says firmly. “But if I helped, then I’m glad.”

“Always.” Morpheus kisses the hinge of his jaw. “What would I do without you?”

“Now you’re just coming on to me.”

Morpheus hums, not disagreeing.

“Admit it,” Hope says, tangling fingers in Morpheus’s hair. “You’re into it. When I come home all bloody.”

“Mm. I am not.”

“Oh, you are. I can tell.”

Morpheus skates a hand up along his thigh. “Hm. Perhaps it makes you seem very fierce.” He kisses Hope’s mouth this time, swipes his tongue soothingly over his split lip, tasting just the tantalizing hint of blood. Leans in and—

“Ow!”

Morpheus pulls back, raising an eyebrow. Hope looks sheepish, pressing his hand to his nose, which Morpheus had bumped. Hope’s non-human body will heal quickly, but for now his nose remains at least partially broken.

Morpheus keeps giving him an unimpressed look. “I see you are gravely wounded.” Hope catches him by the hair before he can truly pull away, and he smiles. “I suppose… I will have to ply my mouth elsewhere. If you promise to be more careful.”

“For such a reward I’d promise anything,” Hope swears, and Morpheus obligingly sinks down, hands on Hope’s thighs. It is hardly a hardship.

“You do like this,” Hope swears. “Don’t try to pretend. You’re so transparent.”

“Perhaps you once punched a man in the face on my behalf, and perhaps I found it titillating,” Morpheus says, and Hope laughs. “Is it terrible if I wanted you to break his nose? Perhaps I am terrible. You do look appealing with blood on your hands. If it is not your own.”

Even Hope’s own torn, bruised knuckles do stir something in Morpheus, a fierce pride and terrible heat. But he worries for him also.

“Liar,” Hope crows, gleeful, “hypocrite. Terrible lecturer. You love it. You know you do.”

“Do not get yourself horribly maimed in a bar fight,” Morpheus orders. “However…” he takes one of Hope’s hands, kisses his knuckles, lets his lips linger there for a moment. “If you must be righteous and full of passion, then I will soothe your injuries later, oh knight of promise.”

“Terrible incentive, now I’m going to get worse,” Hope says. He caresses Morpheus’s cheek, thumbs at the corner of his mouth. His look on Morpheus is so fond, always. Then he says, “Alright, darling, for you, I’ll be careful.”

“Thank you.” Morpheus leans his face against Hope’s thigh, lets Hope play with his hair. In a moment he will indeed ply his mouth upon Hope’s body as promised, in a moment he will indulge the spark that Hope’s fierceness lights within him. But for this moment, he just stays close to him, a gentle valley in the topography of Hope’s violence. Morpheus has never been gentle for anyone before. He finds he likes it.

Hope leans down, smiling, and kisses the top of his head.

~

Morpheus does not like to be “out and about.” In fact, he generally detests it. But Hope likes to be out among people and Morpheus likes to be with Hope, so sometimes he goes. Besides, he likes to see Hope happy.

The White Horse is a safe space for them, anyway. Morpheus does not feel so uncomfortable there as he does at other crowded, loud establishments. He sits in his usual corner seat at the bar, nursing a drink and working on his writing, leaning lightly against Hope’s shoulder as Hope chats with whomever has come up to him now. He tends to attract people wherever he goes. Fortunately, no one has tried to start a fight, this time.

Hope leans in close to his ear. “Get some air with me?”

Morpheus smirks. Inevitably, getting some air will turn into Hope pushing him up against a wall and kissing him senseless. He is hardly opposed to that series of events.

Cold air washes over him as Hope leads him out to the back garden, around the corner to a private spot in the alley by the inn. It makes his hands feel even warmer as he takes Morpheus by the hips, leans him up against the wall as expected, thumbs stroking over his hip bones under his shirt. Morpheus smiles to himself.

“Did you get bored?” he teases.

Hope kisses his cheek, then his jaw, leans in close to his ear. “Hardly. You know my mind is always on you no matter what. But you were being so patient.” He tugs on Morpheus’s ear, then goes to his throat, kissing along his pulse. “How could I not reward my darling?”

“Knowing that I am the one you will go home with is its own reward,” Morpheus murmurs. He trails a hand up Hope’s back, pulls him close so their bellies are pressed together. “So many of those people in there want you. I see it. But they do not know that you are already taken.” It makes him feel privileged. And hungry.

Hope laughs. “Possessive little bastard.”

“Yes.” Hope is so radiant. To be the one chosen by him… it makes Morpheus’s soul sing. “You are mine. I am yours.”

“Yours,” Hope agrees. With that he moves to Morpheus’s lips and kisses him deep. Morpheus hums in pleasure, opens his mouth to him. Tastes the beer lingering on his tongue. Sinks into the press of Hope’s fingers on his hips, and—

“In public? Disgusting.”

Hope pulls away from him, and Morpheus grumbles in displeasure. Hope turns to the mouth of the alley, where a strange man is standing, expression of, indeed, disgust on his face.

When they don’t respond, the man steps closer until he's almost in their space. Hope’s jaw clenches but, perhaps remembering how Morpheus had chastised him for always getting into fights, he doesn’t yet react.

“Can we help you?” Morpheus asks. Not politely.

“By taking that somewhere else,” says the strange man. His tone is aggressive. And most of his attention seems to be on Hope, rather than Morpheus, which Morpheus doesn’t like. Morpheus has noticed before that Hope’s presence inspires ire to jump to action as often as it inspires positivity and good works. But this is the first time he has seen such outright aggression.

Maybe some people really do hate Hope.

“Mind your own business,” says Hope, stiffly.

“You fags shouldn’t be allowed out in public, it’s an insult to respectable people.” He’s still primarily looking at Hope, and it's hard to say if it's because he is the one who looks more traditionally masculine between the two of them, or if it is because of the inherent draw of Hope as an Endless. “Should fuck a real woman instead of that.”

Hope takes a quick step forward at the man’s words, expression hard.

“Hope—” Morpheus starts. Do not get yourself hurt again, he means to say. As much as I enjoy you defending our honor I also like you well. For Hope may have supernatural qualities that prevent him from dying but he is not invulnerable. His powers lie in his empathy, his charisma. Emotion and community. But he takes a punch like any other man. Comes home to Morpheus with a black eye like anyone else would.

Hope stops sharply as if caught on a leash. And Morpheus immediately regrets speaking, for the other man crows in victory.

“What are you, his little bitch? You a man or not?”

Hope flinches despite himself. Not, Morpheus thinks, because he cares so much about a stranger’s sense of masculinity, but because he prides himself on being able to handle himself. On being able to defend his lover. On being able to stand on his own feet after being broken down into shards by his imprisonment.

Morpheus often feels anger, is too quick to it even, but he does not often act on it with violence. It is not so much that he disapproves of violence as that he dislikes the attention associated with causing a scene, and, being rather slight, is usually at a disadvantage in any physical confrontation besides. Cutting words are his weapons instead.

But watching Hope shrink back, the hurt that flashes over him—a terrible spark jumps inside Morpheus. Hope is stronger, is better, than any person he knows. Has been through hell and come out of it still with more empathy than Morpheus has ever possessed in his life. Morpheus will not watch him made small.

He steps forward and punches the man square in the nose.

He hears a crunch. He’s not sure if it’s the nose, or his own knuckles. The man wheels back with a shriek, clutching his bleeding nose, and Morpheus stumbles back, too, shaking out his hand.

Hope has his hands over his mouth in shock, eyes wide. “Holy shit.” When he drops his hands, he’s grinning. “Holy shit.”

Holy shit indeed. Morpheus watches the man scamper off down the alley, casting one last dark look back at them. His hand hurts, he might have broken it—but the adrenaline pumping through his veins is much louder. He can’t quite believe he did that.

“How’d that feel?” Hope asks. He is a terrible influence sometimes. Always roping Morpheus into doing terrible things, like wanting to live.

A smile tugs at Morpheus’s lips. “It felt… good.”

“Yeah?” He’s still grinning madly. “Let me see your hand.”

Morpheus shows him. Hope prods gently at his knuckles, and winces.

“That’s gonna hurt for a while,” he says. “Your punching technique is terrible.” He kisses Morpheus’s hand anyway.

“Now you understand how I feel when you come home bloodied,” Morpheus says.

Hope’s eyes are sparkling. He does not seem like he’s learned a lesson from that at all. “Oh, I do.” He leans in close, presses his lips to the corner of Morpheus’s mouth. “You were…” his voice is a low hum, “incredible.”

“Do I get a reward?” Morpheus asks dryly, though his breath quickens at Hope’s proximity, the heat in his voice.

“For defending my honor? Anything.” He takes Morpheus’s uninjured hand. He smiles. He’s altogether too excited about Morpheus punching someone. Which only makes Morpheus want to do it again. Terrible influence, Hope. “Come home, and I’ll show you.”

But Morpheus catches him when Hope starts to tug him away. “Here.”

Hope raises an eyebrow at him, but he does look… interested. “Something to prove?”

Morpheus draws him close again, leans back against the wall so Hope is caging him in. “Perhaps I simply want you, and I do not care who knows about it.”

He touches low on Hope’s belly, his hand hidden between their bodies. He is not willing to truly expose them—though they are somewhat sequestered in the alley at the moment—but to play with the idea is… arousing. He wants Hope to touch him. Here, in their place. After Morpheus has hurt someone for him.

He cannot blame Hope for this. Morpheus is just a terrible influence upon himself.

“Menace,” Hope chuckles. “You’ve no high ground left, you know that, right? You’ve obliterated it.”

“I never did,” Morpheus says, as Hope lets him draw him in and kisses along his neck. “Always you have been the better of us.”

“In terms of exhibitionism, maybe,” Hope says. Even now, he won’t let Morpheus truly criticize himself. “I could be persuaded, though.”

With that, he slots their lips together. Sucks on Morpheus’s lower lip as he pushes him harder against the wall, Morpheus’s back scraping the brick. Morpheus groans, pulls him close by his hips so Hope’s swiftly-hardening erection is pressed against his, and Hope’s breath hitches against his mouth.

“Should I give you a proper reward?” Hope murmurs.

“Yes,” Morpheus breathes. “Hope—”

He loves Hope so much. He wants Hope so much.

“Vicious little thing, I love you so,” Hope says. And then, in the darkened alley by their favorite place, with his hands and mouth and the weight of his body and his devotion, he goes about showing Morpheus just how much.

[slowd1ving]

Hi! I love your lookism fics, I would love to see your take on Seongji Yuk x gn reader. Something sweet and simple would be great!

I see that you like using science metaphors and im curious to how many can you use in one fic. I’m a complete chemistry nerd 🤓 😂

THE MUNDANE . 　⁺ ✦ SEONGJI YUK

In which an amateur stargazer finds that no, they do not teach biology in Cheonliang, and yes, gravity does in fact affect everything with mass. woah... gravitational fields.... woah inverse square law... woah, G.... ik you probably wanted more chemistry but I couldn't resist the physics gnawing away/// arghhh pairing: seongji yuk + gn reader warnings: prejudice (quite literally lookism) wc: 1.3k

LOOKISM MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

There’s a monster living in the Cheonliang mountains. 

A flutter of cloying kindness greets you when you first pull up to the rural village: tires burning on summer asphalt, senseless droning of cicadas, and warm rain seeping through your thin clothes. No rhyme or reason as to why you decided on this particular village to stop by; though, the rhyme might just be the hiccuping couplet of your pulse. Specifically, this pair of beats as your motorcycle drives past the tunnel; heavy, like two black holes encountering each other for the first time. Spinning, spinning. As the wheels on your bike do, naturally. 

Six fingers and toes, he’s cursed by the gods! Hark, my children—

Newton’s theory of gravitation dictates any particle with matter attracts any other with a force inversely proportional to the square of the distance between them. This is the inverse square law. It’s used for practical and theoretical applications, but it’s pretty useful when considering why people are drawn to something when they are close to it. Emotionally, physically, empathetically. Psychologically. See, once one begins to increase the proximity of two souls, there is a certain degree of attraction that occurs consequently. 

Pray should you ever encounter this one, for he is but a merciless, mad beast.

It’s a stagnated hum that twines through the fields. Little kids begin the verse, and their elders finish it while you leisurely drive past. Over and over. They play hopscotch to the rhythm in their secluded playgrounds, clap their small hands to the beat, and seem to have no eerie feelings behind their bright smiles. A distorted tale, wound through with the modest price of one person’s dignity. There’s a basis for every tale, after all—bitterly warped to suit the storyteller’s perspective. 

Do not pity the one abandoned by all. 

Thus, when you begin the winding slopes through the fields and up around the mountains, it reduces the distance between you and the epicentre. You trust your gut. You believe (mostly) that what compels you to park your motorcycle on this particular trail is no madness, but rather a tangible, logical reason. A scientific one, if you will. You’re a mass, the monster of Cheonliang certainly is a mass—thus gravity objectively binds you both. 

It’s not entirely implausible to suggest the rumours entice you as much as anything, but the heavy telescope bound to your vehicle is as good a reason as any to stop by this eve. And that: the buzz in your very cells, that seem to divide simply to tug you in the direction of the sprawled forest. Stargazing in Cheonliang it is, then. 

Despite your idle curiosity, you don’t go looking: quietly setting up your equipment in a clearing where the breeze flows cleanly, like fragile forgiveness in a peaceful room. It’s a saccharine solitude—as sweet as tanghulu when you close your eyes. 

“It’s dangerous.” Those are the first words you hear in this village that aren’t blighted by eerie insinuation. Here, where the mountain is solitary and sepulchral, that is the only time you find someone who isn’t the real monster in this mired town. Human, flesh and blood and warm. 

“Isn’t everything?” You peer through the eyepiece experimentally, focusing on the calm tide in his voice—

“No need t’be a smartass.” His cadence becomes slightly rougher as you hear a dull thump; by the movement of syllables, you’d judge he just leaned against a tree. “Was a piece of friendly advice.”

Hmm. You look away from the sky that’s somehow cleared up—miserable grey giving way to faint periwinkle, then atrament smattered with incandescent freckles—then at the stranger peering right back at you. 

“What should I be wary of, then?” There’s a relaxed sort of ease in your body, one you’re unfamiliar with. 

He stares at you askance, as though you’re an idiot. 

“Strangers,” he answers brusquely, pointing at himself. “Haven’t you heard the rumours about this place?”

“Oh.” You turn back to the equipment, leaning down to bring the height of the scope up comfortably. Stars, you think dreamily. “That stupid song? Here I thought you’d say boars or something.”

“Stupid song?” he echoes. “And you still went up?”

Six digits on his left hand as it sways downwards, six on the right hand nestled in his pocket. He’s tall, so much so that anyone would feel intimidated staring up at the guy. Close—he’s close by, which is perhaps why you gravitate towards him. Two masses, feeling greater force with greater proximity. This was the epicentre that drew you here. 

“Is biology class illegal here or something?” you counter incredulously. “Do I need to pay attention to fear mongering?”

“No,” he murmurs thoughtfully. “I guess you don’t.”

It’s strange. Your first encounter with Seongji Yuk can only be classified as abnormal. Gazing at the massive bodies scattered across the heavens, it’s perhaps common sense that the man next to you interests you as much as those heavenly giants. He’s closer, after all—kneeling down beside you so he can peek up at stars just as large as him. 

Maybe it’s fate. Maybe it’s simply science that ties the two of you together. He gives you his name, you offer yours in return. Seongji Yuk. Lying in the grass with damp seeping into your shirt, you ramble about astrophysics, while he carefully coats fruits in molten sugar. Shards as sharp as the words at the base of the mountain, though far sweeter. 

He’s cautious—you can feel his eyes on you as you sit on his wooden steps. In fact, his eyes trail after you when dawn breaks and it’s time to move on to your original destination. 

“I’ll come visit,” you vow, for the cycle of orbit has already begun. Two masses have drawn closer to each other, and naturally begin the spin round their counterpart. 

“No one told you about stranger danger?” You’re too damn trusting: haloed in ditzy stars, the type in cartoons when characters hit their heads. Except it’s permanent, and you don’t look stupid, but rather awash in their glow. 

“Everything’s dangerous,” you evade sheepishly, and that’s that. 

Summer comes and goes, but it’s fine not bringing your telescope in the chill of autumn. After all, you’ve found something equally as captivating to stare at. Inky eyes, dotted with such a shine that it looks like a star’s emerged rather than a pupil. 

It’s as if the year is put into distillation—monthly visits condensing into fortnightly ones, then weekly ones, before you’re driving the hour down to this place every few days. He’s made you a little space in his house: one where you can snooze on a spare futon with little worry for safety. For there’s no place more secure in a ‘monster’ lair than by the side of a so-called ‘monster’. 

“Quit staring,” he warns, matter-of-factly while the axe collides with the wood on the stump—cleaved neatly in two, almost too cleanly. 

“You’re pretty, I just can’t help it,” you sigh, leaning back on the creaky porch. There’s a book by your side: a thick text filled with particles and numbing quanta. 

You’re strange. He’s had this thought for a while, but especially today. In fact, you may be more supernatural than he, for each time you say such things, his heart skips one or two beats. Like clockwork, the mechanical nature of your spell is guaranteed: mouth going somewhat dry, ears seeping with a faint crimson, eyebrows creasing minutely. 

Why? 

“Have you seen yourself?” you counter incredulously, and that is when he realises he did not keep his thoughts silent. “You’ve literally got stars in your eyes, man. You….”

Ah. It’s moments like these where he feels so utterly ordinary; listening to you ramble on about things he doesn’t particularly understand, just like anyone else his age. 

It’s nice being bound to someone like this: close to another, experiencing the gravity that draws two people together for himself. 

Science is a perfectly plausible thing to believe in, after all. 

[rebelfell]

✦ Stranger Things Masterlist ✦

My works feature a female reader with limited physical descriptors. Just by virtue of being written by me, they will likely be shy/inexperienced ‘cos I write what I know, y’know? There are individual warnings on each. If you do come across something you think needs a warning, please let me know (gently, I am but a fragile soufflé ready to sink)

🌶️ is marked with a*

Everything is 18+ MDNI for your sake and mine

The Third Date┃Part One┃Part Two~

eddie munson x anorgasmic!reader - 14k

Surrender┃Part One ┃Part Two*┃Part Three*

eddie munson x bi!reader x lesbian!chrissy cunningham - 18k

Bells Will Be Ringing┃Part One*┃Part Two*

crush!steve harrington x fem!reader x fwb!eddie munson - 8k

Hold Your Peace in Pieces┃TBD

engaged!rockstar!eddie munson x reader -

this summer is the apocalypse, pt II, pt III*, pt IV*, eddie’s interlude, part V, epilogue~, epilogue II~

Thinking thoughts on eddie and an older!Harrington!reader (aka: stevie’s aunt has got it goin’ on)

for your viewing pleasure~

a series of drips and drabbles featuring pornstar!eddie

under the influence

an edible loosens your lips in front of your frenemy, eddie

game night* (surrender universe)

chrissy and eddie get extra competitive, you benefit

made for lovin’ you*

softdom!eddie makes a bad tinder date a whole lot better

special delivery*

someone unexpected shows up to deliver your pizza

in the middle of the night*

boyfriend!steve helps to soothe what ails us🩸

buzzcut season, rockstar!eddie free write

dmm, i’m just embracing my shaved-head era

haven’t had any complaints yet*

the trials and tribulations of giving van head over forty

cold dry stone*

revenge f!cking with gator 🐊

that Vanity Fair party was a lot*

actor!steve x assistant!reader x rockstar!eddie

are you even listening to me?, cont’d~, preq

bestfriend!eddie gets distracted by your…assets.

I didn’t know you were into that…

you’ve been watching too many ghostface tiktoks 🔪

working on my fitness, pt II

a gym meet cute w/ modern!eddie (neighbors AU)

modern!wealthy!Steve? How’d you get in here?

steve spoils his girl in the midst of a hangover

wait, are you a…have you never?*

bigdick!steve x virgin!reader

felt in need of some affection…

sweet!soft!eddie vignette

possessive.┃eddie shows you who you belong to

multiples.┃eddie wants you to arrive properly

urgent.┃eddie can do better than he can

hesitant.┃eddie has been avoiding something

so wrong, it’s right┃so right, it’s wrong 🎃

eddie munson x his best friend’s (ex?) girl

you’ve never seen gremlins? 🎃

it’s scary movie night at eddie’s house

you’re a what? (WCIL-verse) 🎃

modern!eddie bumps into you at a halloween party

how much of that can is left? 🦃

you + eddie + whipped topping

today is a no bones day 🦃

you and eddie in recovery mode

#index landing pages for long form/multi-part blurbs & fics

#free write bursts of writing based on images/other posts

#my moods fic/character moodboards, (aka I spent too much time spent daydreaming on pinterest again)

#thrift shop eddie short blurbs about all the odd and random gifts I would terrorize shower Eddie with if given the chance

© 2024 rebelfell All Rights Reserved. Any written work on this blog is my own and I do not consent for it to be copied, altered or re-posted in any form or to be fed into AI software.

[writtenbyjeanofarc]

#!! - 𝑰𝑵 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑪𝑶𝑼𝑹𝑻 𝑶𝑭 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑪𝑹𝑰𝑴𝑺𝑶𝑵 𝑸𝑼𝑬𝑬𝑵 — 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐞 ; ᴄᴏʀᴏɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴅᴀʏ

(Cross-posted from my AO3)

CHAPTER ONE - CHAPTER TWO - CHAPTER THREE

𝖌𝖊𝖓𝖗𝖊: smut.

𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: Griffith X You (fem! Reader)

𝖘𝖞𝖓𝖔𝖕𝖘𝖎𝖘:

Having been spoiled by your father as an only child after your mother’s death, there existed you, a young, yet rebellious maiden known amongst Midland as Princess Scarlet. Being the subject of envy by commoners who wanted nothing more than to overthrow the kingdom, you were rather…..indifferent. As a princess, you exercised pride in your achievements, deeming you fit for the role of succeeding your father on the throne.

Even after your father’s death caused by poisoning, your dream to have your own kingdom never faltered in the slightest. In fact, ruling over Midland with an iron fist has been made easy and simple considering your royal blood.

Subsequently, your ambitious demeanor and philosophy attracted none other than the military genius who led a group of mercenaries known as the Band of The Hawk. Sir Griffith; a man who never fell short of what were to be defined as a noble, if it were not for his common blood.

To put it simply, Griffith never planned on building his empire overnight. Instead, he harbored ulterior motives where he would rather…..bend you, the Queen, to his liking before taking over Midland.

….And the consequences of YOU having a fragile ego never ceased to reveal itself.

𝖈𝖜: none as of now.

𝕬𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗’𝖘 𝕹𝖔𝖙𝖊:

No smut for the first chapter!

To minors: this space isn’t for you. Berserk is a warning in itself. Go away. Do not interact.

Anyways, I’m back with a new fic and it’s basically my own version while still keeping the canon verse of Berserk clear.

In this verse, expect certain things:

— Princess Charlotte does NOT exist.

— YOU are the Princess/Queen of Midland.

— The story will mainly focus on Griffith, not Guts.

Before commenting, I would like to caution you for potential rape/non-con elements (it’s Griffith we’re talking about here) to be depicted in later chapters of the story.

What I write is pure fantasy, and is mostly just me projecting on my original character (in this case, Queen Scarlet) who has a rather peculiar relationship with Griffith.

Anyways, grab some popcorn, and chill a little while we watch our original character slowly get taken advantage of by the devil himself.

The Kingdom of Midland. Such is a name given to the central region of the Physical World where nobles dominate and savages eliminate. One had the luxury of resting within the comfort of their own home while dining with only the finest cuisine made known to man. The other had to hustle and kill for the sake of money and survival…....while for potential evildoers and traitors, the sake of achieving their dream.

It was your coronation day after all, one of the most awaited events in all of Midland’s history. Following your father’s death caused by an incident of poisoning, the nobles immediately turn to you as a successor to the throne. You were a bit nervous, so to speak, but ready to accept your new role and give your speech as the newly appointed ruler of Midland.

It was already sunset, the halls decorated with red roses, bushes, and your favorite type of flower, the Amaryllis. You just loved the sight of red the way you liked your tea. Red, so to speak, was your favorite color. It just looks and feels powerful, like the way sunlight pierces its way through your eyes. You liked shoving your presence down people’s throats, to make them remember your name as you rejoiced in your own superiority as the new Queen.

Red was the visual embodiment of your dream—to rule and render yourself capable of building your own empire. Because of that, the King, your very own father, feared for your safety. And boy, was that prediction true.

Not only was your safety compromised, but prior to meeting the White Hawk who was addressed as Sir Griffith, things went downhill after that encounter as a sudden number of royal guards dropped dead. Not only were you disgusted by the smell of blood that filled the hallways the week before your coronation, but the five words whispered to your ear was what sent chills across your spine. Those five words made you shiver in questionable fear despite you taking it as just an empty threat.

“You belong to me, Princess.”

And then came the surge of mysterious events such as your father’s death.

Supposedly, you were expected to be excited for such an event like the coronation ceremony as you longed all your life to become Queen, but something about the whole situation didn’t feel right. You were at a loss for words, being unable to understand why your father was poisoned in an instant and how planning the ceremony felt rushed.

You shivered at the thought of meeting the Band of the Hawk once more, immediately suspecting that one of them killed your father.

“Our beloved guests, our crowning guests, respected parents of the nobles, and that of the civilians. Ladies and gentlemen, good afternoon.” announced the event speaker of the ceremony. “Once again, we have gathered here to witness the coronation ceremony of the Royal Family to be headed by Queen Scarlet and the rest of the officials appointed to serve her Majesty. Kindly rise for the ceremony proper.”

A huge audience of youngsters stood to give thanks towards your family for a job well done in leadership, singing songs of praise as time passed by. You were, of course, getting quite the goosebumps knowing your time is up as a princess. However, you can’t help but falter, thinking of your father’s untimely demise just about two weeks ago.

You were lost in thought, unable to pay attention to the songs sung in honor of you. Something was very wrong. You sweat and panted hard, not because you didn’t know what to say or do given the situation, but because you didn’t want to actually meet up with Griffith and the rest of his comrades due to some suspicions about the leader’s motives.

“Before we start, may I request everyone to observe silence as the ceremony begins to maintain its solemnity. Reserve your ‘hoorays’ for the latter part of the coronation. Thank you very much for your full cooperation.”

The rest of the coronation ceremony followed. You were nervous, biting your nails as you slowly prepared your speech in front of thousands. You knew Griffith would be watching

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

Alas, it was your turn to give out a speech that serves as a public declaration of your aims, intentions, and actions to be taken to further improve the economic and sociocultural growth of Midland.

Standing up, you could feel the eyes of crowds searching you from head to toe, but none of them ever gave you the impression that someone was truly watching you.

At the exterior of the venue, there sneaked a young man with white, flowing hair and a pair of blue eyes. It was him. Griffith. He didn’t make his own presence clear before you, he covered his tracks very well. But, little did he know, you could peek at his silhouette from afar. Knowing he made his way past the guards with extreme caution showed his prowess in strategy and disarming opponents with great ease.

Yes, he just wanted to hear your speech. After all, knowing how someone would open up about a fraction of their lives would be crucial in undergoing one’s plan to achieving their dreams, yes?

This was your moment. You let out a deep breath and spoke clearly as you cleared your throat.

“Greetings, my beloved fellowmen. It’s been a pleasure having to meet with you all to this very moment.” you greeted the audience with a friendly, approachable tone. “Throughout this memorable day, I was able to discern all your prayers dedicated to me and my family, especially in honor of my father’s passing. As an inherent successor to the throne, I have maintained a significant awareness through the years that my people, spread far and wide throughout every continent and ocean in the world, were united to support me in the task to which I have now been dedicated with such solemnity.”

The muffled voice of your speech was rendered audible to Griffith from the outskirts of the palace. He was perhaps….fascinated by your rather….pushy attitude on things. It didn’t take long before he palmed the area between his hips, hiding such an unsightly appearance as he began to fantasize about you under his control. He wanted nothing more than to dissect you in every detail possible, to know your deepest fears and motives of having to rule such a flawed kingdom. But little did you know, was that he wanted this kingdom all to himself.

“The ceremonies you have seen today are ancient, but some of their origins are hidden in the mists of the past. Their spirit and meaning still rise from the flames of finiteness. Perhaps, they still shine more brightly than we’ve expected them to do so. I have pledged allegiance with all my heart that I shall lead this kingdom, uplifting it further to claiming a thousand more victories than you would ever anticipate. Throughout all my life and with all my heart I shall strive to be worthy of your trust.”

Griffith’s eyes narrowed as he hid behind the doors alongside the two guards who were apparently slain before they could even fight back.

He wanted you.

And there was nothing more satisfying than breaking one of the strongest, most powerful women who once took an interest in the art of swordsmanship. But he would rather not challenge you to a duel; not because he underestimated your capabilities, but because he saw such barbaric acts to be unbefitting of a lady with high status.

An hour later, trumpets played as the Grim Reapers of the Battlefield were to be promoted as bodyguards, yes, bodyguards, of your kingdom. The King trusted you to this group of mercenaries who promised nothing short of protecting your integrity and wellbeing as the princess. But one thing’s for sure, it’s that their leader was bound to be missing.

You stepped down from the stage to observe your audience for any problems which may arise from the White Hawk’s absence.

“Wait, where’s Griffith? But he was just here about minutes ago!” Rickert exclaimed. “He can’t just be wandering out in the open like this! Griffith! Hang in there! We’re on our way!”

“Cut the crap.” Guts said, alerting his fellow comrades. “There must be a way to proceed with the ceremony without Griffith being of any concern.”

“But Guts-”

Recognizing and appreciating your bodyguards (or perhaps, some new friends) wasn’t all that bad. Perhaps you were intimidated by some of the mercenaries, but they played an integral part of your big day.

It was only one moment within that band that spooked you, it was the White Hawk revealing himself—it was Griffith. By that moment when Griffith claimed you to be his, you began to not take those words lightly and managed to develop a slight sense of fear. What did he exactly mean by that?

You brushed off your thoughts on the matter and shook hands with nearly all the members, with Griffith being an exception (obviously). Rumor has it that he’s still hiding where the sun doesn’t shine, covering his tracks in order to reveal himself before you in the very end.

And God forbid what kind of plans he had for you that night.

[quiteliterallyilliterate]

If you want another request, how about something with Four? I feel like he is an undertapped Link in the LU x reader fic verse. I also think he fits in well with a bunch of different story types. He has the skills to live a peaceful life at home with a partner, he has the Colors, he also can be small (or a Minish depending on whether you believe his is small or transforms into a Minish), & shadow…. I am not picky whatsoever , but if you are willing, could you do some Four x reader?

Order up!

*ahem* I AM MOST DEFINITELY WILLING. GIVEGIVEGIVEGIVE- I agree with you. This man needs more love. Formatting a little differently this time, let me know what y’all think!

(thanks again to @litrllyvoid for proofreadin’)

Hope you enjoy~

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

Long he had lived a simple life. Even with the dramatic disruptions of the world, he could tell it wasn’t a life cut out for him. That grandeur had called to him, and when he responded, there was only judgement in turn. Since he was little, Link had found peace with the small world within his village. Running through uneven grassy hills and causing havoc, hand in hand with you. His arms and legs bruised, but with a full heart and genuine grin. Though, the older he gets, and the more the edges of his memory begin to fray, he wonders if that were truly the case. Perhaps it wasn’t that he was content with the world he was born into. It is on cold mornings such as this where the question burdened him most. Was it life that made him happy, or was it just you?

He burned the thought away, tugging at the fragile nerves that caressed his heart. He shrugged on some clothes with little regard for what he adorned himself with. It wasn’t as if there was anyone to impress— especially when he’d be working for the most of the day.

Each stair step creaked and groaned. His grandfather sat at the table, already eating breakfast. He plucked an apple on his way to sit, its waxy skin once a luxury that would’ve been shared. He no longer needed a knife to split the core in half. The juice tasted less sweet when there wasn’t sweet laughter accompanying it.

“Yikes, bad apple?” His grandfather laughed huskily in reaction to his dismay, crows feet and smile lines etched into his face. How was it that he could find happiness here where Link could not?

“Rough morning.”

“Ah. I see. Please… take a break if you need to” The old man clasped his hands, bony elbows rested on the table. It wasn’t hard to spot the concern in the deepset wrinkles of his grandfather’s face. Link found the strength to nod and move on for the moment.

The dull ache of his arms never faded as he worked. It was to be expected, forging something from an abstract nothing was not a task even the gods found simplistic. Monotonous, sure. There was a rhythm in each strike against the metal, a pattern to be found within the firings.

There was a finality like death in the quench of the blade.

The weight of his work and a life brought to an abrupt end.

And like a body, he decorated the corpse with wood, wrapping it in delicate cloth— a casket of its own.

Creation was not a task meant for mortals, he thinks. Though people often try to make it so, the hollow pain in his joints and sear of his muscles make it apparent. It strains him, though it is what fuels him. There is a sense of grief whenever he hands over a blade he slaved over— a mourning so powerful that no amount of rupees wish away.

It was in such a similar manner that he loved you. With such a sense of fullness and unconditionality, he did not stop to think of a world for which you were not in it. It is foolish of him to long for his childhood just because it was spent hand in hand with you. But he’d give anything to have colors be so bright again and for his smile to be so wide and genuine. It didn’t matter how bruised he’d be, so long as he gained those bruises running down riverbeds with you.

Now, he dressed up the body of those memories. Decorating you in his mind's eye with blue thistles, sprigs of rosemary, wild poppies and violets. Each aspect of him paying homage to their love of you. Of who he can only hope you continued to be.

The blade he held cracked when it was dipped into the water, split in twain. He looked at the jagged edge where the hilt was severed.

He could not find it within himself to remeld the pieces.

It would not be the same again.

He needed to move on.

He was close enough when adventuring with his brethren. There was enough fighting and adrenaline to keep his mind off his wounds. He let himself attach —maybe not in such a similar fashion as he did you— but in a way equally fulfilling.

What a fool he was.

How could he not notice the darkness creeping its way in? The abyss called for his return, sentencing him back to a cage he built. And so, he returned. Back to a life wherein he could reap no joy but couldn’t muster the strength to leave.

He wished he had his brothers. Time to help him forge a plan of escape from the mundane. Twilight to offer assistance in the smaller tasks— so he could manage life just a little bit easier. Sky to boss him into taking a break, even if it were just stretching. Legend to banter with as he worked, taking the weight off of the task. Wild to make use of the end product, to give the life of the blade meaning. Even just the careful eyes of Wind studying what he did. He missed how individual he felt, yet still holding his place among the set. He’d always have a home there, even if he was fundamentally different from his brethren.

He wished he still had a home with you.

You still had a home with him.

If only you’d return to him…

But life is not such a simple endeavour, and he doubts your parents would be content with you marrying some blacksmith, even if he held the title of hero. That was if you weren’t already forced to marry. That was if you still loved him.

He hopes whatever life you’ve been condemned to is happy.

Because if he is not there to protect you from the worst that fate has to offer, he can at least hope that there’s someone there who can.

Even though it isn’t him.

[bittersweetresilience]

author's commentary part one

now that we've reached the end of the fic, i will finally explain the beginning.

i named this piece after 大鱼, a song whose title means big fish. in the fic, jing yuan references void songs twice, which i imagine are the sounds that void song whales make. if you remember, yukong talks about these whales in her visitor dialogue. they swim freely through the stellar seas while their sibling species on the luofu has disappeared into history.

whale songs. dream fish. the call of the void. the language of longing. to me, renjing.

author's imagery only the most important bits

the sky is freedom and departure, and it is jing yuan, eventually. the sea is the dissolution of the self and the thing that will swallow him, and it is yingxing. the lightning is the portent of death, but also the electricity of being in love. the wine is the representation of shared wishes and togetherness and history. the starskiffs are the memorials of the past and the vessels into the empyrean. the fire is desire and destruction. the ink is the color of blade's hair and the sincerity of the letters jing yuan writes. the bandages and the iron are blade and the violence of his existence. the paper birds are the fragility of jing yuan's memories, which cannot be buried. the nightclothes are the vulnerability he will shed in the morning. the string is the red string of fate between renjing, but also the strings that tether jing yuan to the luofu and to his ending. the womb and the egg are the places of rebirth and the representation of returning to the beginning. the sun is the stellaron, and it is jing yuan before the sky and the sea consume him, and it is the end of the dream.

author's commentary part two

below is my translation of the song.

大鱼 big fish

海浪无声将夜幕深深淹没 the waves soundlessly submerge the night 漫过天空尽头的角落 rising over the corners of the edge of the sky 大鱼在梦境的缝隙里游过 the big fish swims in the rifts between dreams 凝望你沉睡的轮廓 watching your sleeping visage

看海天一色 听风起雨落 seeing the sky and the sea in one color, hearing the winds stir and the rain fall 执子手 吹散苍茫茫烟波 holding my son's hand, i blow away the hazy ripples of smoke 大鱼的翅膀 已经太辽阔 the wings of the big fish are already too vast 我松开 时间的绳索 i let go of the thread of time

怕你飞远去 怕你离我而去 afraid you'll fly far away, afraid you'll leave me 更怕你 永远停留在这里 even more afraid you'll stop here forever 每一滴泪水 都向你流淌去 every tear flows toward you 倒流进 天空的海底 flowing backward into the ocean floor of the sky

...

看你飞远去 看你离我而去 seeing you fly far away, seeing you leave me 原来你生来就属于天际 so you were born to belong to the sky all along 每一滴泪水 都向你流淌去 every tear flows toward you 倒流回最初的相遇 flowing backward into our first meeting

without this song, this fic wouldn't exist. every part of the two was intimately interwoven. in particular, the line about the thread of time was what made me certain it would be a nonlinear narrative and the mixing of the sky and the sea was the image that created the entire story.

i further drew from the lyrics the most important imagery, the idea of ending on the beginning, and the son's hand as not only yanqing but everyone jing yuan leans on today in order to support himself against the weight of history. i drew the themes of dreams and reality, the dialogue on leaving, and the breathless, surreal atmosphere of melancholy and yearning. but in addition to all of that there is a double meaning in this song to me.

the first time you hear it, you think it's about jing yuan. and it is, of course. everything is about him. he is the holder, the sleeper, the one submerging. but by the last verse, you realize it is also blade, talking to him as he walks into scalegorge waterscape. trying and failing to call him back from within the endless dream.

both of them were born to belong to the sky. only one of them truly died in it.

author's dictionary

rèn, 刃, word for 'Blade' (lit. 'blade's edge') jiāngjūn, 将军, word for 'general' gānbēi, 干杯, word for 'cheers' (lit. 'dry cups') mèngdié, 梦蝶, word for the shortness of life (lit. 'butterfly dream') (this was not said explicitly but alluded to in the first dream) shīfù, 师父, word for 'martial master' bàitáng, 拜堂, word for the act of bowing to the heavens and the earth, the parents, and then each other in marriage (this is what the high-cloud quintet was joking about) yǐnyuè-jūn, 饮月君, word for 'Imbibitor Lunae' (lit. 'moon-drinker') nàihé qiáo, 奈何桥, word for the Bridge of Oblivion where souls drink Meng Po soup to forget the memories of their past life in preparation for reincarnation húlu, 葫芦, word for 'gourd' (this is what bailu uses to dispense medicine) qīng, 卿, word for 'senior official' (this is the honorific jing yuan uses for fu xuan in light of her position as master diviner) xiàngqí, 象棋, word for 'Chinese chess' (this is what starchess is based on, where my vision designates aurumatons as cannons, starskiffs as elephants, and cloud knights as pawns) gē, 哥, word for 'older brother' (this is a casual term of address for older men) shíhuǒ mèngshēn, 石火梦身, word for 'Starfall Reverie' (lit. 'sparks in stone, body in dream')

author's references

all of the xianzhou trailblaze missions. all of the relevant characters' character stories and companion missions. character dialogues. visitor dialogues. battle dialogues. battle mechanics. lightcones. relics. readables. item descriptions. character designs. character messages. the new trailblaze continuance. area maps. chinese voiceovers and their english translations. character trailers. combat guides. animated shorts. possibly more things i'm forgetting to mention. my wealth of insanity.

author's appreciation

wiki editors who came before me. people who upload youtube videos of different dubs of each trailblaze mission. spouses and ssswips. my beloved commenters. the composer of 大鱼. renjing.

[smuttyandabsurd]

3x Book!Armand-centric fics

Shameless plug for the Vampire Chronicles fics written in my youth that are surprisingly Not Terrible TM. Book canon-verse, of course, but I hope they can be enjoyed by both book and show-only fans of Armand.

Blood Kiss [AO3] (Armand/Marius de Romanus) He lies in intoxicated sleep, a Fallen Angel. Why must I love his beauty, his insubordination? Marius consummates his love for Amadeo.

Simmering Poison [AO3] (Armand/Daniel Molloy) The things I touch, I see, I hear, smell, taste! – they serve to remind me of my mortality, the fragility of my human existence, that one day all around me would cease to be. And it maddens me to know that it need not be so! Daniel anguishes over his mortality.

The Saint Unmasked [AO3] (Armand/David Talbot) Beautiful and eternally young, the face of a Boticelli angel. Refined cheekbones betray his Slavic heritage, and those smouldering eyes hint at his calculated cunning. The Vampire Armand, dangerously seductive, a hunter and a blood drinker most capable of cruelty, in the deceptive form of a 17-year-old innocent. David Talbot admires Armand in all his beauty. Set to take place at the very end of The Vampire Armand.

If you enjoyed reading, I'd love to hear your thoughts!

[ravensmadreads]

What Love Means

A/N: so remember when I said I wasn't gonna write again? Yea I'm a lying liar who lied.. anyway, this came from me screaming about my unhinged love for David York to @chronically-ghosted , who then once asked me what I thought love meant to David and the thought sent me in a spiral. It's not really so much a fic as it is a stream of my own consciousness. If anyone cares though, there definitely is a whole fic about these two and their backstory.

Warnings: uhhhh bad writing? So David is probably ooc (but this version of him is my comfort character sorry), description of a panic attack, mentions of canon violence, and like the barest hint at smut.

Taglist: @chronically-ghosted (sorry ily) @fuckyeahdindjarin (i know Dave is not really your thing, but it felt wrong not to tag you- feel free to ignore tho no pressure! )

He gasps awake. Panic creeping slowly at the edges of his consciousness until it lunges and swallows him whole. He's not even sure why. The lingering effect of a nightmare he can't remember anymore. Shadowed figures drenched in blood and violence have been a part of him for so long that it's hard to distinguish the memories from the monsters. He bites his lip to stifle a cry. Fists holding tight onto flowered sheets and jaw clenched tight as he tries to remember to breathe. In and out right? It's simple.

His eyes fall shut as he swallows the bile that threatens to choke him. He's well versed in the art of fighting alone. He's been training for years. They've drilled him so hard, for so long, that he can pick an enemy apart in the dark and not make a sound. His fight or flight has been torn down and beaten until the only option he remembers is fight and win. The voices inside him never rest. Never go quiet. The pressure in his chest tightens. Was breathing always this difficult?

And then.

A movement.

He can't make out the sounds, but he knows someone's coming. His heart is pounding. It's inching closer still. Soft, steady footsteps just on the edges of the room. And yet he can't move. Can't open his eyes. Can't breathe. The voice in his head spits venom: Coward. A thud on his nightstand. A dip as the bed shifts and the world tilts a little.

A gasp that he can't hold back; and suddenly his eyes fly open.

Deep laboured breaths. Blurred vision. Every muscle on high alert. There's someone in front of him. He can't move. Fight or flight? A blink. Fight or flight?! Another gasp. Fight, you coward! But he can't move. Fight! He can't breathe. Would it really be so bad if he stopped?

"Dave!"

****

He blinks. There's another voice now. But it's outside the raging in his head. Outside the voices screaming for blood. It's soft. Softer than anything he knows. Anything he deserves. It's you. He can't make out the words but it's enough.

Another gasp.

Another blink.

You.

A lungul of air.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

One more time.

One more time.

One more time.

He's well versed in the art of calming himself down on his own. He doesn't have to though. Not anymore. Not when your arms hold him like he's the most fragile thing in the universe. He'd scoff at the thought if he could breathe.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

He can feel again. The tingling in his skin slowly being replaced by soft warmth. Soft lips on the side of his neck. Gentle hands running through his hair. Fistfuls of cotton fabric in his hands. Strands of your hair on his cheek.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

Strawberry scented shampoo. Vanilla bean candles from the corner of the night stand. Something inexplicable that he can never name but that he knows is undeniably you.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

Whispered assurances in his ear. The gentle hum of the air con. The rain pattering on the window and the wind that's slowly settling down now.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

Metal in his mouth because he bit his tongue trying not to scream. The aftertaste of the last cigarette he had before bed.

Inhale.

He can't open his eyes. What if this is the dream? What if he wakes up alone again? Fingers clutching tighter. Nails digging into skin. You feel solid. Warm. Present.

Hold.

His eyes blink open. Starry glow from the nightlight you've turned on. The pulse pounding steadily in your neck. The birthmark in the hollow of your neck.

Exhale.

Is this what relief feels like? What safety means to him now? Does he even deserve a taste of either after all that he has done?

He blinks, and it's you. It's all you. He's surrounded by you. Your scent, your walls, your colours, your skin, your presence. The one holding his hand. The voice in his head. Talking him out of the terror. Walking him out of the darkness. It's you. But then again, it has been you since the moment he fell off of that cliff. The only fragment of his life that remains. The only thing from before that he can hold on to.

Your hands cup his face, and he smiles. It's a small thing. Twists into a grimace far too quickly. He opens his mouth to apologize. For all that he is, all that he can never be, and all the horrors he darkens your doorstep with. For all his scars and all his pain. Even if he does deserve every single one of the demons wreaking havoc in his head and trying to tear him apart from the inside.

But you know him too well. Know what he's thinking. And you're already shushing him before the words can even form on his tongue. Pressing gentle kisses over his forehead. A warm smile and soft eyes staring back at him. He has never known quite what it is you see in him. Has tried to convince you of the monster that resides within, but you refuse to acknowledge his self flagellation anymore.

He grabs you tighter and starts to lie back down. Your heart beat against his racing one. Your arms around his neck. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Maybe he can pretend. Just for a minute. That he's someone worth saving. That he's someone worth loving? He falls before he can finish the thought.

****

He wakes up in your arms. It startles him. The normalcy. The state of nothing. He's not used to silence. Not the comfortable kind anyway. If ever there's silence with him around, it either beckons death or follows it. And he's been drilled in the art of war for as long as he can remember.

He's not entirely sure what to do now. With hands on soft skin. A quiet mind. Who is he when the sun comes up? In the gentle breeze of dawn? When there's no list of names waiting to be scratched off; and when the sun filtering through the curtains chases away any shadows where monsters like him may lurk. When your breath tickles his neck and he can wake you with gentle hands and small kisses.

"Hey." A hand through his hair. "You okay?"

Trust you to start worrying about him the minute you wake up. He smiles, and it's a genuine one this time. The muscles in his face ache from disuse. He's been smiling more and more now, even if it feels unreal, like a skin he's trying to put on. You've been relentless in chasing them out anyway, and he's still surprised every time he finds a reason to smile.

He doesn't really remember what happiness feels like anymore. Small echoes of it maybe. From a distant past. Of army buddies laughing in the trenches, two little girls giggling around him, a leader that felt like an anchor and a mentor who felt like family- now all gone; too quickly, too violently - he shakes his head. It doesn't matter anymore. You're all the reason he needs now.

****

There's a word on the tip of his tongue. It lingers there. Quiet. Subtle. Just a little bit out of reach. It comes to him in the quiet moments. When your hand is in his hand, your head on his chest. When you listen to music and he pretends that he's not watching the dimple in your cheek. When you sway as you cook a meal and he forgets to remember that he's forgotten how to smile.

It comes to him in other moments. When he's on top of you, surrounding you, clinging to you. When your eyes are on his, your nails leaving delicious marks on his back. When your hands pull his hair and the only word you speak is a quiet and reverent David. He has always hated his name, but he's learning to crave the way you say it when you're overwhelmed by him.

It comes to him in the afterglow. Lingers on the edge of his consciousness. With your hand over his heart, his arms wrapped tight around you and his lips on yours. He's sinking into sleep. The warm embrace doesn't scare him any longer because no monsters in his head could never win against the light in your soul. He reaches out to hold it, that word, the one word he never had, just as his eyes flutter shut. He smiles into the kiss. He'll tell you tomorrow. You'll understand. You probably already know. You're the reason that word exists after all. And he knows you'll keep it for him until the day he dies.

Safe.

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Fragile - a Malevlent fic (Intermezzo spoilers)

Arthur got low in Larson’s house. He hit bedrock; he admitted, brokenly, that they won.

John didn’t let him drown. Which is ironic, because John was already drowning.

Spoilers for Intermezzo.

AO3

———-

Humans were fragile.

John knew this. He’d known it since before he was ‘John,’ when wicked memories seeped through the torment of loss and damnation.

Arthur was fragile, too.

John did not know this, and this new and acidic knowledge threatened the unset foundation John had built his everything upon. 

#

Your hands, Arthur. You have broken pieces of his eyes under your thumbnails.

Hardly like John hadn’t done things like that  when King, hadn’t done things like that for Kayne, hadn’t torn people apart until he knew them down to the cellular level. It wasn’t that eyeballs were gross, or the violence was too much; it was that Arthur was the one who did it.

Arthur. Who’d stayed so strong through cult and coma. Who’d kept his head in the prison pits, and forgiven John more than any saint could.

Who’d cut his own damn throat to keep the King from winning.

John knew it had been less than a day for Arthur. (It had been… longer, for him.) Less han a day. How could Arthur change so much in less than a day?

“I…” Arthur sounded fucked.

Instinctively, John tried a lever, tried to use that name to prize Arthur from the mud. Imagine what she would think. Faroe wouldn’t want her father to be this. To lose himself in this way.

The lever did not work, and Arthur slumped down, bleeding, and wept. “I’m lost,” he said, and It was a terrible sound. “I’ve lost. I’ve sunk too far.”

Less than a godsdamned day.

No, said John, scrambling in the wake of shock. I know you, my friend. You are in there. You saved me before. (Arthur had, everything he’d done, everything he’d said, had saved John in the Dark World, had kindled his only lingering light and hope. Arthur could not lose. He could not sink. If Arthur did…)

John vowed: I will not let you drown.

Arthur sobbed.

A good sob? A broken one? Don’t be scared. 

“They’ve won, John,”  Arthur wept in a high, unrecognizable voice. “He won. Faust. I… I wanted to kill him. I wanted to fill his blood within my hands. I wanted to feel the crunch of his bones beneath my palms. They won.”

This couldn’t be happening.

No.

No.

Arthur was his light. Arthur was his hope. The source of a purpose in a life so short, the proof they didn’t have to win!

Kayne’s voice might only be in his head, but it rang cruelly true: If he was this wrong about not letting them win, what does that say about his hope for you?

No!

Humans were fragile. Arthur was less fragile than most, but still human, and John...

John knew what to do. 

He was ashamed of it, this innate, easy understanding of manipulation, of control, of (pleasure it had always brought him pleasure as the King) pretty words to make Arthur do what he wanted, to shift Arthur’s sails and steer him from the rocks.

He felt ill. Sick. He shouldn’t do this. Good people did not think like this.

Would it really be “good” to let Arthur wreck on the rocks of himself?

It would not (and John told himself it was for Arthur’s sake and not to shore up his own cracking foundation), and so John made his choice. Followed his instinct, and manipulated. How could they have won? We’re nowhere near finished.

That was the exact right delivery, and it snagged Arthur’s attention like a lure (fish, Arthur, now caught). 

Next, communication the way Arthur thought in his quietest hours: Whose woods these are, I think I know... Because Arthur thought in music and poems. Because Arthur’s sobs slowed as John quoted, pulling the verses from the shared well of their mind. 

My horse must think it queer, to stop without a farmhouse near... Because Arthur might deny that gloriously artistic part of himself (of which John, as King, was keenly aware), but he could not resist the siren-song of rhythm and introspection and beauty, and he’d listen to this when he’d kick all else in the teeth. 

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, but I have promises to keep… and miles to go before I sleep. He would not lose this man today (maybe if the King had used poetry instead of compound fractures, he would have gotten somewhere). And miles to go before I sleep.

It worked. (Of course it worked. It had to work. It was back to the Dark World if this didn’t work.) Arthur, as John knew he would, responded. “I’m sorry, John,” he said, and he finally sounded like Arrhur again. “I’m so sorry. For everything.”

(He’d missed him so much, his changeability, his chosen softness.) I’m sorry, too.

“Why? For what? You…”

For what?

For what he’d done to get back here.

For the lies he’d told.

For the wickedness he’d wrought.

For—

For leaving you for so long. But that was too close to the truth of things Arthur must never know. Now. Let’s leave this place.

“No,” said Arthur (because his stubbornness took no time at all to reassert itself). “We need to help those people. Down in the mines.”

And there he was. The Arthur Lester of John’s imagining. The flawed but willingly good human, the anchor to which John clung, the mortal for whom he’d debased himself, for whom he’d died.

He’d done… so many things to stop being dead. Arthur (canonized in memory, precarious on his pedestal) would never understand.

How could he? Arthur was human. Humans were fragile. And even Arthur had people he would not forgive.

He could never know. It’s a new beginning, Arthur. A clean slate. For both of them.

“No, no. Not a clean slate.”

John’s metaphorical heart clenched. No? I thought that’s what you wanted.

“That was easier than to remember what I’ve learned, what I’ve preached, not only to you but myself… that we can’t escape these things we’ve done,” said Arthur, fragile human, with no idea he was telling John that John was beyond hope.

John had to escape the things he’d done. He had to.

This confirmed it all: If Arthur knew what John had done, he’d never forgive him, and that flickering hope-light in would finally go out.

John couldn’t really reply. Okay.

“But it still is another,” said Arthur, sounding like his soul had shed a thousand pounds. “And I’d rather greet a new day like an old friend—with fondness and appreciation.”

Oh, Arthur. How did that fragile hope always survive? (He could never know.) Okay, Arthur.

“My friend. Let’s leave this place.”

And of course, Uncle’s body was still there, still shaking Arthur with reminders of savagery.  “I… I lost…”

Damn it. You’ve beaten yourself up enough over this, Arthur. It’s fine.

It clearly was not fine. “You’re right,” lied Arthur Lester.

Nope. Misdirection time (and John refused to think how easily the manipulation came). Oh! There’s a corpse in the bed.

And just like that, the detective switch was flipped, and finally, Arthur actually was fine.

It would all be fine.

It had to be fine.

The danger was past. John would never, ever need to tell him what he’d done. Arthur would continue to hope in John. It would be fine.

He couldn’t handle all that horror, anyway, John told himself as they dove into mystery and memory. Arthur was fragile, after all.

[alteon77]

Updated Masterlist of Writing and Art

About the writer/artist: I like to write and paint. My current obsession is Sandman, but I enjoy most fantasy fandoms as well as anime (I think I’m on season seven billion of One Piece right now 🤣). I'm also weird as they come (and awkward, too), so just please ignore my oddball (coughTERRIBLEcough) sense of humor.

On a more personal note, I have PTSD and suffer from severe manic depressive episodes. Writing and art are my most familiar coping mechanisms, and I need them like I need oxygen. Seriously, there were times in my life that knowing I had to finish a story or a piece of art was the only thing stopping me from ending up dead. So, I don't take part in fandom drama. Having my peace and protecting my mental health are very big deals to me, and I won't risk those for anything if I can help it.

As for my writing, it ranges from short one-shots to ridiculously long novel series. I use third person POV (on longer series) as well as second person (on shorter things). I also try to always exclude physical descriptions when writing main character OCs and assign them nicknames to avoid using Y/N. I love to read Y/N fics, but writing them makes me feel like I'm at work. And who actually wants to ever feel like they're at work when they're engaging in a hobby? Definitely not me.

Lastly, there's usually more stuff on my AO3 page than I have listed here, because I forget to post it pretty often. Oops. I'll get around to moving it all over one day. Probably. Maybe.

Feel free to leave an ask if you want or just drop by my DMs. <3

Artwork links are at the bottom of this list, so if you're here for those, that's where they are.

Sandman 'Verse

All the Precious and Fragile Things (so easily do they break)

After banishing his lover from the Dreaming for her betrayal, Morpheus learns that she is pregnant with his child.

And that she’s been captured by a revenge-seeking Alexander Burgess.

What the both of them are unaware of is that this will set in motion a cascade of unfavorable events, causing a chain reaction that threatens the whole of existence itself.

PART I: All of This Past

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

PART II: These Tender, Loving Mercies

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

PART III: When It All Falls Down

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

PART IV: The Dark of War

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Epilogue

Sometimes He's Sweet

Morpheus hates the holidays.

As excited as she seems to experience the mortal holiday, he's… less so. Much less so. With the entire collective unconscious contained within him, this time of year can be wholly overwhelming, a miasma of too much red and green, too much worry, too much loneliness, too much excitement, too many similarly themed dreams, too many similarly themed nightmares, and far far too many holiday songs. It all bleeds out from the collective unconscious into his own mind, sticks there like weeping sap to a tree until he feels half-mad with the unrelenting presence of it, with his inability to get free from its cloying trespass upon his very being.

This is just a little sweet fluff for the holiday season. It takes place between chapters 19 and 20 of "All the Precious and Fragile Things". No spoilers here if you've read that far!

The Dog Debacle (or how best to sneak a dragon into the dreaming)

Morpheus' daughter gets a new dog.

Well..... kind of.

That Familiar Feeling of Family (or how Hob Gadling ended up as an uncle to his stranger's oftentimes feral children)

It's a pretty universally known thing that families are just strange. As Hob is quickly figuring out, however, this little fact is magnified by AT LEAST a billion when the family in question is Endless.

(A lighthearted story in which Hob Gadling finds out his stranger has married, makes friends with a homicidal maniac/ruler, and manages to become an exemplary uncle to a pack of magically mischievous children. Really, now all he has to do is convince everyone to stop calling his and Dream's weekly meetups "playdates", and then his life would be practically perfect.)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

The Maker, the Muse, and the Sundered Song

In his temple, what remains of Orpheus waits in trepidation. Something is changing. Something that he knows might alter the very fabric of the world as he understands it.

Finally freed from captivity, Calliope struggles to make any meaningful changes to the laws that saw her bound and taken in the first place. When the strange woman appears on Mount Parnassus and offers help, Calliope knows she would be a fool not to accept it. Even if she thinks that she's being lied to.

Meanwhile in the peace of the Dreaming, Morpheus grapples with guilt over his son's fate. As he basks in the love of his new children, he can't help but to regret his own failings where Orpheus is concerned.

And as for May, she's really just got a job to do. And her own traumatic issues to deal with. And if it's all hella awkward because she's having to work alongside her husband's ex-wife, she'll see it done anyway. There's even the small possibility that she might eventually admit to Calliope the truth about her identity. That is if she can ever actually work up the courage to say it aloud.

Chapter 1

Nothing in This Closet but Boots and a Boy

Morpheus is wildly protective of his daughter.

That's probably bad for the boy in said daughter's closet.

AU's and Other Stuff in the Sandman 'Verse

Of Exes, Hellhounds, and Waffle Fries

Morpheus shows up to rescue the woman he probably loves (though he won't admit it) from hellhounds and ends up getting roped into helping with her family. This is one of those extras that doesn't fit into the main story, but it's fun, so I'm posting it.

The Bizarre Breeding Habits of Anthropomorphic Personifications

It's a tale as old as time.

Two idiots fall in love. Two idiots fall out of love.

Neither one of them is expecting a baby to come along and derail their unhappily ever after.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Original Fanart

I like to play around with different styles and to try new things with my artwork. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't. I'm still learning, and I am so far from being a professional that it's laughable. But I only post things that I think look decent or that I think others might enjoy.

The Lover's Argument (Morpheus x oc)

Oneiros (Morpheus in Grecian garb)

Because I could not stop for Death, she kindly stopped for me... (Regency era Dream and Death)

[frodothefair]

Eothiriel have twins?!

I kind of want Éomer and Lothíriel in the TGH verse to eventually have twins. This probably won't end up in the actual fic, so I suppose it's post-canon, but hear me out.

Per canon, Éomer has "at least one son," Elfwine, who is the heir to the throne, but this does not preclude him having other children, including one born a mere 20 minutes later!

Having identical twin sons can open the door to a world of dramatic possibilities, including:

--slender and fragile Lothíriel carrying a twin pregnancy is all sorts of whump-compatible, and leads to an Éomer mad with worry. Twin pregnancies are often more miserable than singleton pregnancies, and also more high-risk.

--Lothíriel declaring that she bore an heir and a spare at once, which is more than anyone asked of her, and she's never doing this again.

--poor Hafrith, the lady in waiting who was forced to give up an illegitimate child and decided never to marry (there will be a whole subplot about this) will be involved in childcare by necessity, and will become a loving aunt.

--the absolute chaos that will be wreaked in a royal court when there are two almost identical humans, but one of them is the heir to the throne, while the other is not. Everyone is always horrified of mixing them up, because this can cause a crisis of succession. The twins take full advantage of this once they become old enough, you can be sure of that.

--competitive wrangling between the twins, the fact that they're incredibly close, but also worlds apart because of a quirk of timing and law

What do you think?

@konartiste @from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras @emmanuellececchi @celeluwhenfics

[ofstoriesandstardust]

lights will guide you home (p.m.m.)

a/n: this is the if i stay!au i never intended to actually write, but it feels like a long time coming. this is not same mistakes-verse canon but an AU that takes place inside the same mistakes universe? does that make sense? anyways, there’s a playlist for this fic and um i think i’m gonna go sob now

summary: “If you want to go, I need you to know that it’s going to be okay.” 

-

Or: Maverick says goodbye. 

title comes from coldplay’s “fix you”

main masterlist | top gun: maverick masterlist | same mistakes-verse 

warnings: hurt/no comfort, heavy angst, major character death, car accidents, hospitals, ventilators, mentions of giving birth, rebel as a baby, blood, do not drive while under the influence, hit and run, medical inaccuracies, mentions of the afterlife, mentions of canon deaths, mentions of an afterlife, i think i broke the angst meter, 

word count: 6.1k

tears stream down your face/when you lose something you can not replace

It’s quiet in the room. Barely lit. The only sound comes from the machine in the corner, from the ventilator keeping his daughter alive, the steady beeping of the machine measuring her heart rate.

He sighs, letting go of her hand and bringing his arm to rest on his knees. His head hangs down, his hands coming up in the gesture of a prayer.

He knows in his heart what he needs to do.

So he steels himself, searching for the strength to be brave just one last time, and be the father she needs him to be.

He takes a deep breath, taking her hand again as he shifts up to brush some of her hair away from her face. He allows his fingers to trail over her face, trying to memorize the way it feels under his calloused fingertips.

He squeezes her hand, hanging his head once more.

“If-” His voice gets caught in his throat and he has to cough to clear it.

Be brave, one more time.

He swallows, nodding to himself.

“If you want to go, I need you to know that it’s going to be okay.”

-

He remembers the first time he held her so clearly.

Maybe now more than ever.

He remembers how quiet it had been in the nursery. It was late at night and he shouldn’t have been there. But Natalie’s birth had been so stressful and chaotic that the nurse must have taken pity on him, letting him in to hold his daughter.

He remember reaching out for her little hand, so small and tiny and fragile.

He remembers the fear that had struck him cold.

He wasn’t ready for this. He wasn’t ready to be a father. He barely knew how to keep himself alive, why Goose and Carole trusted him Bradley was beyond him.

Deep down, he knew that wasn’t true. He’d go to the ends of the earth for the littlest Bradshaw. His buddy.

Even in her sleep, she’d wrapped her fingers around his own, nuzzling closer to his touch. His heart clenched at the movement, feeling an overwhelming sense of love come over him, quickly replacing the fear.

He reached down, gingerly picking her up. He was afraid he’d wake her but all she did was hum as he gently pulled her to his chest. He held her over his heartbeat, slowly rubbing his hand up and down her back.

She was so small.

“Hi baby.” He whispers. “It’s your Daddy. It’s late right now, so we can officially be introduced in the morning, but I just wanted to come say hi.”

She yawns, nuzzling closer to him.

If it’s possible, love blooms even brighter in his chest, a sense of pride swelling in him.

This was his child.

He bows his head, tucking his chin on top of her head, hiding the tears at the fact that Carole and Goose had been right, that all he needed was to see her, and it would all click.

This was his daughter.

Looking down at the little child in his arms, he places a soft kiss to her head before gently putting her back down. He reaches out, tracing his fingertips over the few tufts of hair on her head.

He swears, in that moment, that he would do whatever it took to protect his daughter from harm.

-

He couldn’t protect her.

It’s all he can think of as Penny drives him to the hospital.

He should’ve been there to protect her.

The night is rainy, thundering against the rooftop of the car as he struggles to keep himself upright and breathing, mind racing with the worst possibilities. Out of the corner of his eye, he recognizes the movement of Penny glancing at him before reaching out to squeeze his thigh.

“She’ll be okay.” Penny whispers. “Your daughter is nothing if not a fighter.”

He knows that, rationally, he knows that.

But for as much of a fighter as his daughter is, he knows that the universe is just as much of a cruel temptress, who cares little about matters of life and death, of love and loss, of the people who are still needed on this earth.

Bradley needed her. Javy too. Amelia and yes, even Jake.

Many loved his daughter, even if she didn't always see it. Many needed her in their lives.

He still needed his daughter.

Getting the call, the worst call, had been like a bucket of ice down his spine.

The hospital hadn’t told him anything over the phone, which only stood to heighten his fears. They’d just asked him to come to the hospital as soon as he possibly could, which only made his worry grow.

The rest of the drive is a blur.

He remembers his breath getting caught in his throat as he stepped through the door, brain flashing back to the night Carole had checked into the hospital for the last time.

Penny squeezes his shoulder, bringing him back to the present. She nods at him, the smallest signs of encouragement, moving her hand down his arm to intertwine her fingers with his own.

You can do this.

He walks to the front desk, the nurse in green and pink scrubs with frogs looking up at him. “How may I help you?”

“My- my daughter.” Penny squeezes his hand as he forces himself to take a shaky breath. “I’m Pete Mitchell, I received a call that my daughter was in a car crash and was brought here?”

The nurse behind the one sitting, wearing all blue scrubs, looks up at him from a chart she’s looking over. “You’re Pete Mitchell?”

He nods, afraid of the look the flashes through her eyes at the sight of him, at the way she softens as she steps closer like he’s a wounded animal who might run.

“Your daughter is still in surgery. When she’s out of surgery, she’ll be moved to the ICU and at that time, you may see her. I’m afraid I can’t give you any more information at this time.”

“How- how did this happen?”

Someone clears their throat, prompting them to turn. An older man is standing next them. He’s wearing a police uniform, holding his cap in his hands.

There’s lines under his eyes, sign of years of laughter and love.

What won’t be for the first time that night, he’s struck with the realization that his daughter may never see those days.

“Mr. Mitchell, I’m Officer John Matthews. I was the responding officer at the scene. I rode with your daughter in the ambulance here and I’d be happy to fill you on what happened. I’d like to wait with you, if that’s alright.”

He realizes too late that there’s still blood on this man’s uniform.

His daughter’s blood.

“We’d love to know anything you can tell us.” Penny says from beside him.

His breathing is coming out in shorts bursts now as he zeroes in on the crimson stain against the Navy blue on this man’s uniform. It feels like he’s underwater as this man guides them to a set of chairs to sit.

A thought strikes him, breaking him out of the panic.

“I’ve- I’ve gotta call Brad. Do you think he knows? He needs to be here, he-” He stands up, staggering as he fumbles for his phone, patting his pockets.

“Mav!” A voice calls out from across the waiting room, sprinting towards him from the door.

His head swings up, barely catching sight of his son before his body barrels into him. Instinctively, he wraps his arms around him, trying to soothe his shaking body.

“They called, they wouldn’t tell me anything, oh God, please tell me she’s going to be okay-”

Bradley pulls away, wiping at his eyes furiously.

“Kiddo, I-” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. She’s still in surgery.”

“Why don’t you have a seat? Officer Matthews was just about to explain what happened, he was the responding officer on the scene.” Penny says softly from behind them. Bradley nods, moving to one of the chairs, pulling Maverick with him. “This is Bradley, her fiancé.”

Matthews gives Brad a small smile. “Hi son. Nice to meet you.”

Bradley gives a jerky nod in return.

Matthews sighs, running his hands over his pants. “Your daughter was hit by a driver who was driving while under the influence. Her car was t-boned on the driver side in the middle of the intersection. The driver had the red but sped through the intersection anyways, hitting her at 80 miles per hour. He took off after the accident, but because he was highly intoxicated and injured and on foot, he only made it a few blocks before officers caught up with him. He’s currently in custody and sustained minor injuries. We have traffic cam footage of the accident as well, so he will be facing charges.”

Matthews sounds like he’s rattling off a report he wrote, telling them the pure facts and nothing more.

“I was the responding officer at the scene. Because of the rain and the force of the impact, your daughter’s car slid on the asphalt and-” Matthews cuts himself off, taking a shaky breath before shutting his eyes. He doesn’t need the officer to continue to guess what happened next. “Mr. Mitchell, I am so sorry. We did everything we could at the scene to give her proper medical attention before EMTs got there. I am so sorry.”

Next to him, Bradley whimpers. “She was just supposed to be picking Harvard up. She was just supposed to pick him up and take him back to his house and come home. I offered to go with her, but she told me to stay in bed, that I looked too cozy with Buddy. I should’ve been there. It should’ve been me.”

Shoes squeak on the floor, causing them all to look up.

Javy is standing there, looking paler and shaky than he’s ever been, even after the time he went into g-loc the first time this group had all been together. He seems frozen in place, fear etched into every inch of his face.

Jake’s next to him, barely keeping Javy from tumbling to the floor.

Behind him, he can see Natasha’s shorter figure.

Bob towers over them, with Mickey leveling out the group.

The shoes they heard are attached to that of Reuben, who’s holding a coffee carrier. His wife Celia is next to him, holding two more.

No one seems sure what to say, all just looking at one another.

“If Rebel was here, she’d say we all look like the Spiderman meme.” Mickey breathes out, a ghost of a smile appearing on his face.

It’s Jake who laughs first, breaking the tension. “Garcia, could you read the room please?” He says through choked chuckles, head swinging back to the shorter man.

Mickey shrugs. “She would’ve thought it was funny.”

“I hate that you’re right and I can not wait to see the look on Rebel’s face when you tell her that.” Reuben says. “Now come on you lot, sit. We’re going to be here a while.” Reuben nods his head to chairs as they follow his direction, gathering around him and Bradley. “I brought coffee for everyone. The smallest of comfort right now, you know?”

The group is silent as they sit, taking their coffee from Reuben and Celia. When Reuben gets to Maverick, he wordlessly holds out the drink before sitting down next to him. Penny has since moved, talking with Celia and checking in with the aviators. He shifts the cardboard sleeve on the cup as Reuben sighs, leaning back in the chair.

“I’m really sorry Mav.” He says, shaking his head. “I’m- I’m a Dad and I can’t even imagine what you’re going through right now.”

“That explain the coffee?” He asks, holding the cup up.

Reuben chuckles. “That’s Celia’s idea. She’s holding it together for me, I think. Penny called me and Celia’s first instinct was to figure out how to make it better for everyone else. We fell in love with saints of women.”

He frowns, nodding.

Penny really had been great and things really hadn’t even begun to unfold.

He had no idea what would happen over the next 24 hours.

So yeah, maybe he could kind of understand the appeal of coffee, a small gift of something he didn’t have to worry about while he focused in on the one thing that did matter: his kid.

-

He isn’t sure how much longer he sits there, tearing at the edges of the cardboard sleeve. The waiting room is quiet, a nervous tension buzzing in the air. 

His pilots are quiet, maybe for the first time in their lives. 

Callie has appeared along with Billy and Neil. Her head is leaned on Billy’s shoulder, legs propped up on Billy’s lap. 

Mickey’s leaned back in his chair, Reuben’s arm thrown over his WSO. Celia is on the opposite side of Mickey, rubbing her arm up and down the man’s shoulders. 

Natasha is next to Brad, her hand on his knee. Bob’s next to them, arm slung over Nat’s shoulder as she leans into his chest. 

Javy won’t let Jake touch him, it seems. Javy’s head is in his hands all while Jake watches his boyfriend closely. 

“Pete Mitchell?” 

He looks up towards the voice. It’s the nurse from earlier, the one with the pink scrubs with frogs. 

“Your daughter is out of surgery. Dr. Hansley was wondering if he could have a word?” 

He nods, standing up from his chair with aching limbs as he walks towards the nurse and down a hallway with her, feeling almost like he’s walking towards hearing his daughter’s death sentence. 

The doctor meets them outside of the ICU, a younger man with glasses atop his nose. He almost looks like Bob. 

“Mr. Mitchell, it’s good to meet you. I’m Dr. Carlos Hansley, I was the chief surgeon who operated on your daughter.” 

“Is she going to be okay?” He asks abruptly, unable to bring himself to do the niceties. 

The doctor sighs. “Unfortunately, I can’t guarantee that. Your daughter had many mild contusions and lacerations along the left side of her body. In addition, she also had what is called a hemothorax, which is internal bleeding in the lungs. This was due to the impact of the collision and the subsequent rolling of the car. We had to sedate her and put her on a ventilator to allow for a chest tube to be inserted so as to drain the blood. We also suspect that she may have some brain swelling due to the collision, but our main priority was to drain the blood from her lungs.” 

He swallows, nodding. “So, what’s best case scenario we’re looking at here?” 

“Best case scenario? We are able to ween the sedation and take her off the ventilator at some point over the next few days, where she will be able to breath on her own.” The doctor pauses, biting his lip. 

“But?” 

“But there is no telling just how much her quality of life will be diminished, just that it will most likely be severe. As of right now, we are unable to tell the long-term consequences of the collision. Your daughter is physically stable right now. But it’s up to her to keep fighting and I want you to be fully aware that it may not be worth it to her.” Dr. Hansley sighs. “This is never easy to tell a parent but you should prepare yourself for the possibility that your daughter may not wake up.” 

His ears begin to ring at the words, suddenly feeling underwater once more. 

“Can I see her?” 

Dr. Hansley nods. “This is your daughter’s nurse, Jessica. Should you need anything while you’re with her, Jessica can help you and will be attending to your daughter. She will explain all the visitation rules while she is in the ICU.” 

He nods as the doctor excuses himself, walking down the hallway. 

“You mentioned something about a fiancé?” 

He nods, looking back down the hallway where he came from. “Yes, Bradley. He’s her fiancé.” 

She nods, gesturing back towards the hallway. “We usually limit visitors in the ICU to that of family, and although not legally married, I trust that he will want to be here. However, it seems that there are many people here who might wish to say goodbye to her, so I just ask that you all behave and limit yourselves to three in the room at a time.” 

“Do you think she’ll make it?” He hears himself asking before he can even register that the words have left his mouth. 

It almost feels like he’s floating. 

Jessica sighs. “It’s tough to say, Mr. Mitchell. I think that your daughter is going to be one hell of a fighter. Why don’t you stay with your daughter if it’s alright I inform her fiancé of her state?” 

He nods, starting towards the bed he can see his daughter laying on through the glass window on the door before stopping again. “We’re Navy.” He admits sheepishly. “They’re my pilots, they fly with my daughter. They’re family.” 

She gives him a soft smile. “Well then I’ll make sure they all know they’re welcome to come by. I’ll send Bradley down here as well.” 

���Thank you.” He whispers. 

“Of course, Mr. Mitchell.” 

“Pete. Please call me Pete.”

She nods. “Of course, Pete. Now go look after your daughter.” 

-

It’s the waiting that kills him from the inside out, unable to do anything more for his daughter than just wait. 

-

It’s not for another two days before the doctor informs them that they should probably start thinking about taking his daughter off the ventilator and letting her pass peacefully. 

Bradley rages. 

-

The next morning, everyone prepares to say their goodbyes. 

Despite the open offer to go with them, he keeps himself in the waiting room, Penny’s hand in his. 

Callie and Billy go first. Callie only makes it a few minutes before she re-appears, sobbing so hard he isn’t sure she’s breathing. 

Reuben and Celia go next, Celia bringing a little teddy bear Reuben’s boys, Elijah and Adrian, had picked out for her to bring her comfort in her last moments. 

When Celia leaves, Mickey joins Reuben. The two are in there for almost an hour and a half and he wonders what stories Mickey is telling her before he never gets the chance to. He briefly thinks he might be catching her up on the latest Marvel film she hadn't seen yet, although he couldn’t tell you what it was. 

Natasha and Bob go together, although Bob leaves before Natasha does, the girl spending another 45 minutes with his daughter. He wonders what kinds of promises she’s making about Bradley. 

“Do you know what you’re going to do yet?” 

He shakes his head slowly, unable to meet his girlfriend’s eyes. She sigh, shifting gently in the chair next to him as Amelia disappears down the hallway with Jake to go say goodbye. 

“I’ll support you no matter what choice you make Pete.” She says, taking his head and settling her chin into his shoulder. 

“I want to be selfish.” He says, his voice cracking. “I want to be selfish and tell her to stay. I want her to fight and I want her to make it. I want to be selfish and keep my daughter with me.” He shakes his head, swallowing as he finally turns to look Penny in the eye. “But she could live the rest of her life in pain. We have no idea what life would be life for her physically if she woke up, to say nothing of her mental state. And I would never forgive myself if my daughter spent another ten years on this Earth in pain all because I was selfish.” 

“We make sacrifices for the ones we love.” She whispers. 

“I just wish it didn’t have to be me.” 

“She loved you Pete.” Penny whispers, pressing a kiss to his shoulder blade. “I know that doesn’t make it better or bring your daughter back but she loved you. She knows the sacrifice you’re making for her. You did right by your kid Pete.” 

“She deserved more time.” 

“I know but you’ve got to be brave enough to let her go. You’re strong enough to let her go and I’m right there with you.” 

“I love you, you know that?” 

She gives him a watery smile, pushing back some of his hair. He sits there a minute more, allowing himself to feel her love before he stands up. 

“Pete, wait.” 

He turns as Penny stands up, wrapping him in a hug. “Tell her I loved her too.” 

“She loved you Penny.” 

“My favorite thing about her. How much love she had to give to everyone.” She squeezes him before stepping back. “I’ll be right here.” 

He nods before sighing, turning away to walk towards his daughter’s room. He passes Amelia in the hallway and she stops, giving him a hug. He holds the girl to his chest, noting the way she’s grown up before his very eyes. 

“I’m sorry Maverick.” She whispers. 

“It’s okay A. She’ll be somewhere better, you know that.” She nods, wiping at her eyes once more before disappearing down the hallway towards her Mom. 

He finally reaches her room, pausing outside the cracked door, as he catches the sound of Jake’s voice. 

“-you didn’t even like me, you know?” The blonde sniffs and he suspects Jake might be barely suppressing tears. “You didn't even like me and yet you tried so hard for Javy.” Another sniff. “I think maybe that’s what I’ll miss most: your heart. You loved people so deeply, and you tried to see the best in everyone even when they’re just awful to you.” 

He pushes the door open a little wider, leaning against the doorframe as he takes in the pilot seated next to her bed. He’s holding one of her hands, head bent over her body. 

“You know, I- I would always argue with you just because I thought it was fucking funny. Javy always begged me to stop, told me that one day I was gonna get smacked and he wouldn’t feel sorry for me. But- But I loved that about us, you know? We argued and bickered and got in each other’s faces but you still would’ve picked the phone up at 3 am if I had called.” 

Jake sniffs again and as Maverick creeps closer into the room, he can see the fresh tear tracks on Jake’s face. 

“Getting to know you has been one of the greatest pleasures of my life. You were a light, Rebel, and the world will surely be darker without you. I’m- I’m sorry it had to end this way and those words feel hollow but I am. I’m sorry for all the things you’ll never get to see. I um- I bought that ring I was showing you.” Jake sniffs agains as Pete’s heart clenches. 

His daughter had been helping Jake plan to propose to Javy, he realizes. 

“It’s a shame you won’t be here to see it, because he’d want you to be here. He loved you with his whole heart, you know. You two truly were platonic soulmates and I loved y’alls friendship maybe more than you loved it. Because I knew that if something ever happened to me, you’d be there to look after him. So here’s my promise to you: I’ll look after them. I’ll look after Javy, I’ll look after Bradley, and I’ll even be sure to look after Pops. I don’t want you to worry that they’ll be alone because they won’t.” 

Jake rubs his hands over his face as he pulls away from her, standing up from his chair. 

“There’s some place better.” 

Jake jumps, turning to face him. 

“Mav, I-” 

“She really cared about you.” 

The pilot nods, glancing back at her. “She was a good friend. I’m really gonna miss her.” 

“There’s some place better.” He whispers, throat closing up as he looks back to his daughter. 

He knew what he needed to do. 

Jake pats him on the shoulder as he walks past. He stands there for a minute, just watching her before moving closer to her bed, sitting down in the chair Jake had abandoned as he picks up her hand. 

He squeezes it, looking over his daughter. He spies the little teddy bear tucked up on the bed, right next to her cheek. It almost makes it seem like she’s just fallen asleep. 

There was an ache settling in his chest, one he was never sure he’d fill, the same ache that had settled in his chest when Goose, Carole, Ice, left him. 

“If you want to go, I want you to know that it’s going to be okay.” He whispers, looking at her face. He rubs his thumbs over the bruised knuckles, wondering how they ended up here. 

She wasn’t supposed to beat him back to them. 

She was supposed to live a long, healthy life with Bradley and their dog and everything she had ever wanted. 

He decides in that moment that losing his child is more painful than anything he’s ever experienced as his breathing becomes ragged, eyes wet. 

“I want- I want to be selfish. I want to be selfish and tell you to stay, to fight, to be here with us. But I know that- that fighting may not be worth what you know will wait for you if you wake up. And I guess- I guess it’s kind of my choice here too, and that maybe I’m taking it away from you. But from the moment you were born, I-” 

He chokes on his breath, shuddering as he bows his head. “I promised to keep you safe. I promised I would protect you. And I’ve done a really shit job of it, haven’t I? I’ve failed you, every time, I’ve failed. And I won’t- I won’t fail you this time kiddo. I promise.” His voice cracks on the last word, body overcome with sobs. 

He isn’t sure how long he sits there, crying over her body, but the sky outside has darkened by the time he finally pulls himself together, the answer becoming clearer as he looks at her. 

Finally, he stands up, ready to face his decision. 

He sighs, closing the door behind him as he faces Javy and Bradley. They’re the only two left, minus Jake who’s lingering. He’d sent the rest of them home hours ago, wanting them to get some rest. They both watch him carefully as he pulls up a chair in front of them.

He swallows, the tears refusing to leave even as he tried to steady himself. “I have made the decision to pull her off the ventilator.” 

The words are quiet but Bradley’s next are not. 

“Mav, you can’t.” His eyes are wide and he can’t bring himself to meet them for too long, knowing he’s got the same betrayed look in his eye the day he found out he had pulled his papers. “Why are you just- why are you just giving up on her? She still has so much fight in her.” 

“Bradley, listen to me.” He says, doing his best to keep his voice measured. “We have no idea what it would be like for her if she survived. She would probably never fly again, she could spend the rest of her life in pain. I’m not taking that risk, not when she can go peacefully.” 

“No, she- she wouldn’t want you doing this.” 

“Bradley, you have to let her go.” He whispers. The pilot stands up abruptly, chair clattering to the floor from the force of the movement. 

“No!” He nearly shouts. “No, and I can’t believe I’m the only one fighting for her. I can’t believe you’re giving up on her like this! She’d be so disappointed in you, Mav.” Maverick winces, looking away from his son. 

“Brad, I’m sorry but this is what’s for the best for her.” 

“No, you’re wrong. I- I can’t be here.” 

Bradley turns, stalking down the hallway as he lets out a sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. 

“You’re doing the right thing.” Javy says quietly, even as he looks torn apart from the inside out. 

“You’re welcome to stay when they take the ventilator out until she passes.” 

Javy sniffs, shaking his head. “I can’t. I’m afraid- I’m afraid that if I stay, that’s going to be the only way I remember her. And I- I want to remember her the way I’ve always known my best friend. I want to remember her as the girl with the witty comments and who loved so fiercely. I want to remember her as full of life and not- not laying in a hospital bed.” 

He nods, reaching over to grasp Javy in a hug. The man returns it, tucking his head into his shoulder. “You were her best friend. No one can take that from you and it'll always be that way.” 

Javy nods, gripping him tighter. 

“I’m gonna go- I’m gonna go say goodbye to her.” 

He nods as Javy clings to him for a minute more before letting him go, moving to walk into the room. 

“Mav?” He turns, catching sight of Javy hesitating at her door. “Would- would you go with me? I’m- I’m scared.” 

He follows Javy into the room, shutting the door behind them. He stands, back resting against the wall, as Javy takes her hand. It’s all he does for a while, just looking at her. 

“I- I don’t even know where to start.” Javy whispers. “You were—are—my best friend. I don’t want to say goodbye because goodbye means that I have to move on with life without you in it and God, there’s never been a moment we’ve been friends where I thought of that as a possibility. I’m always- I’m always gonna remember you as the girl with the witty comebacks and insane flying skills and some of the best hugs.” Javy takes a shaky breath. “God, I always took for granted the time we had. I thought we’d have forever to get up to stupid shit and annoy our partners and I-” 

It’s then that Javy breaks down and he’s known his pilot long enough to know when he needs space. It’s hard on him too, watching all these people who had loved her have to say goodbye to her. 

It kills him to think that there might've been a point in her life where she had thought she wasn’t loved so strongly, so immensely. 

He walks blindly down the hallways to the nurses station where Jessica sits, typing something on the computer. She catches sight of him, offering him a soft smile. “Yes, Pete? What can I do for you?” 

He sighs, leaning against the counter. “I’ve decided I want to take her off the ventilator.” 

She sighs and nods. “I think you’re making the right choice here, Pete.” She says, standing up from the desk. 

“I hope so.” 

They walk down the hallway as she softly explains the procedure to him, how they’ll sedate her so she’ll feel no pain as she goes. She explains that they can be there the whole time so that she doesn’t have to be alone when she goes. 

As the reach the room, Javy’s still in there, Jake hugging his boyfriend as he cries. Javy pulls back when he spots them, Jake understanding in a moment what’s about to happen. 

Javy leaves the room, Jake offering him a final hug as he exits. He takes a deep breath, sitting down in a chair, as Jessica begins the process of taking her off the ventilator. He forces himself to watch, to hold his daughter’s hand as he tries to soothe her. 

Finally, as Jessica leaves, she rests a hand on his shoulder and whispers, “Let me know if you need anything.” He nods numbly, unable to look away from his daughter. She leaves, the sound of the door shutting behind her sounding through the room. 

He glances at the monitor, realizing her numbers aren’t going down like they should be. 

“Why is she fighting?” He whispers, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. “It’s okay sweetheart. I’m here, please don’t fight it, please just let go. It’s okay, I’m telling you it’s okay to go.” 

He nervously watches the numbers on the machine next to her, wondering if she’s in pain, desperately hoping she’s not panicking and thinking they abandoned her. 

“It’s okay, honey. Let go. I’m right here honey, it’s okay.” 

The door opens, revealing Bradley, who looks beyond distraught. His hair is tugged in wildly different directions, eyes red as his face is covered in tear tracks. He shuts the door quietly behind him, walking to sit down next to her. 

“How’s she doing?” He whispers, taking her other hand. 

“Fighting it.” 

Bradley grimaces, leaning forward to run his fingers over her forehead and down her cheek. “It’s okay baby. Your Dad and I, we’re right here. Let go. It’s okay to go, please don’t fight it.” 

He watches as his daughter’s numbers settle to how Jessica told him they should, almost like she’s breathing a sigh of relief as Bradley tells her it’s okay. 

“I love you, baby. It’s okay to go. Go to Mom and Dad, they’ll take care of you. I’ll be okay, I promise. I know you’ll wait for me. Just let go, let them take care of you.” 

His throat closes as he watches Bradley say goodbye, intertwining his fingers with her own. 

He forces himself to not watch the numbers on the machine that signal her getting closer to passing but instead focuses in on her face, the last few moments he has with his daughter. 

“I love you sweetheart. It’s okay, you don’t have to be scared. Ice is waiting for you.” He whispers, squeezing your hand. “He’ll take good care of you, sweetheart.”

In what is probably a matter of seconds, but feel more like a lifetime, she slips away. 

The machine gives a steady beep, signaling the end of her life. 

Bradley squeezes her hand ever so tighter, his head falling to rest on her arm as a sob overtakes his body. His shoulders are shaking with the weight of everything. 

Maverick can’t make himself move. He should go over there, comfort his son, tell him it will be okay, but he can’t bring himself to look away from the sight of his daughter. 

She looked so peaceful. 

-

Go to Mom and Dad, they’ll take care of you. I’ll be okay, I promise...

You feel warm, the sound of Bradley’s voice appearing. It’s comforting, hearing him tell you that it’s okay. You want to give him a hug, to run your fingers through his hair, and give him one last kiss. To tell him that you’re sorry it had to end this way, that the two of you hadn’t had more time. 

You want to curl up in your Dad’s arms, like all those times you’d done when you were scared when you were little. To tell him you were sorry you had become one more person he had lost. 

You hoped they stayed close to each other for the time they had left, that they wouldn’t make it their mission to come join you too soon. 

It’s okay, you don’t have to be scared. Ice is waiting for you...

Something lights up inside of you at the thought of your godfather again. As their voices become fuzzy and distant, the warmth envelopes you, almost like a hug as you’re drifting off to sleep. 

The next thing you feel is someone strong wrapping their arms around you, a hug from someone who smells like honey and ocean water. Like Carole had. 

The warm white clears, revealing a man who looks to be like your fiancé did, if only 40 years before. A man you recognize from pictures and hazy memories. He offers you a kind smile, if albeit a bit sad. 

Th person hugging you strokes your hair, whispering words that don’t register as your throat closes up, catching sight of another figure. 

“Ice?” 

He turns, giving you a watery smile. 

“Hi kiddo.” 

The person hugging you pulls back every so slightly, giving you a chance to catch the unmistakable blonde hair of Carole Bradshaw. She gives you a warm smile, still not letting go of you. 

“You’re safe now. We’ve got you.” 

[naviculariis]

Okay since we're all in that ship together, I present a list of scenarios that had made me cry over the last week that I would like to either write as a thread or as a fic / drabble, I haven't decided:

-Killer & Eustass actually talking about him losing his arm, Killer eating the defunct fruit, or the Good Verse where Everything Is Okay after 1112.

-Penguin and Shachi nearly losing Law & being fucking terrified over it / Law nearly losing either of them ( or anyone else in his crew like Ikkaku or Umi or Hakugan or Bepo- ) & losing his mind in the aftermath

-Luffy actually dealing with his feelings after his crew is all back together instead of shoving everything aside like he does do.

-Luffy talking about Marineford to someone.

-Heat being a Good Parent and crying over baby Dive because they don't know what they're doing, they're running a gang, and this tiny baby is so fragile and oh, God, how are they supposed to do this?

-Izou breaking down over losing both Ace & Whitebeard ( or just Whitebeard when Ace survives ).

-Sanji. Just. Just Sanji. Selfless, loving Sanji who just wants his friends to be okay.

-Anything involving any of my ships with friends where one party is injured/their status is MIA & the other party getting word of it.

... that's all for now.