#finally dispel her fears and pains and let her rest and be at peace…

[goldensunset]

“so cold…

it’s cold… so cold… where… am I? my favorite park… the government building… all gone…

what… happened to me? no… no, i’m not ready to die!

i knew it… it’s time for me to move on. goodbye… i’m gonna go be with mom.”

[yostresswritinggirl]

Readers: We want Red Xiao x Reader x Green Xiao content PLEASE

Exiled: Well yes but actually no

+

Intermittent

Pairing -> Red/Green Xiao x Reader

Word Count -> 2088

Themes -> Okay, get this: Fluff, Angst, Suggestive scene (but not too bad). It's a trifecta.

Series -> #SojournerSpecials (masterlist)

Credit: @m370N4 for Header

Warnings -> Spoilers, violence, oh gawd there's so many violence

Your lover is going through a phase.

Perhaps you should have expected this much after the things that he's gone through, and the things that he is going through. The Archon War does not pick its victims. Saints and sinners, weak and strong, participants and bystanders; they all have one thing in common, they all can die any day now as the war rages on.

The thought of impending doom puts your heart into great unease as your arms tighten, lips softly pecking the red diamond on the Yaksha's forehead as he sighs in what you hope was relief.

The adepti are strong and aid in this war under the stead of Rex Lapis, but on the forefront of greater danger leads the Yakshas. The fateful battle between Osial and the Geo Archon ended not too long ago to put an end against the Lord's destructive ministrations, but Gods do not die, only slumber; his hatred in great intensities brought forth demonic plague that now haunts the blood bathed lands of Liyue. With his indispensable power and contractual obligation, Xiao became one of the five known Yakshas devoted to conquering those evil.

You were no beast in the battlefield but alongside Cloud Retainer and Ganyu you hold well in ensuring the well-being of mankind, but you only wish there was anything you can do to help the true warriors of the Harbour.

"How are you feeling?" You ran your hands through his chopped hair as his body leans against you, still tense. Xiao produces a strangled groan upon the question, a sound you still have yet to grow accustomed to.

It was a side effect even the glorified Archon did not expect. Yet it was too late to back down from the duties, to turn away from the chaos.

"Still standing, nothing I cannot handle," leaning away from your hold, his honey eyes then sets upon yours in gentle reassurance. Exposed fingers softly brushing against your cheekbone reminiscent of a flutter, so light it sends your heart into a faster pace. "And on your end? I have heard of the mortals establishing a new type of governance, how is it faring?"

Xiao hooks his fingers under your chin in full attention, and the pairing with his tantalizing smile sent your mind melting. "It's going-," your cleared your throat of the strangled pitch you produced and tried again, "Going great! Ganyu made it her duty to oversee it as the secretary."

"That is a fine arrangement." He hums inquisitively but you both know his attention was on somewhere else, what with the way his sharp orbs kept flickering to gaze on your lips. And with how his face was slowly, surely drawing near.

"Indeed, indeed." Breathed you as you closed your eyes, ready to capture his lips for a longing kiss, his other hand rests on your lower back to guide you to his lap—

When the shutter doors slammed open, the interruption causing you to yelp as Xiao embarrassingly hides your head to his exposed chest. That did NOT lessen the warmth of your cheeks.

"Conqueror of Demons! I- I'm sorry to interrupt-"

"Pervases, go on."

"The Yaksha of flames-" A rumbling roar of a scream had all three of you shoot your heads up in alert. And within seconds you had scrambled to your feet, rushing out of the shrine to investigate the commotion. The atmosphere had you choking from the scent of arson, black smoke erupting from the burning grass and natural flora around the area.

But in the middle of the ruins had you almost dispelling the contents of your stomach, your hand shooting up to cover your mouth at the the sight. Besides you Xiao dashes past in a vain attempt to quell the flames— the lick of fire that burned the Pyro Yaksha whole, who screams in both agony and anguish over the deep unknown, skin and clothes turning black and charred.

Xiao's swings barely made a dent to the wall of fire that prevents anyone from coming close to the Yaksha. "Please, leave me alone! Let me go! Stop it!" There was an illusionary sense to her words as she screams at the empty void in front and within her, piercing and aching. You called for her name, shouted, in hopes that she may snap out of it.

Dried up tears came upon her ruby gaze as it flickers over to yours. She heard you. Her lips quivered into those of familiarity and she opens her mouth- only to scream her loudest, one last painful cry, as her body drops as a smoking corpse.

Charred and pure black. Twitching and steaming, but not alive.

You didn't realize you were crying until you felt the comfort of Xiao's hand wiping at your cheek, his red fingerless gloves catching the dampness as you released your sobs.

You didn't notice the gradual decrease of red in his clothing until you looked at him one day without feeling a pang on your chest. When you looked at him with only curiousity upon him calling your name, he offered a smile as he cups your cheek; it didn't feel like the same traumatic time when the Yaksha died, your cheek leaning on his cerulean palm.

It wasn't red. Maybe that's what drove away your thoughts.

"It looks good on you," you mumbled as you watched his now black and green hair sway from the breeze.

"Thank you."

The clouds of Jueyun Karst brings peace to all that gazes on it. That may be the reason why it was Menogias' favorite place to sit by upon finishing her duties for the day, and at times she invites you over when you are done with your own; 'your presence soothes me, it's unfair that Xiao gets to keep you to himself, even if he is your lover!' you giggle at the verbatim the Hydro Yaksha always spouts everytime she drags you away from the other, with a cute yet teasing pout on her pristine face.

Those moments always has you laughing guiltily as you wave to Xiao, who only dons a gentle smile at you two's dynamic.

But she was beautiful and elegant despite her slaughtering hands, with a mind vivid and witty.

And so you find peace next to her, as both of your hands weave cloth into apparels to calm your minds. She had always been an avid fan of stitching and knitting even her own clothes, the only reason you knew how to weave the needle was because of her incessant teachings. Right now she knits a sleeve of beautiful patterns while you took on the duty to make a wooly scarf. Jueyun Karst is cold.

"How are you faring, dear? I have heard you and Xiao-" your hands paused at the implications, "-were witness to the passing of the Yaksha Indarias. Changes are glaring among that of the Conqueror of Demons, but you are a special case who is not under the influence of the karmic binds."

Her cold blue gaze seem to pierce your soul unintentionally and you couldn't bring yourself to look upon them.

You gulped and ceased on finishing the blanket to look at her own work. It was pretty. Tiring and fearful, not just for yourself, but for her too. And especially Xiao.

She holds you close in a soft embrace as you poured your honest confessions; it felt unfair for them to suffer like this, driven to self-destruction or to eternal agony. Menogias strokes your hair affectionately as she reassures your worries.

After all, they knew their oath would come to this.

And they still honored their duties to protect Liyue, for both the mortals and the realm of the Adepti.

"H-How about you?" You sniffled, looking up at her now gentle gaze. "Have you been feeling well? I don't want you to be destroyed by your own mind too."

The Yaksha's gracious smile parts after a pause to finally reply, when a glint from the side suddenly interrupted your peace-

azure pupils dilated upon recognition;

your body flies back upon her powerful push;

blood spurs from her right thigh as a jagged pillar of rock pierces through;

your back and hitting the cliff's compact ground as your vision swims.

No, no, no, no, you recognize that glow even if it was similar to another. Your body whimpers as you struggle to get up, rolling to your side to see the inevitable— the floating silhouette of the Geo Yaksha raises his arm where an orb glows over it, a single eye glows from his shadow...

The last you saw was the flash of neons and black before the world was engulfed by a blinding light.

The next thing you know you were desperately trying not to puke as you cradled the mawled and still bleeding corpse of Menogias, weakly patting her cheeks as your desperate attempts to wake her- to convince yourself that she was still alive. That the spears of stones impaled through numerous part of her body was nonexistent.

Behind you Xiao flicks his head to the side as his mask disperses. His jade spear dripping with blood as her gentle eyes hardened as it squeezes out the tears.

"(Y/N)," your wails turned into whimpers and hiccups, loose arms wrapping around your waist as Xiao pulls you away from the bloody mess. You didn't have the spirit to protest, your eyes still trained on the deceased Yaksha's face as you wept in your lover's arms.

A familiar censer that wasn't there before hangs by his waist.

And when the pain didn't make you weep anymore, a beautifully woven sleeve of blue and clouds adorn his left arm. Those who live after a millenia would not be aware of a reminiscent and deep scar hidden beneath it.

"I was not aware you were out of your domain," the moment he landed, a firm hand grasps your waist to keep you steady on the balcony's railings. Where you're currently perched on, precariously.

You were still unused to the purple cloth that flows behind him. But it matches the wind that comes with him, and the beautiful clashes of colors that makes up who he is now. He was not reminiscent of the red gentleness that he was 2000 years ago, but a teal shadow that lingers at the edges of your vision as a blur.

"I wanted to thank you for purging the malignant monsters that haunted my domain by the cavern," your gaze falls away from the moon as you swing your legs up and over, turning to face the Inn and him yet still remaining seated on the railing.

His eyes were hostile, not at all indicative of the lightness it had long ago. Chest covered in white, and the many memorabilias that dangle with him. Xiao's hands rests on the railing by your side as your fingertip traces the Vajra hanging by his neck, chunky to pointy; Pervases, the name leaves your lips in a whisper.

A guttural growl leaves him in intensity that had you reeling yet still worried for him. Behind his lidded eyes were pure hurt from the fear you conveyed, but he shook his head at all the thoughts that invades. Xiao lets loose a tired yet mocking laugh, "I just remembered something unpleasant."

Before he can turn back to gaze at your ethereal form, you've thrown your arms around his head to pull him against your chest. Your grip and uneven heartbeat alerted him of your will to not cry at his misfortune; such sympathy is wasted on him, yet he wraps his arms around you close in a gentleness that once again reflects his deepest trait.

"...your blessings, not your flaws."

At the sound of your familiar lyrics, as if with a mind of its own, the tension on his shoulders drop immediately into your warmth.

"You've got it all, you lost your mind in the sound;

There's so much more, you can reclaim your crown;

You're in control, rid of the monsters inside your head;

Put all your faults to bed."

Urged the strokes of your hand on his head, the voices quiet into almost nothingness. The Conqueror of Demons smiles again.

"You can be king again."

To the realm of the Adepti and those who knows even the slightest of him, it was nothing to debate about when it is claimed that you were the real reason that the golden-winged king, the Conqueror of Demons— that Xiao still exists today.

If you recognize the song 🤝 big sad

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[ecrivant]

a castle and the devil within | reiner braun

(reiner braun x reader)

the night of the ambush on utgard castle; the air, pregnant with the impeding deaths of his comrades.  reiner, plagued by guilt, ruminates on the idea of loss and culpability, and with you shares a moment that will undoubtedly come to haunt him.

a.n. – canon divergent in assuming the warriors knew of zeke’s plan to attack the castle.  

word count: 3.5k

The group moved in the swathe of night like some serpentine unity towards an unknown.  The moon, incandescent and looming high above the earth, enfolded the terrain in a ghostly haze which of all it touched made apparitions. In the air, a disconcerting quietude, silent all but for Equus footfalls dampened by sogged pasture and sniveling muzzles and the cracks and pops of low-burning torches.  The topography, undulating, and from it emerged towering palisades of spruce which sectioned the land and curtailed the interminable and verdant hills.  Clouds, by lunar glow illuminated and resembling exhalations in cold air arrested, roved the sky and overhung land so primeval Nyx herself present for its creation. Nocturne was refuge from the diurnal beasts who within them harbored a taste for humanity, but the cerement of pitch did little to lessen the unrest among the riders—in this world, serenity, erroneous.  

At the horizonal marge of sky and land laid twin towers seemingly erected from the earth itself. Spires traced in moonlight.  As the group rode forward, exhausted and pace lagging, drawing with their path the outline of the sloping land and leaving a trail of muddled footmarks in their wake, the castle entire materialized. Surrounding the towers, a crumbling stone bulwark, at once a product of precise masonry now by worldly destruction ruined—the fortress’ impotent aegis.  This manmade edifice so alien in its surroundings, as if a misplaced afterthought meant for another milieu but forgotten and left for this bucolic landscape.

The group, looking strange and scarcely manlike, finally was before this decrepit palace—its courtyard, barricaded on three sides, was rife with debris, and vegetation grew over and between the laid stones which once formed the yard’s floor.  The horses staggered on the unevenness.  Each rider, form sore and tender, dismounted and tied their horses to what he or she could find and uncomfortably shifted between feet, readapting to bipedalism all but forgotten in the wake of such journeying.  In this momentary recuperation, his eyes drifted to you—in no worse shape than the rest of the group, situated towards the back of their shapeless unit.  Your back to him, slouched as if incurring an immense weight, and shoulders rolling beneath clothes.  

Within the castle, a campfire, amber alight.  Pitch dispelled as if a demon exorcised.  Deep shadows in visages’ creases, casted in the fiery glow.  The group here indistinguishable from fatigued miscreants of past and future.

He knew outside Zeke haunted the landscape, both specter and wraith, poised to strike.  He knew this verily, just as he knew you rested, a stride away, in wary repose.  His guilt, corrosive.  You may die tonight, and he, delirious and consumed by misguided pathos, could only wait for this terrible inevitability.  And perhaps one day he would make peace with his complicity in it and see your death as one of many needed to secure Eldian posterity, but he at this moment knew better. He knew your death would in fact eviscerate him, and he knew he would never be absolved, and for it he knew, upon his own final moments, he would be driven to perdition under the weight of his transgressions against you.

Your face, with delicacy, painted in light and complexion made orange by fire’s illumination.  Aura beguiling, no less so than the first encounter. If, in your voice, the proposition to forsake his life’s purpose was made to him, he would fain relinquish it.  And he would invariably sacrifice his life in exchange for yours, though perhaps not in the noble light the act was so habitually painted—it was not a gesture of loving sacrifice but rather the embodiment of an abject selfishness by which he was possessed.  He knew he would not be able to bear the burden of your death, regardless of whether or not by his hand delivered, and would rather himself meet this inevitable and fatal eternity than ever live to see your end.

These terrible and penetrative thoughts of demise—a ghastly, mental seepage—were debilitating.  He, as a warrior, as a member of the Survey Corps, was so well-acquainted with death yet had never acclimated to it and knew the last death to which he would bear witness would be no less harrowing than the first.  And as he uncomfortably ruminated on these thoughts, he came to realize he, his presence, his mission, was the scent of death which hung over his comrades, the one which they so desperately tried to evade.  Perhaps it was some unarticulated curse which followed inheritors of the titans. As misfortune and pain had fallen on his predecessors—the same who now inhabited him as ghostly memories and feelings—these miseries now fell on him, as if he was not a blank slate but rather a prewritten history destined to recount and repeat itself.  Did he have any choice in what he had done or come to be?  Or was the first inheritor as culpable as he in the terrible fates he wrote for those around him?

Even with his stoic form, highly controlled and for years constructed, he could not assuage the tremor in his hands or the accumulating bile which at once burned his stomach and throat.

He thought at one point he had distanced himself from you—an act of self-preservation—but you, aura infectious and penetrative, always remained.  There in presence and in spirit, beside him always as if a phantasmal servant.  

Beside him you rose and waited for a moment then moved to ascend the stairs of the tower in which the group found shelter.  Someone called out for you, voice indistinguishable in the muted silence; a call less words articulated and more akin to a spectral exhalation of a once-present form.  Your voice in response, a quiet assurance of your safety—you simply needed a moment alone. Yet against your wishes, he erected himself and moved to accompany you, informing you of his presence rather than asking permission.  

“My knight in shining armor.”  

Voice coy.  A slight smile.  

Yet, over him, horror settled, and he, overcome by unspeakable sickness, fought against the bile which threatened to spill forth.  His knees trembled, and the stairs swayed and moved below him, and within him burgeoned a caustic remorse which eroded his conscience, creating from once plane morality a chasmic and unnavigable wasteland.  In this moment, he wished he had returned to Marley after Marcel’s death. For his titan, and his responsibility and mission and resolve, would have been inherited by another—his entire being reduced to pitiable memories in the mind of his successor.  And he would never have come to know you, or your strong resolve, or your aching concern, or your voice, velveteen, the sumptuous way you articulated his name.  Or your laugh which swept past him with airy carelessness and within him bred a distant and warm and melancholic feeling, like a far-removed recollection, a memory of déjà vu.  Or your quiet and unassuming history once marked by genial tranquility which was so violently uprooted by his own actions.  

He stumbled as his body anticipated a stair which was not there.  Your grip on his arm, strong, steadying.  His eyes met yours, and in your gaze, that stupidly sincere concern, and in his, unspoken gratitude.  At the top of the tower, contained in the interstice between the outside overlook and the end of the staircase, you seated yourself against the wall and he, beside you. He tried not to think of Annie or Bertolt or Zeke or Marley or his mother who within him placed her hope entire, and instead focused on the way you smelled of campfire and cold air, and the way, among the silence, the sound of your breathing stilled his heart. With a vacant mind, he simply sat and tried to match his breath to yours.

Still trembling, he inched his hand along the stone floor until he found your touch, and he twined his fingers with yours, and aside from a slight and barely-there hesitation, you did not react.  Your hand cold and his clammy, and in teenage and involuntary reaction, he felt embarrassed.

The last time he desired you so blatantly came in ambush.  He could not recall the situation, or even the moment before or after, but you were together, and in movement you had drifted past him, and as his eyes followed your hallowed form, the idea of kissing you abruptly and wholly engulfed him. He often yearned for you under the shroud of night or in the aurora of dawn, in response to a smile or a laugh, in the wake of a day spent together or a moment exchanged, but never after such inaction.  He had supposed it made sense: for a space, moment, to become consecrated, you merely had to occupy it, and perhaps the moments where he did not crave you, though few in number, did not truly exist and were instead simply obfuscated by your very presence.  

He rued each and every time previous he had not set aside his fear and held you.  This touch, for the first time, in such a chaste and quiet way, and perhaps on the eve of your demise, felt vile.  Your shared intimacy, perverse.  

But the constricting grip of your hand on his, tightened and loosened as a tide ebbs and flows in conjoined action, brought him back from his negative ruminations.  As if you sensed his need to be grounded.

And the look of your face in the barely-there starlight was enough for him to press his lips to yours, a loving movement made shy by hesitance.  The kiss, ephemeral and dissolving in the night as suddenly as it came to be.  He pulled away, face hot at your nonreaction, but you followed his mouth as if now linked and did not let him go.  Is this what it felt like to be wanted, needed?  In a second, you returned to your seated position and he to his, resting in silence as if previous exchange forgotten.  Or, perhaps, never having existed.  He suddenly saw your mutilated corpse before him and could no longer luxuriate in the aftermath of this intimacy exchanged, the grip on his hand and the closeness of your shoulder and his own breathlessness and palpitations now feeling like heresy.  

He felt in the air your hesitation, the quietude preceding the break of a storm, before you spoke, words uttered in tone eerie as if invoked then manifested from the night itself:

“Do you trust me, Reiner?”

In few moments was he struck as speechless as this.  His implicit answer was one of affirmation—he knew amply of how you so presently and continually heeded him—yet he, dazed and aphonic, spoke not.  Perhaps fearful of a forthcoming dialogue in which you would state your misplaced trust on him conferred.  He preemptively contemned you for saying such things, though it was scorn quickly and rightly turned on himself.  You trusted him under the same pretenses he did you, and no reassurances, no matter how constant, could convince him he did not for you experience true and attested concern.  It was not a matter of you falling for his acutely maintained artifice but rather one where he had, simply and unequivocally, fallen for you.  

Your gaze bore into him. Patiently waiting for his answer and seemingly unfazed by his hesitance.  He swallowed and shook his head yes and spoke to substantiate this claim:

“Of course I do.”

You nodded your head as if satisfied and looked up to the ceiling in musing and spoke again after a shared and pregnant pause:

“I trust you.  More than anything.”

You began another phrase, but it trailed off, lost in the night’s permeant sombre.  

And he did not hear it, instead intent on edifice around him crumbling, and conscience, crushing and destructive, under which he collapsed, and ire which burned him like flame, and dread which gored him and spilled forth his viscera, black and befouled from deceit.  Intent on his blood now bile, and complexion now rotted flesh.  And the eldritch bawl, suffused with ruefulness and agony and lamentation unmatched by even the most repentous sinners, which nigh spewed from his gut but instead caught in his throat in a choked sob.  And intent on the manner in which he violently ripped away from you, suddenly and acutely aware of the way his hand twined in yours was the quintessence of sinful hypocrisy—what one should be made to embrace the sadistic numen who in its hands held his or her ultimate fate?  And intent on the countless bodies of victims, past and future, coalescing in a single, fleshed mass of sanguine gore and tortured and malformed faces whose expressions more resembled demons than humans, each and all prostrate before him, supine in some perverted reverence like an agonous congregation in worship.  

“I feel you bear my burdens for me.”

Spoken with a quiet and slumberous quality, as if your first words after waking.  His mind prayed for your silence, a wish, unarticulated, as he could only hold his head in his hands and rock forward and back with mouth open in a wordless scream.  And the emotions with which he was suddenly inundated did not result in tears, and instead he sat beside you, breathing hard and in shock and doing nothing, as if struck dumb.  Your hand on his shoulder, a touch which in it held such comfort and concern, which he cowered under and tore away from as if beast threatened and made prey.  And upon this reaction, the space seemed too small and your presence, repugnant.  The crucifix proffered before the devil.  

He himself, cursed, and now he cursed you.

The trapdoor above, wood weathered and water-logged and laying heavy and flush against the stone ceiling, burst open with a tempest gale’s force, and one of the veterans plummeted from the tower’s crown towards the floor and paid no mind to your pair and instead rushed down the stairs and called for the rest of the group.  And just as suddenly as he had fallen under the yoke of his own fervor, he repressed all thought and set his jaw and ascended the final steps of the tower to emerge in the night.  You beside him.  

From above, the terrain a banished landscape.  The trees which once towered towards firmament’s ceiling now sat in small and sparse clusters littered over the land’s spanning hummocks.  And the moon, now at arc’s crest, bewashed the purgatory below in that same haze from before, the one which made all things wraithlike and seemingly ephemeral.  And within that courtyard on three sides barricaded by the crumbling bulwark and rife with lapidarius debris and vegetation made bluish by the night which encroached upon the yard’s stone foundation posed dozens of those unclad leviathans, climbing over architectural remains or coming forth from arboreal cells or clawing at the tower’s base with hands all but human and much more vehement. Monstrous and aberrant pilgrims converging on their infernal holy land.  

Knowledge of Zeke’s intentions made the sight no less grim.  

In the moments before the veterans descended upon the beasts below in instinctual response, they were struck still, shock and fear in their eyes clear.  And for some reason wholly unknown to him, the reaction, so involuntary and raw and basally human, impressed upon his mind and burrowed deep within him. His body shuddering.  The nightmarish air, pregnant with the threat of impending carnage, and in it, unspoken fear.  

Under blade the brutes fell silently and with their impacts shook the earth.  Even with the dexterous hands with which the veterans fought, the tower’s entrance—a large and wooden and rotting door—was breached.  Authoritative calls, tinged with desperation and fear and sounding more like cries, ordered the group’s remainder to secure the edifice.  To fight to their final breath.  

He could not bring himself to look at you, yet he still felt your presence, the air around you leaden and viscous and suffused with dread.  

As he ran down the stairs, leading the charge to secure the entrance breached, he pondered his intentions. Atypical of his carefully crafted persona, and perhaps his true self, to waver in the face of danger and at the chance to protect his friends, or rather those who he had acutely deceived and convinced of his friendship, he resolved that his actions were integral to the role of Reiner—the protective and stoic hero who, out of fraternal love, laid down his life for those around him.  A role with which he had no qualms assuming.  Even if it was one through Paradisian Eldian’s eyes seen—he cared more about the perception than those who perceived him.  But as he heard your voice with unprecedented fear call out, his name from your mouth a desperate invocation, all notions preconceived wiped away.  He did not fight for the longevity of his own ego, nor even for Marley, or Bertolt or Annie or his mother, home in Liberio.  In this moment, he fought for you.

Upon reaching the staircase’s base, and beyond the open door, he found himself before a titan with stretched grin and ravenous gaze, all humanity absent.  In torchlight, the beast’s grimace, devilish.  And he slammed the door and threw against it his weight entire and called out an indecipherable—perhaps an order, perhaps a cry for help—to the ones descending the stairs behind him.  A sudden plosion of splintering wood beside his head, and through the hole created shot a fleshy and steaming appendage, furiously and blindly reaching for him.  He felt shame as he realized he had already consigned to dying, and in the seconds before this infernal arm enveloped him, he thought of Marcel.  And of Marcel’s scream—his final and desperate expression of abject fear—halted at its climax and then punctuated by the ferric and sour smell of fresh blood and the sound of bone crushed and brains liquified.  

No, he was not to die here.

His movements, automated—his body, propelled away from the door and brushing against the arm which all but had him; Bertolt beside him and pushing a spear into the goliath; his form responding to a warning call, diving out of the path of the unloaded canon which flew down the stairs and as a bludgeon crushed the titan.  

His consciousness divorced from corporeal form, only united again as the agony of teeth sinking into his arm suffused him with an unknowable pain.  He was made sick thinking this was the feeling which marked Marcel’s final moments.

—

Trembling hands struggling with makeshift gauze.  Punctuating, shaky breaths.  Though you tried to hide it, eyes focused on dressing his wounds in silence, he could see you were thoroughly harrowed by the moments prior.  While he was plagued by thoughts of your death, were you by his? As much as it would cause you great suffering, he would still rather die before you—in his selfishness, he would rather have you alive and obliterated by grief than he.  He was reluctant to believe true love was this selfish. Though, when one says they would die for their lover, is it a product of selflessness or self-preservation in the face of grief?  Perhaps in a world different from this one, selflessness possible.  

You finished your work on his arm and sat back.  He looked at you for the first time since you last spoke and found he could barely hold your gaze.

“I promise that if I die, I will be with you. Always. Just look for me.”

Were these his words or yours?  There was no distinction in this place, voices and bodies and human and beast all made one primeval unity in this cold dark.

He wished for you to hold him.  

And when this wish remained unanswered, and the group was called to the towers peak again, and he quickly and silently ascended the stairs next to you, he became aware of a painful and agonous truth: he would never know your touch again, nor he did not deserve it, for the hours and days that followed held admittance of his duplicity; a look in your eyes which so clearly reflected how he violated you; between you, an establishment of mistrust and enmity.  And he would perhaps know your touch again, but it was touch imbued with lethal intent, hateful, your vitriol unspoken but not absent, as you, with all your resolve, tried to wholly annihilate him.  

And yet, in an ironic turn where you, in your hands, suddenly held his fate in a way not dissimilar to the way he did yours, he still wished for his own death to come first, for he would not and could not resolve to live a life devoid of you.

—

ah hi there!  was this one week’s worth of work?  perhaps no.  but i hope everyone enjoyed it regardless!  thank you so much for reading and thank you to the anon who sent in a request for this fic!  i loved your idea, and i hope you enjoyed the piece!  

all the recent support means the world, and feedback and all that is always so appreciated.  have many requests on the way, so look forward to more stuff coming soon!  

request: ok so there's this scenario that's been itching my brain in the wrong place 😭😭 reiner and reader in the castle ruins? before the armored titan reveal? possibly the reader "confesses" to reiner by saying that out of everyone in the corps they trust him the most. and later on he just... does that. spare me some angst please

masterlist

taglist: @flam3bird, @sakusas-whore

[equestrianwritingsstuff]

Summer of Whump #9: Bugs

"Well, well, well," Hero chanted as she landed on the ground next to Villain. Well, not right next to him because he was in the mud. Villain very rudely did not reply. He was too absorbed in his job.

Hero wouldn't exactly call it a job, more like fixing a mistake.

Villain was driving his four-wheeler through the woods like he did every Saturday night. He always did it in the night, when it was dark, with his headlights on. But, this time, his headlights blew out and he spun into a mud pit.

He finally just got himself out from under the four-wheeler as morning came around. Of course, morning brought the lovely chickadee called Hero.

"Hello," Hero grinned, ear to ear with a sparkle in her eyes.

"Go away," Villain grumbled, but his voice had a strange sharpness to it that made Hero momentarily rethink her decision on coming to visit.

Would you even call it a visit when Villain doesn't even live in this mud pit? I mean, who lives in an ex-river, Hero wondered to herself, contemplating whether or not she should've skipped high school...

"Ugh!" Villain exclaimed, "Almost got it. These darn mosquitoes!" He yelled and smacked his neck. Hero noticed that it was beat red, from either the heat, the amount of times he hit himself, or both. She also noticed strange inflammed bumps on it skin that seem to raditate heat. Villain dipped his head to his shoulder and itched his neck.

The four-wheeler sputtered, bringing Hero's attention away from her nemesis's rather slender neck. It jumped in the mud pit. For the first time, Hero realized that Villain was sunk to his knees and that his muscles were shaking. She tentatively dipped her hand into the mud and left it there waiting. She may not understand the definition of "visit", but she was handy with her survival skills.

After about five minutes, she felt her hand sink. It was a small shift that she would get if her muscles twitched, but a good three inches that nearly threw her forward.

Hero quickly glanced up at Villain to see him half slumped over the four-wheeler. One hand was on the gas and the other was on the rack. He held on so limply that Hero thought he collapsed, but then he pushed the four-wheeler. She examined his muscles for a brief second before remembering her discovery.

"Oh yeah Villain," she said, her voice devoid of any anticipation or nervousness that a normal, smart, person would have in this dire situation. "You are in quicksand."

"I. Don't. Care," Villain growled. Hero doubted that he even stopped to let the words register in his mind.

Hero looked back at his legs to see the mud right under his buttocks. She tensed up.

"Villain leave it, get out," her voice was stern, but Villain paid no attention.

"I'm calling the cops," Hero warned and slowly pulled out her phone. She dialed in a number, but it wasn't the police.

"Gimme a second." Atleast Villain paid attention to Hero's voice, but he didn't heed her advice and kept on trying to shove his beloved ATV out of the mud, or quicksand according to Hero.

"I will buy you a new one."

Villain hesitated. His four-wheeler was barely hanging on already, even before the mud encounter, and the idea of a fancy new Yamaha was tempting. But what if it was a trick? Hero, as dumb as she was, was actually stellar at trickery. And Villain was stellar at being a stubborn bastard.

"Yeah right," he retorted and continued to push his four-wheeler out, only to find that he couldn't move. Actually... Villain looked over at the bank. It was lower than last time he looked at it...

"Crap!" He exclaimed, just as another lovely mosquito bit his neck. Ugh, these biters were a menace. Villain growled and tried to lift his left leg up, but it was stuck.

"Hero?" His voice was laced with fear. He put a hand on his hair and started to pull, an obvious sign of stress.

"Villain calm down. Listen it's okay. I called Sidekick. He will help get you out," Hero walked as close as she could without falling into the quicksand.

Another mosquito landed on Villain as he slowly began to sink even further into the ground.

"Hmm," he groaned and pushed away from his four-wheeler. Only, he fell backwards landing with a small splash.

"Villain!" Hero yelled and tried to reach him, but the quicksand was already doing its work. It filled into his mouth and ears as he tried, and failed, to sit back up.

Panic created bile that rose up Villain throat. Or was it the mud seeping down into his lungs and stomach? He didn't know, didn't care. He just wished he was gifted with super-strength, not the apparent ability to get stuck in quicksand.

Villain thrashed and turned, but the thick mud made it nearly impossible to even just turn his head. Finally, after one heavy push, he was able to get upwards.

"H-h.. h," Villain couldn't get the words out. He couldn't breathe and the itch on his neck waa getting overwhelming. Blacks spots clouded his vision as he struggled to draw a breath. The dizziness made him sway as the image of Hero's lithe body wavered in front of him.

"Engh," Villain coughed, but it did little to dispel the mud. He gulped before he toppled forwards again.

But this time, strong arms caught him. Villain cracked his eyes open to see Sidekick's chin.

"Come on you," Sidekick muttered. "Waking me up from my beauty rest." With one strong pull, Sidekick lifted Villain out of the quicksand and landed him next to Hero. Perfect guy gifted with my coveted superstrength, Villain thought as his mind drifted away from consciousness.

Hero's fingers brought him back around. Her fingers opened his mouth and pulled out the mud that was caught inside his throat.

"He-he," Villain sputtered, his voice weak and shaky.

"Quiet, cough for me. Will you?" She rolled Villain to his side and gently tapped his back until he gave in and cough up some mud and blood. He then sunk deep into Hero's outstretched arms with a sigh and closed his eyes.

Hero's fingers ran over the bumps on Villain's skin. His eyes fluttered open as pain illuminated in them. He shot Hero a glare.

"Sorry," she whispered and went back to holding him tightly and rubbing small circles on his over exerted muscles.

Atleast I can him feel better, Hero thought to herself as Villain's breaths slowed into a peaceful slumber.

@summer-of-whump

[paralumanleadmehome]

It’s been quite some time since I’ve last joined a contest and I honestly missed this feeling of trying to figure out what to write, how to write it, and how to deliver it exactly as you need to to impress the judges. It’s been so so long and welp. I’ve grown rusty and this is definitely not proof-read but all the same, thank you to @queenangst and everyone who had made this possible.

You brought me back a feeling I haven’t felt in so long.

This is my entry to queenangst’s BNHA gen contest: Finding Home 

(please see under the cut as this has 3.5k words and could be very long)

Finding Home

o.

It started out as a legend – two souls separated at creation, two souls that make up one whole, two halves of one soul completed upon connection.

Two becoming one.

But legends are legends for a reason – mythical, mysterious, only with a hint of a truth.

Soulmarks began appearing even before the dawn of quirks –little symbols that litter the body, one that you could only call your own. One that only you could share to whom you so ever desire. It varies in shapes and colors, some being a butterfly tinged in red and orange, others an ocean wave the shade of green, and to some more, it covers a palm, a thigh, a foot. Unlike its legendary counterpart, however, a soulmark does not lead you to a soulmate. Instead, it leads you to one where you can feel whole.

A soulmark is a symbol of love and friendship given in trust and good faith – one that cannot be taken, one that only be passed on.

A soulmark is a symbol of warmth and everlasting connection – one that is stronger than flesh and blood.

A soulmark is a symbol of home – one that you choose for yourself.

One person can have as many as the stars in the sky and as few as the petals of a clover.

And Izuku? Izuku only has his own, his mother’s, and the black mark of one Bakugo Katsuki.

After all, no one wants to share the mark of a useless, quirkless, little Deku.

And so, however sacred, Kacchan had cut his own connection with Izuku, both of them bearing the ashen remnants of a once golden sun and a viridian shooting star – the pain of which Izuku found more unbearable than the explosions that kissed his skin.

And Izuku no longer believed in soulmates.

Not when the world was so intent on pushing him down and pushing him away, not when no one would stand up for him and with him, not when the only love and care he had ever known came from the woman who had loved him the most.

So Izuku never shared the mark on his wrist with anyone, never the light of the shooting star that brightens up the dark sky, never the stardust that falls on the earth, never the ray of hope he had held even in the darkest of times, keeping it hidden in long sleeves, wristwatches, and bandages. And at all times he keeps covered the blackened sun that rests on his heart, refusing to see the ashes of a friendship no longer alive, refusing to acknowledge the searing pain that would accompany the sight. Instead, as always, he keeps close the mint green lotus that rests on the base of his right ear, his eyes never not seeing it each morning, afternoon, and night – the one and only reminder that he is loved.

He is loved.

He is loved.

And he lets himself be content with that.

i.

The first of many soulmarks that Izuku will treasure came from the man that he had idolized his whole life.

Yagi Toshinori, for all his time as the Symbol of Peace (and more the time he had spent alive), only carries with him four marks, not counting his own. Izuku doesn’t ask when he sees. He doesn’t think it is polite to, especially when most people aren’t interested in bonding with a quirkless child (and although All Might already knew he was quirkless and didn’t deny him this chance to train, the man’s initial denial of his dream still stings). He doesn’t ask about the faded crescent moon that rests on his collarbone (it isn’t nice to ask about the dead, after all), nor about the black spaded horse on his left ankle (he was shocked at first, upon seeing this lost connection, and his heart ached at the thought that even All Might had to bear the pain of losing someone he had once loved so dearly). He doesn’t ask about the violet sigil of a fish on his shoulder blade nor the diamond glasses near his scar. He doesn’t ask about any of these things.

Instead he asks about experiences – what was it like to be a hero of his caliber? Was he ever afraid of anything? Was there ever a time that he was unable to save someone? What was he like as a student? Did Dagobah Beach mean something special to him? Things that the world weren’t privy to – things that he didn’t know were personal.

Things that would’ve only been known if All Might had chosen him as his soulmate.

And All Might did.

One day, at Dagobah Beach, after the world had finally met the man behind All Might, Toshinori Yagi had offered his ocean blue sunflower tucked on the opposite side of where the faded moon resided and had asked Izuku if he had wanted to carry his soulmark.

And Izuku… flinched.

Because to hold another’s soulmark would mean to be aware of them at all times – to feel their warmth despite the distance, to know with one brush of a hand the feelings that lay in their hearts, to give them comfort even in the presence of an absence.

To bear a soulmark is to be eternally connected.

And Izuku had been burned by the loss of it.

And he is scared, afraid, terrified – because to be All Might’s successor is one thing. To be given his quirk and his legacy is a dream come true but to be his soulmate? To be near him? To know him and be known by him in return? It’s terrifying.

And yet… and yet… Izuku takes this fear and lets it be known.

In quiet whispers, jumbled words, and a steady stream of tears.

Because deep down, Izuku longs to be connected.

And it is in the act of letting someone close does he remember what it feels like to be loved.

ii.

The second one, surprisingly, came in the form of a little girl.

A quiet, frightened, injured little girl who had ran away from a monster of a man.

Eri bumped into him during his first patrol with Lemillion and this mess of child with a stature so small and eyes too scared clung to him for dear life – and Izuku’s soul ached.

Izuku took one look at the man with the bird mask, one look at Lemillion, one look at this little girl, and made up his mind.

“Eri,” he whispered, “do you trust me?”

It was a stupid question, he knew, but a soulmark is something to be given in trust – a treasure to be received in good faith.

“You’re good,” Eri answered just as softly, little hands clinging to his costume. “You’re warm.”

Izuku doesn’t know if Eri feels the same pull, the same fierce protectiveness that forces its way into his heart, and he knows that this is more his own desire to keep her safe than any other force telling him that she was a part of his own soul.

Because Eri mattered regardless.

And Eri was worth keeping safe.

So for the first time in a long time, Izuku removes the bandage that hides his own soulmark and he shows it to Eri.

“This will keep you safe for me,” he tells her, “this will let you know I’m here.”

In the background he hears the tense conversation coming to a halt, sees the way the man’s eyes turn to look at Eri, and he knows he doesn’t have time.

“This is a promise.”

And Eri stares at it for little while, hands reaching to the shooting star. “A promise,” she repeats, and with a little nod and hopeful eyes, Izuku places a finger on her arm, just beneath her sleeves, and let their foreheads touch.

The words come to him unbidden, the way words do when you give someone a piece of your soul – a promise to be fulfilled, a wish to be granted, a part of you that will forever be a part of them.

“I will always come for you.”

And he did.

iii.

Not counting his own nor Kacchan’s, Izuku has two soulmarks on his body.

One from his mother, another from All Might.

He didn’t ask for Eri’s and she hadn’t offered in return.

Eri was as afraid of her soulmark as much as she is afraid of her quirk.

Cursed, she calls the silver dove wreathed in yellow petals on her ankle. Cold, she thinks of it. It will still be a long way to go, Izuku assumes, but as long as Eri can feel his warmth, his presence, that would be enough.

The third one, interestingly enough, was in the image of an aquamarine heart, with its curves jagged and cornered, just as a gem so precious and true.

Kouta gave it to him as gift, as a thank you, as something for Izuku to remember him by.

Kouta didn’t ask for Izuku’s own soulmark, didn’t even breathe a word about it. Instead the little boy ran up to him, little arms wrapping him in a hug, and said,

“I’ll always be cheering you on.”

And when Izuku sees the way Kouta’s soulmark shine, he accepted it without a second thought.

And when Kouta pulled away afterwards, face pulled in a frown, Izuku tried to ignore the fear that stabbed his own heart. He wondered if he would make a world record, an ashen mark as soon as he had received it, but Kouta dispelled his fears just as easily.

“That felt weird,” Kouta said. Izuku blinked at him, his mind taking a minute to process, until he caught up. Then he laughed and laughed because he feels exactly what Kouta feels – the disappointment, the confusion, the curiosity… and the underlying overwhelming emotion of it all.

Unbridled joy.

The elation of having someone know you – of being accepted, treasured, remembered.

He also felt the embarrassment that followed as Kouta turned as red as his shoes.

iv.

The soulmark exchange with Shinsou had been quiet.

It happened on the night of their second year when they both stumbled upon each other in the kitchen at the forsaken 2am hour did Shinsou spring up the topic.

“You don’t have that many soulmarks, do you?” the question was genuine, as far as Izuku can tell, and although the boy was rough around the edges, he knew it was due to the fact that Shinsou had so little support in life and was untrusting of all that Izuku had felt a kindred spirit in that regard.

They have observed the people around them, of course, and have noticed that everyone at least had five. A family member, a best friend from childhood, a classmate they never got lost in contact with.

Izuku stole a glance at the back of his right hand, at the blue heart settled at base of his forefinger and thumb and hummed an agreement. “No, I don’t,” he agreed, letting stiff fingers be warmed by his tea. He doesn’t return the question to Shinsou, knowing that it was a touchy subject for the other boy, but he did wonder, “Why do you ask?”

They don’t talk about it much, these colorful marks on their skin. They don’t talk about how a brush of hand over the little symbols can feel as warm as an embrace, how fear isn’t so scary when someone else sends you courage, how silence isn’t deafening when someone knows to listen.

It is in moments like these that they listen.

Izuku listens to Shinsou’s own quiet humming, the way the gears in his mind seem to move, the way he figures out how to phrase the words he wants to say next. And Izuku has been thinking about it – had been for the past few months.

Will his classmates ever want a piece of his soul?

He could tell that Uraraka does. He could tell that Iida would want one, too, but a soulmark is something that’s rarely asked for due to its sacred nature – it is freely given, after all, and never to be taken lightly. And Izuku had never offered. He had wanted to, of course, but he knows how messy his mind can get. He knows how anxious he can be. It’s why he had given his to Eri in a pace that is both hidden and seen, something she had to reach out for so she could feel. Izuku could not yet know what Eri is thinking or feeling, nor will he ever have inkling to unless she so desired, and Izuku is completely fine with that.

After all, a soulmark is a connection of souls – but it didn’t have to be an exchange. What it did mean though is that for one who bears the soul of another is to be aware of them – to be able to feel their warmth and develop an understanding of their soul. It is not to read their minds nor to know everything about them, but it is about the intimacy of knowing someone and being known.

A commitment.

A promise.

Like an artwork waiting to be completed, like a dance you can take to heart, a soulmark is connection that bridges the gap between someone you know and someone you choose forever.

“I don’t get it,” Shinsou finally said, and Izuku turned his eyes to him, the question lost in his tongue. “You have a strong and flashy quirk, you have so many people who love you and would fight the world for you, heck Uraraka and Iida would probably murder someone for you if you ask them, and yet you don’t have their marks and… they don’t have yours. I know I’m not good at this thing but at the very least, people give their marks away as easy as they’re giving candy. And you guys are pretty close, so I don’t get it.”

And the pain of burning that bridge is the same as losing a piece of your soul. Izuku absentmindedly reaches for his heart, the ashen remains of Kacchan’s soulmark embedded on his skin still, and he tries his best to forget.

Izuku looks instead at the clock in the kitchen, noting that it’s only 2:17am, and asks if Shinsou would like to listen to a story.

And they left the kitchen at 5:00am, only to crash in the couch, heart heavy yet full, mind settled and secured, souls at ease, and both boys sharing a mark they never expected to kiss their skin.

v.

The night Izuku had laid bare his soul for someone else to see, when it was him who had reached out first before someone else had offered, when he had done it so willingly and freely, it felt as if something has shifted within him – and in all the remaining years he had spent in UA, he was able to garner a couple more soulmarks for his own. He finally had the pink milky way that was Uraraka’s, the red lighting storm that was Iida’s, and Todoroki’s fiery white snowflake.

And to think that before all of this, before meeting All Might, before knowing these people and being known in return, Izuku was afraid and alone – afraid of the vulnerability that came along with letting people in.

To think that all he had ever thought about when he thought of soulmates were fireworks kissing his skin, long fingers bruising his arms, and taunts and jeers haunting his every waking moment – but now he is surrounded by love and warmth. Now when he thinks of soulmates, he thinks of mochi in the common kitchen, tea in hand; he thinks of morning jogs and healthy breakfast; he thinks of cold soba and cats; he thinks of unicorns and sprinkles and little kids and coloring books; he thinks of training sessions and laughter and peace.

Now when Izuku thinks of soulmates, he thinks of home.

And speaking of home, he can’t wait to get back to their apartment and give his mom the biggest of hugs. They had always called even when he was away and even when they would consistently send little taps through their soulmark, nothing still beats the warmth of a real embrace – and this is what Izuku fixes his mind on as he cleans out his dorm room, packing away every picture frame, books, notebooks, clothes, and figurines. Graduation is in a few days and after that, their debut to hero society. None of them would have enough time to clear out by then.

Izuku packs away the memories, just as he did each item that reminds him of it, and keeps them close in his heart. He packs away the ten million headband, the plushies from the cultural festival, the cards he had received from Eri and Kouta, and he tries his best not to feel emotional. He didn’t want to flood the dorms one last time, after all, but he did think it would be nice to have Aizawa-sensei scold him for being a problem child through and through but ultimately, it was the knock at his door that helps him succeed.

A knock, quiet and soft, and he opens the door to find Kacchan standing at the other side.  

Their relationship had improved over the years.

Kacchan is… less angry now, more settled. He’s still fiery and explosive but he doesn’t lash out anymore. Kirishima, Kaminari, the Bakusquad had been good to him and for him and Izuku had never been gladder about it. He had long stopped dreaming of the day that their relationship would be fixed – he and Kacchan had grown up, grown apart, and even when they drift back together, he is well aware that it would never be the same way again.

He doesn’t ask for it to.

He loves Kacchan, yes, with all his heart, but Izuku now knows that love does not have to be reciprocated for it to be real – but to still be loved in return is a precious treasure he keeps close.

“Hey, Kacchan, do you need something?”

And Kacchan looks at him, face pensive, mouth opening and closing, thinking and grasping and failing to think of the words he wants to say, and something in Izuku feels warm. After some time, the other boy settles with, “Are you busy?”

And if it was at any other time before, Izuku would’ve dropped everything that he had been doing and say no, he wasn’t busy, of course he had the time – but Izuku’s eyes sway to soulmarks on his arm and he steals a look at the digital clock by his table.

“I have thirty minutes,” was what Izuku told him. “I promised Todoroki we’d drop by the store to get his favorite soba since they’re not available near his house. I have time tomorrow morning thought if that works for you. I can cancel the morning jog with Iida if – “

“Thirty minutes is fine,” Kacchan answered back, cutting his rumbling off. It wasn’t harsh or angry. Just… very Kacchan-ish.

“Okay. Do you waant to step in? it’s a bit messy though, I still haven’t finished packing.”

And when Izuku heard the small tsk as he moved aside for Kacchan to pass through, he knew that the other boy won’t mind his mess. He felt a little grateful at that, to not be judged within the confines of his small room. They were silent for a few more second but it wasn’t the kind of silence that would make him uncomfortable. It was companionable, to say the least, and Izuku began picking up the pieces he had left before Kacchan had knocked and continued his packing. In another minute, Kacchan was helping him.

“Are you bringing the bookshelf home?”

“Nope, Aizawa-sensei said I could leave it here. Are you taking yours?”

“Thinking about it. Mine’s too small and I don’t want to waste money on something I can recycle. Do you have bubble wrap for the merch?”

“In the third drawer by the study table. I have newspapers too if that’s better.”

“Oh, Kacchan, that one goes in the other box.”

“Why? What’s the difference?”

“All my signed books are in one place.”

“Just how many posters do you fucking have?”

“Oh, come on, don’t pretend you don’t have just as many.”

“I’m not a hero-worshipping nerd like you, dumbass.”

“Says the guy who zonks out at 8pm.”

“Fuck you, asshole!”

“Kacchan, that’s limited edition!”

“I’m sorry.”

“…”

“For everything.”

“…”

“It was pretty messed up, the things I did, and I know sorry won’t fix this.”

“Can you pass me the tape, Kacchan?”

“…”

“Thank you.”

“You don’t have to forgive me.”

“Please put this box by the bed.”

“Okay.”

“…”

“…”

“You’re right, I don’t have to forgive you.”

“…”

“But I already did.”

“Deku…”

“It won’t fix what’s broken and it won’t stop the sting from the soulmark but…”

“…”

“We’re better now, aren’t we?”

“…”

“Kacchan, we’re better now.”

“You missed the night light.”

“Oh, thanks.”

“…”

“…”

“And it’s only going to get better, right?”

“…”

“…”

“Of course.”

“You’re still a sappy piece of shit.”

“Well, I’m not the one who’s crying, am I?”

“Fuck you.”

“Whatever you say, Kacchan.”

[quarantineddreamer]

@zutaraweek 2020 Day 1: Reunion

This is my first Zutara week since I am new to the ATLA fandom. For some reason I am very nervous to post this (I think because I spent my morning scrolling through the tag and OMG THE TALENT!!) but anyways, here it is! 

Also posted on my AO3

Rating: G

Summary: “I’ll save you from the pirates” -Zuko Katara

Katara picked nervously at the corner of the scroll she bent over, eyes passing over the familiar handwriting for the hundredth time in the past hour alone. We’re boarding the ship shortly… meeting went really well, I think that any additional negotiations will… I’ve been counting down the days till I get to hold you in my arms again... by the time this messenger hawk reaches you it should only be two more nights spent apart... Love always, Zuko. The letter, detailing the success of the Fire Lord’s diplomatic visit to the city of Omashu where a few restless rebellions had arisen had reached Katara over a week ago.

The waterbender frowned as she reached for her tea -a soothing blend that Iroh had promised would help her sleep despite her worry. Still squinting at Zuko’s hurried penmanship, Katara’s fingertips found the steaming liquid instead of the sides of the porcelain teacup, and she cursed as she flinched, knocking the beverage all over her reading material.

“No, no, no!” she cried, waving her hands, pulling the water from the page rapidly so as to keep the ink from running. When at last she was certain she had managed to save the precious material, she collapsed into her chair with a heavy sigh. As she watched the shadows from the candle on her desk play across the walls of her office, she tried desperately to calm herself.

He’s probably just hit bad weather. An image of Zuko thrashing about in the merciless waves of a storm flashed in her mind. Nope! Nope! He’s, uh, just not caught the right wind. But of course, the Fire Nation vessel Zuko had boarded did not rely on a breeze and they couldn’t have run out of power, not with firebenders like Zuko to provide fuel. Not for the first time, she wished that her friends were not scattered across the globe -wished that, at minimum, Aang had been traveling with Zuko, both of them flying safely on Appa’s soft back. But Aang was with Sokka and Suki in the South Pole at the moment helping with restoration work, and Toph was in Ba Sing Se training a special force of Earth Benders to help take down the remnants of the Dai Li.

The last time Katara had felt anything close to this level of worry for Zuko, he had been lying on the ground motionless, remnants of his sister’s lightning dancing across his body. At least she had been with him then, to look after him. Now, she didn’t know where he was or what condition he was in, but she knew him, and she knew it was not nothing that would keep him from her -not with all they had fought through before...

Katara had never felt so alone, but it was Zuko who had asked that she remain behind. “It’ll only be a month!” She remembered his hand on her shoulder as he gave her a pleading look. “Please... While I am gone Uncle will need help keeping everything in check here. You’re the only person in the world I would trust.” When she had finally reluctantly agreed, the kiss he had given her had banished all sadness at the thought of his absence. What was a month apart when they had a lifetime to look forward to now that the war was over? But he was not here now to erase her fear and dispel the hard knot lodged in her stomach.

The month had gone by fast with plenty of ‘Fire Lady’ duties to take care of, but the days that had passed since his estimated date of arrival had dragged with agonizing slowness as though time itself were taunting her… Her fingers itched to drag the scroll towards her again, to scour its surface for clues. He wouldn’t just disappear, he would tell them if he was going to be late.

A soft knock on the door broke the typhoon of anxiousness tearing through her mind. “Yes?” she called.

Iroh’s face, normally so jovial, was grave as it peered into the room. “A soldier from Zuko’s guard just arrived at the palace.”

“Where is he?” She nearly choked on the question, sensing her worst fears were about to be confirmed.

“Their ship was ambushed by a group of pirates. Zuko has been taken hostage and is being held unless the Fire Nation delivers a significant sum to his captors.”

She barely heard the rest, the where, when, and how. All she knew was she was done waiting, fussing over words on paper as though that could bring him back. She should have trusted her instinct, the tightness in her chest, that had told her something was wrong. Should’ve gone with him to Omashu to begin with... She pushed her chair back and stood. “I’m going after him.”

“Katara, please, we have identified the particular ship that has him, we can send a fleet after him.” Iroh fiddled with the teacup and papers on her desk nervously.

“I can handle some lousy pirates. He’s been gone too long, Iroh! And we can’t have the Fire Nation knowing their ruler has been taken...” Already her heart was racing. She’d never admit it, but a dangerous, secretive, part of her missed this. The raw rush of adrenaline from imminent conflict was intoxicating, addictive. Diplomatic meetings had taken her all over the world, but paperwork and debate had nothing on this.

Iroh hung his head. “Peace is fragile. I am aware…” He hesitated, observing her expression intently before saying, “I suppose no one is better suited to chase down pirates, than the greatest Master Water Bender…”

“Hardly,” she quipped humbly, but he always knew how to make her smile. “I appreciate the compliment.” Already at the door she turned to ask, “May I borrow a small ship from the Fire Nation Fleet?”

“The girlfriend of the Fire Lord can have whatever she wishes.” His tone managed to be light, joking, but his eyes still held great sadness and concern.

Katara stepped towards the older man to give him a brief, strong hug, leaning back afterwards to fix him with an earnest gaze. “I promise I’ll bring him home.”

“Stay safe, brave, Katara. I will handle things here.”

“I know you will.”

Moments later she raced through the palace out into the humid night. She did not stop to catch her breath even as she stole past the guards onto the docks and untied the first boat she saw with sails -one she knew she could manage alone.

Yue watched over her and gave her strength as she furiously bent the ocean around her. Spirits help those damn pirates if they’ve so much as given him a papercut...

-----

Zuko groaned as he came to, vaguely aware of a swaying sensation as though he were about to fall, which he figured had something to do with the massive lump at the back of his head. Or maybe it was the movement of the ship he was on. He blinked, his mind slowly focusing and gaining awareness -and along with it an awful dose of pain. How long had he been out? A fog was beginning to lift inside him, but the lingering grogginess suggested he had potentially been drugged for quite some time.

His most recent memories were of chaos, arrows whistling through the air, latching onto the deck of their ship. He had tried to incinerate most of them, and had been successful, until something had struck him hard across the back and sent him instantly into the void.  

Rope rubbed at his wrists and clutched at his chest as he struggled. He tried to bend, but found his movement to be too restricted and clumsy -disoriented as he was. A string of curses tumbled from his lips.

“Tsk, tsk. Not language very fitting of His Highness is it?” a voice called from the shadows of the ship’s hold.

Zuko recognized the voice… One of the advisors that had been traveling with him, Jian… Despite the remnants of drugs in his system it was beginning to become clear how their ship had just happened to fall victim to pirates and who had managed to catch Zuko from behind unexpectedly. “What do you want, Jian?” he asked sharply, glaring as the advisor drew closer.

“You are the last person our great nation should be led by,” he hissed.

Zuko’s lips curled in disgust at the man’s hot breath on his face, his nostrils flared as he exhaled smoke and frustration, pleased when Jian backed away, clearly fighting an undignified cough. “I trusted you. I thought you were helping us work to rebuild… The past year… and last week in Omashu. What changed?”

Jian laughed coldly. “This was always the plan. Your naivety will be the end of you young Fire Lord.”

“To hope for something better is not naive,” Zuko replied fiercely.

The former advisor scanned him for a moment then smirked, eyes shining with mania. “Look at where you are.” He lifted arms clad in elegant red silk to gesture at their dingy surroundings. “You will either die here, or in a cell in a Fire Nation prison unless a ransom is paid.”

Zuko snorted, a small flame escaping his nose. He wished, not for the first time in his life, that he had managed to master more fire breathing than that -something that would be useful in his current predicament- but that had always been more Azula’s specialty despite all of Uncle’s efforts. “Money? That’s what this is about?”

“That is only the beginning,” he whispered conspiratorially. Beady black eyes danced in lantern light as he regarded Zuko with intense hatred. “One day soon, the rightful Fire Lord will return to the Fire Nation throne and he will make you pay for your treasonous actions.”

Zuko rolled his eyes. Great, another Ozai loyalist. Just his luck that one had been insidious enough to work his way to this point. Maybe he was naive, though if Katara and the rest of his friends had taught him anything, it was that trying to find the good in others would never be a bad thing. He had everything to thank for their belief in that. Katara… He shut his eyes for a moment as a wave of longing washed over him. Arguably he had been in worse situations than this, but it had been years since he had faced them without her by his side. If only he had let her come along…but he had been so afraid to leave the Fire Nation unattended with all its troubles placed solely on his uncle’s shoulders.

A knock at the door interrupted Zuko’s thoughts of the Water Bender and the ache that he felt burying itself in his chest knowing she would be worried at his delay. He regretted the stress he would put her through. While Jian went to open the door Zuko tried to subtly tug at his bindings again. If he could just get enough motion in his fingers to firebend and weaken the rope… With Jian distracted he frantically tried to summon enough of the element, fighting the last of the drug’s haze...

“Yes?” Jian asked impatiently of the visitor to the hold, a short, skinny pirate with a large, floppy hat that Zuko could see extended beyond even the width of Jian’s frame that blocked the doorway.

Almost there… Zuko wiggled his wrists in small circles, wincing when a small jet of fire nearly set his pants aflame, missing the ropes entirely. Fortunately the hold’s wood was damp enough that the floor remained unlit. The firebender took a deep breath and tried again, thankful that Jian was still busy discussing something with the pirate at the door.

An image of Katara practicing her bending came to mind. He recalled the graceful, delicate, intention with which she waved every muscle in her hands. On his second attempt to burn the ropes he was careful to control his digits more precisely, and his efforts were rewarded when he felt a small heat pass along his palms and hit the rope.

The sounds of Jian bidding the pirate farewell and closing the door encouraged Zuko to rush his final pass at burning the ropes off. He fought back a hiss of pain as he felt flame pass over the delicate flesh on the inside of his lower arms. Seconds later when he gave the bonds one last tug and felt them fall away his injury was forgotten. He remained carefully still as Jian turned back to him, waiting for the perfect moment.

When the advisor strayed within arm’s reach Zuko suddenly lunged, seizing him by the shoulders and spinning the man, head-first, into the nearest wall. Jian collapsed with a soft, surprised exclamation and a solid thunk of skull colliding with wood, and Zuko, breathed a sigh of relief.

Wasting no time he rushed for the door, throwing himself through the opening and shooting glances down the short hallway. Luckily, it was clear. Quietly, he sealed Jian in the cell and padded softly towards a set of stairs illuminated with pale moonlight. He had no idea what awaited him on the deck. Whatever it was he would handle it then, though he had to shake Iroh’s admonishing tone from his head, ‘You never think these things through!’

When he emerged from the belly of the ship he was prepared for an immediate onslaught of pirate swords and other weaponry, but despite what he was sure were Jian’s desires, these were not Fire Nation soldiers. The crew was gathered around a makeshift table and their drunken cackles and bickering carried loudly above even the sea breeze and persistent slapping of water against the hull.

Zuko crouched behind a wooden crate and scanned the deck. There were more than a dozen pirates playing cards in the moonlight and who knew how many more aboard the ship. With the moon shining brightly in the sky Zuko knew Katara would have been a force to be reckoned with, but he could not say the same for his firebending, and he was disappointed in how weak he felt -from hunger, thirst, likely concussion, and not to mention residual effects of whatever Jian had been using to keep him unconscious.

He was contemplating the slim likelihood of stealing away unnoticed with one of the small boats tied to the side of the ship when the gull-rat squawked at him. At first, he ignored it -at any given moment any seaside town or boat was always under the assault of the persistent creature and its horrible fecal habits- but when it continued to tilt its head at him in curiosity he recalled the companions the pirates he had met several years ago kept…The gull-rat’s call was louder the second time and Zuko swore as its owner, walking away from the card table with a fistful of coins and a drunken grin, blinked at the sight of the prisoner wandering freely.

It was really not his day. Zuko sprinted for the boat he had been eyeing early, bending a blast of flame at the ropes that held it to the main ship and hoping he would not be far behind the vessel as it crashed loudly into the ocean below. The gambling crew were all armed now, and though a few teetered from the effects of what was decidedly not the calming tea Iroh was always drinking, many looked formidable opponents. A circle was already closing around Zuko who searched desperately for an opening.

The Fire Lord managed to dodge two pirates who swung rusty blades at him and pushed back three more with a ball of flame. Seeing an opening in the ranks, he dashed wildly for the side of the ship, glancing back only once when an arrow whizzed past his shoulder.

Once was one time too many. He crashed right into the short, skinny pirate that had stopped by his cell to speak with Jian and they collapsed to the deck in a painful twist of limbs. Before Zuko could roll away the short pirate had pinned him and grabbed both his wrists.

-----

“I’ll save you from the pirates,” she whispered, grinning as the confusion on his handsome face turned to joy when she removed the ridiculous hat she wore so he could see her. His smile was everything, she hadn’t realized just how much she had missed it -instantly warming her from the inside out.  

“Katara!” He sat up and pulled her into a tight embrace, kissing the top of her head and breathing in the smell of her hair.

She was disappointed when he broke away to stand. It was understandable though. The pirates were racing towards them -even the gull-rat was giving chase.

“I knocked a boat into the water, if we can just swim to it…” Zuko eyed the railings of the ship unhappily, no doubt imagining the long drop.

“And then what?” Katara asked, drawing water from the ocean and forming two whips over both her arms.

“We, uh, we go?” Zuko offered.

She fought back a bubble of laughter. “You really don’t think things through. Zuko, they can just chase us! They’d catch us in no time in this larger ship. Was that really your plan?”

He fumbled for words, cheeks flushing furiously with embarrassment.

Katara lashed out at the first wave of pirates, tripping them with one long tendril of water. “Zuko, you’re a firebender, set the ship on fire!” She looked away as a stray pirate broke rank to try and shoot them with his bow. A jet of water aimed sharply by Katara eliminated that immediate problem. “You are the Fire Lord, how did you not think of this?” This time the laughter escaped her, his befuddled expression too cute to take.

“I, uh.. Okay, I’m pretty sure I have a concussion... and potentially still some drugs in my system?” he admitted, punching the air with his fists, sending fire at the pirates and the sails of the ship. Soon the entire deck was dancing with the dangerous orange glow.

“That’s our cue!” Katara declared, and grabbed his hand. “Ready?” She stepped up onto the railing of the ship and he followed.

They balanced precariously for a moment, her hair spinning wildly in the wind, before jumping into the air, stomachs dropping for a brief exhilarating second before Katara froze a wave to slide them towards the empty boat bobbing in the waves. A miscalculation on her part landed them in frigid ocean water that stole both their breaths away.

Katara was first to pull herself into the boat, flopping wetly into the wooden hull. She giggled at the sight of Zuko, hair spiked every which way by the ocean, arms flung desperately over the side of the boat kicking furiously to pull himself into the raft. Taking mercy on a Fire Bender out of his element, she helped him aboard. Together they looked back at the burning pirate ship, observing the frantic shadows of the crew moving about with buckets of water. Still, Katara did not wait long to begin moving their vessel to the small cove nearby where she had anchored her Fire Nation ship.

Only when they were confident that no one had pursued them to the sandy shores and were safely sailing towards home aboard her borrowed ship did they rest, allowing the wind to do the work for them. They collapsed, laying on the deck, staring skyward at a ceiling of stars, and Zuko gently pulled Katara against him. She reveled in the familiar beat of his heart beneath her as she settled her head on his chest.

She felt him shake as he laughed quietly. “I still can’t believe I didn’t think, to... Burn the ship?”

Katara reached for a small bit of water and it glowed as she reached a hand back to touch the side of his head. “Better?” she asked after a moment.

“Yeah, much. Thank you…” he sighed and leaned his scarred face into her healing palm. “I can’t say this was the reunion I was imagining.”

“I don’t know…” She looked up at him, the beginnings of a soft smile tugging at her lips. “We’re even now,” she teased, bumping him playfully. “And it was kind of fun... Reminds me of how far we’ve come.” How different things were since the last time they had encountered pirates -and not just his hair, though thank the spirits for that.

“Just another day in the life of the Fire Lord I guess,” Zuko replied wistfully, a hand playing with the end of one of her curls.

“I mean, I’m not saying you should do it again… ”

“Not without you... “Never without you,” he promised -and to Katara’s delight, sealed the oath by placing his lips against hers.

[wildlittlefoxsworld]

The Promise | The Old Guard | Nicky and Joe

Summary: Joe and Nicky need some rest after the incidents from the past days. Joe saw his husband in pain and feared he could lose him forever. Booker betrayed Andy and his family and Joe can't forgive, not yet. He want Nicky for him alone and promise to worship him and show him his love on every way possible.

Author's Note: So, I watched The Old Guard on Netflix and it was awesome. I already saw it four times :) I wrote my first fanfiction in this fandom, it's about Nicky and Joe. I hope you enjoy, it's maybe the fluffiest fanfiction I've ever wrote before.

Warnings: fluff, smut

It's on AO3

***

“Hundred years. That's my last word,” Andy said in a demanding voice that tolerated no protest. She stood up and went outside the door of the little café. Nile looked after her and then with soft eyes at Joe.

“It’s not enough. I don’t want to see him again. I hate him,” Joe mumbled to himself and glared hatefully outside the window. He was in rage, because of Booker they stumbled in the trap like helpless animals. It was his fault that they captured them and then he remembered the moments when his beloved one was hurt.

Yes, Nicolò lived, but he suffered and Joe couldn’t forget the painful look on his face and he couldn’t forget his own breath-taking pain when he waited the seconds until Nicky came back to life. And above all of this he couldn’t forgive Booker his betrayal.

Joe sensed a warm hand on his forearm that caressed the skin gently and his eyes flickered to the side. Light blue eyes watched him worriedly and immediately all his anger was dragged back behind black curtains in his head and was replaced with a tender feeling of love that spread through his body. Nicky was all he needed and all he ever wanted.

Nicky tried to soothe his fear of losing him and he succeeded most of the time, but today it was differently. Nicky couldn’t dispel the sadness in Joe’s eyes and this worried him much more. He only wanted to see him smile at him. Joe tried a weak smile, but failed when Andy came back to them.

Joe wanted to leave, he didn’t want to stay longer in the presence of the traitor and he would only find peace when he hold his husband securely in his arms.

“Let’s go,” Andy spoke firmly and reached for Nile’s hand to drag her out of the building and the couple followed them. They all grew fond of Nile in the past days and now she was part of them. Joe knew she would protect her no matter what. He just hoped that she would stay strong and never turned her back on them like Booker did. Maybe with time he could understand why he did what he did, Nile suggested earlier and he just shook his head and then shrugged his shoulders. It would need a long time, but before this would happen, his anger needed to fade. In the moment his anger was a burning flame in his chest.

Joe sat in the backseat with Nicky at his side. They were holding hands and getting lost in each other’s eyes. He breathed in deeply and Nicky squeezed his hand to let him know he was there, he would be always there.

“Each of my thoughts are about you,” Nicky whispered so only Joe could hear it and smiled lovingly at the muslim warrior. Joe called himself a lucky man to own something so fragile and precious like Nicky's heart and his heart belonged to Nicky.

He shoved his hand in the neck of the Italian man and pulled him in a eager kiss, their lips moved in perfect harmony after centuries of practice. “Each of my thoughts about you are improper,” he chuckled and pecked the corner of the other’s mouth. “I thought you would say something romantic, I liked it very much yesterday,” his boyfriend pouted.

“I promise that tonight I will be as romantic as I can be and worship every part of you,” Joe vowed.

“Keep your hands to yourself,” Andy admonished them like they were infants and all of them laughed.

“Yes, boss,” Joe replied dutifully and leaned back in the seat, but his eyes never left Nicky's figure and he couldn’t await until they would be finally alone.

Well, it took half of the day until his wishes came true and they arrived at the hotel they chose to spend the night. Andy assured him that they weren’t in rush and they would stay maybe another night.

Joe didn’t need to hear more and ushered Nicky in direction of their room. His lover only laughed with a shaking head, but let himself pushed gently forward. He knew how impatient Joe sometimes was, but he understood, he wanted Joe as well all to himself tonight.

Nicky put his bag on one of the armchairs in the small hotel room and in the next second he felt how strong arms wrapped around his waist. Wet lips trailed over the skin on his neck and placed tiny kisses under his ear. “You can’t wait, I knew it,” he exclaimed when Joe bit gently down and watched the red skin turned pale again. Sadly Joe could never leave love marks on this perfect body, but the little moments it lingered were burned in his memory.

Joe slid his own jacket off afore and now he helped Nicky out of his coat. Underneath he wore a simple grey shirt and Joe wanted this off as well. But he rather took his time with him later.

Joe inhaled the unique scent of Nicky when he looped his arms around him again. The other man relished the near and buried his face in the crook of Joe’s neck. “Let’s take a hot bath together and we cuddle in bed and I show you how much I adore you,” Joe suggested and Nicky loved and cherished Joe’s dedication to take care of him.

“Do you mind to prepare the bathtub? I will join you in a minute,” Joe suggested and run with spread fingers through Nicky’s hair and tugged at the roots slightly. A little moan escaped his pretty pink lips and Joe were thrilled to hear more of them. “You make the most exquisite noises.”

Nicky lose the hug and Joe saw a faint of blush on his cheeks. “You look pretty in red,” Joe teased him.

Nicky shook his head laughing.

“I hope to make you blush again tonight, but we're not in hurry.”

“Yeah, I like it more if we take it slow,” Nicky agreed and gave Joe a soft kiss that turned into slowly and tenderly making out. No one desired to let go of the other and their tongues touched shyly like the first times they explored their bodies.

“I’ll go in the bathroom before you forgot your promise.” With a wink Nicky disappeared behind the wooden door and Joe heard the swoosh of the water running in the tub. He was in hurry to fumble the things out of his bag. He placed everything on the bed he bought earlier at their stop at the gas station. He knew it wasn’t the finest things, but for Nicky he will made it perfect.

Joe placed the cream-colored candles on the nightstands and the dresser opposite to the bed. The soft light formed shadows on the walls and created a cosy atmosphere. He throw their blankets, they carried everywhere with them, across the king-sized bed and prepared champagne flutes.

Meanwhile Nicky discarded himself of his clothes and folded them neatly on the floor. He found some lavender scented bath essence and poured a little amount in the water. Foam spread on the surface in a faint lilac shade. He glided down in the tub and welcomed the warmth in his weary bones.

“You didn’t wait for me?” Joe mocked him as he entered the bathroom and Nicky opened his eyes lazy.

“Come then and join me,” Nicky allured him and shifted forwards when Joe touched his shoulders to climb behind him in the water. He leaned back against Joe’s chest and Joe traced patterns over his arms. His eyes flattered shut when Joe expanded his touch to chest and gasped when the digits grazed his nipples. Joe chuckled and then his mouth was on Nicky’s ear, nibbling on the earlobe. He knew it drove him crazy and the gasping turned into panting when his nails scratched over the sensitive skin on the chest.

Nicky was consumed with longing for his touch and especially for his kiss. He turned his head to the side, one hand was shoved in Joe’s hair, fingers turned in a fist and pulled him closer to connect their lips. Nicky licked demanding into his mouth and Joe didn’t hesitate to meet him. It was like their bodies were on fire and shocks of lust let them shiver.

Nicky showed him exactly how much he desired him, only him, it would be always him. In this kiss was all of his love, even if it went messy and uncoordinated, they loved it.

“If you keep going… amore mio, it will be over too soon. Do you want this?” Joe warned him in lovingly tone and Nicky watched him considered. “Sounds tempting, but I want you worship me. Maybe tomorrow,” he answered smiling.

“As you wish, darling. Hand me the washcloth.” Nicky did like he was told and he enjoyed how Joe rubbed every inch of his skin with the soft fabric. He almost purred when skilled fingers washed his hair and massaged the scalp.

“You can do magic with your fingers, all my bones feel like jelly. I don't think I can stand alone,” Nicky observed and moaned low when Joe lowered his hands to his still tensed muscles of shoulders and back. “Don't worry, I'll carry you over to the bed.”

“Always a gentleman. I appreciate that,” Nicky replied and Joe knew he was smiling. Nicky loved to be spoiled and Joe wouldn't hesitate to fulfill all of his lover's wishes.

“Do you want to go in the bedroom?” Nicky asked after they relaxed for another twenty minutes in the warm water after he washed Joe's body too. Absently Joe played with a few strands of Nicky's hair, but he nodded and kissed Nicky's temple.

“You got all wrinkly,” Joe laughed and reached for the green towel to rub himself dry. Nicky was next and like always Joe helped him, because he couldn't keep his hands off Nicky.

They couldn't resist when they were so close that they felt the breath of the other on their faces. Eyes stayed locked for a few heartbeats and then their lips collided tenderly, only pressed together and they remained in position listening to each other's breathing. When they broke the kiss no words were needed to say.

Joe took care if emptying the bath tub after he wrapped Nicky into a bigger towel and he sat down on a stool.

“You look cute with your wet and messy hair,” Joe noticed and Nicky snorted playfully. “Yesterday I was sexy, what's about that?”

Joe gave him a side glance. “Now you're cute, but later while moaning and my fingers do their magic you'll be very sexy.”

“I'm looking forward,” Nicky retorted and licked his lips. He knew what Joe's promise meant, the focus will be on him tonight. Joe will devour him in every way possible.

With one hand Joe covered Nicky's eyes and with the other hand me maneuvered him safely to the bedroom.

“What kind of surprise is this?” Nicky asked curiously. He didn't get an answer, but the hand disappeared and his eyes widenend in astonishment.

“You are truly romantic. You know how to treat your husband right,” Nicky complimented and smiled happily at Joe.

“Only the best for you.”

Joe took Nicky's face in his hands and stroked over his cheekbones. “You are the most beautiful man I've ever seen,” Joe said awestruck. Even after all this years Nicky got butterflies in his stomach from Joe's words.

Nicky let the towel fall from his shoulders and placed his hand on Joe's hip. “I'm all yours, forever.”

Joe didn't want to wait any longer. He kissed the man he loved with every ounce of his heart and guided him slowly back until Nicky felt the edge of the bed against his legs.

Joe pushed him down and Nicky let himself fall, but propped his body up on the lower arms.

His eyes roamed the body he knew so well and he was still mesmerized. “I want you to lay back and only feel. Can you do that for me?,” Joe instructed him.

With a chuckle Nicky made himself comfortable on the soft pillows and noticed their blankets on the bed. “You make every place to feel like home.”

“You're my home,” Joe whispered and crawled over his husband to kiss his nose, his cheeks and chin, spend a little more time on the neck and started with open mouthed kisses on his collarbone.

In the process Nicky closed his eyes and enjoyed the alone time with Joe. It was so rarely that they had time to love each other, to make love to each other.

“Your body is a piece of art,” Joe said while his fingers traced the outlines of Nicky's rips.

“You are not skimping on compliments, and I don't complain…” His voice cracked and a moan slipped from his mouth when Joe's tongue circled around his nipple.

“I just say the truth.”

But Joe told no more compliments and he kissed and licked over and sucked on Nicky's body to arouse him in a maximum, to make Nicky moaning and groaning. He wiggled under Joe's talented mouth and the caressing and massaging with his warm hands drove him wild. Nicky begged to be touched, he whispered “more” in italian and “please” in arabic, desperated and yearningly.

Joe avoided the area between Nicky's legs on purpose. He was a man who hold his word and he savored every moment of Nicky's noises from pleasure.

Nicky knew that he wasn't teased by Joe or punished, it was a delicate torture. But he also knew that his release would come soon. He saw the glint of mishiev in Joe's brown eyes and the promise that he will recieve an unforgetable pleasure.

With a lovingly smile Joe reached with one hand under the pillows and grabbed a little bottle.

Nicky's body prickled from excitement as he recognised the substance in the bottle.

“Are ready for me? Do you want me to make you feel good?” Joe asked for his consent and Nicky fisted the sheets between his fingers, his head nodding eagerly.

“Is there someone needy?” Joe teased.

“No teasing today, tesoro mio. Per favore,” Nicky begged. “You promised.”

Joe couldn't deny his lover anything and his fingers worked carefully as penetrated Nicky's lower parts. He prepared him conscientiously and Nicky's breathing increased like his heartbeat. With every little movement he moaned delighted.

“Look at you, I’ve only started using my fingers and you’ve already shaking,” Joe observed stunned that he could still make his husband falling apart from incredible pleasure. He loved that he was the cause for Nicky's condition. Panting, sweating, skin flushed pink, eyes scrunched and lips half parted.

“I love the sounds you make when you come undone. You're doing so good,” Joe praised. He could held himself back, but he was painfully errected and didn't want to wait any longer to take his husband.

“My love… I want to make you mine…,” Joe required yearningly, but he searched for Nicky's eyes and a silence questions was asked.

“Yes, yes, make me yours. Make love to me,” Nicky whined and Joe didn't hestitate to thrust into him slowly. Nicky wrapped his legs around his lover's slim waist, Joe leaned over him with his arms aroubd Nicky's shoulders and they began to rock their bodies.

It was intimate, lovingly, tenderly and above all agonizingly slow. They looked deep in each other's eyes and forgot the world around them.

Eventually Joe picked up a quicker pace, because both of them were at the end of their strenghts to delay the climax.

“Yusuf, just like that, don't stop,” Nicky shouted and a few seconds later behind his eyelids exploded a firework. He was in a pure bliss and Joe joined him just a moment later with Nicky's name on his lips.

“Can we stay like this forever?” Nicky mumbled when he laid with his head on Joe's chest. Joe tightened his arms around him and snuggled closer to him.

“For now. Tomorrow we'll maybe fight again. But you will have me forever… as long as you want me,” Joe answered with a sleepy voice, he was very tired.

“I could never want anyone else but you. Now sleep, my love. I'll be here when you wake up,” Nicky assured him.

***

What do you think?

[lightsong-legacy]

A Fox’s Past

Lost. 

‘This information may change your…..’

Angry.

‘She was not what she said she was.’

Betrayed.

There were swarms of emotions filling the young woman, finding herself not within her Isle home but instead within the walls of her adopted family to hide out the legions of undead that were running rampant within the major cities. But, she couldn’t get her mind off of the events of the last few weeks. Meeting her ‘cousin’ Annalise and learning of the true past of her birth mother weighed heavily as she hid with her twins behind the walls of Lightsong. Something both of her adopted mothers could see quite clearly. 

It came to a head after they found her brooding once more in the garden as the twins were kept busy in the nursey with their ‘grandmother’ Lys. “Lya...If you need t-” Casial started, only to be shushed by Asphodel’s raised hand. “Callyanne. What is it you need to feel peace again? Even the twins can feel you drawing away and becoming stuck within your own thoughts. Do you need us to ease the memory from your mind? Do you need to go fight with the guards for a time to get this out of your system? Or do you need closure? Be swift. During times like this, we cannot afford to be stuck within our own sorrow.” Asphodel’s voice was a bit clipped, distant but she knew it was what her daughter needed at this moment. She didn’t need to be coddled or consoled, but instead reminded of what was at stake and why they needed her here. Not within her thoughts.

The clipped tone made her blink a few times, turning to regard the two elves. They were the ones who were there. Who raised her patiently and lovingly through the traumas she endured. Who were there when she needed them through all her mistakes and growth. But even they could ease the grip she felt on her heart. Before she could think on it too much, the words came tumbling from her lips. “I need to go back. I need to see my old home and just...I need to understand -why-.” But the request felt impossible. How could she go back there? A home lost to her so long ago, she wasn’t even sure where she would start looking. Knowing the forest had long reclaimed that land if the undead had not utilized it.

“Then it is settled. I will have a portal made, it is not a place I would have forgotten. Get in your armor and take your blades, if you get killed searching for your answers I will be very cross with you.” Before she could be argued with, Asphodel turned on her heel and headed towards her office to begin her work. Casial giving Lya an apologetic smile. “She’s worried, we all are Callyane. But, perhaps this will be good for you. I too had to return home before, to remember where I had come from and what my purpose was. We will be here when you’re ready to move on.” The Confessor softly assured, resting a hand on her adopted daughter’s shoulder before moving to follow her elder sister to assist how she could.

Dumbfounded, Lya was standing there for a few moments, watching the elves make their way out of the garden before they disappeared behind the roses that lined the path. Was this really happening? Was she really going home? The grip at her heart grew tighter, what if she found out more that was distressing? What if she lost herself? What if their bodies were still…

No.

Her ma was expecting her to be ready soon and it was never wise to leave Asphodel waiting. So instead she prepared, moving first to the nursery to check in on her twins. The five year olds playing under the doting gaze of their ‘great’ grandmother Lys. The elven woman settled her gaze on Lya as she came in to say her goodbyes and explain she was just leaving for a few days on business, but would be back soon enough. Earning pouts from her son Dawson though Casilyn set her with a stare that did not seem to accept the reasons she was given, but she didn’t question. At least not yet, as Lya gave Lys her bravest smile, that was returned with a slow raise of an eyebrow from the elven matriarch. “Remember, we all have to make choices at times my dear little orchid. Sometimes it is best to just accept and move on.” The older woman advised, of course seeming to know all that happened within the walls of her home. Of course, the emotional woman wanted to argue, but she had long learned that at times it was best to just smile and nod towards the Matriarch. Arguing with her was always a losing battle.

Giving the twins one last kiss, she slipped from the room and headed back to her own. Her mind flooded with thoughts and fears as she moved to pack and prepare. The old armor clinging to her like a well fitting glove, blades familiar in her hands before she slid them into their sheathes. Now was the time. It was a time of answers. To dispel the shadows and confusion of her childhood and to uncover what she could. She knew it was unlikely anything would be there, but she had to try. Lya had to at least know that she gave it her best effort to find the truth before she would let these thoughts ease in her mind once more. Casial was no longer within the workroom when Callyanne arrived, instead it was just Asphodel and the spell circle she had prepared with a box in her hands. “Sometimes, when we go searching for answers. We get answers we are not prepared for, or that we did not want.” The woman stated in a neutral tone, brushing her hand along the box before offering it to the human. “If you feel you are ready to face that, and willing to accept whatever answer you get. Open the box within your old home. It will help you further. But, if you go there and you are unready...Then bury it, and with it bury these emotions that cloud you.” And with that she thrusted the box within her hands causing Lya to fumble to hold the dark wood close. She could feel a thrum of magic from within the darkwood. It made her shudder with unease, but she knew better than to question the magic Asphodel offered. “When you’re ready to return home, you know how to reach me. Now, go. Before you lose your nerve.” A wave of power filled the air around them, arcane sparking around the spell circle until a portal formed within. “Ma…” Lya started, earning a withering look from the older elf who was so sure that her daughter was about to chicken out once more. “...No matter what. Thank you, for everything.” That withering look softened at Lya’s words, but the young woman made her way through the portal before either of them could say much more. Leaving Asphodel to watch the magic flicker out, the grip on her own heart lessening just a tad. She would be here, waiting for when her daughter needed her, no matter how long it took.

Travelling by portal always left Lya feeling lightheaded and sick, biting at her cheek to keep herself from the urge to just collapse as she found herself in the woods. For a moment, she thought perhaps her mother was wrong, that she had sent her to the wrong place. Still clutching that box close she spun, trying to get her bearings when she noticed the cracked and half broken chimney and the dilapidated house it was attached to.

The sight stole the breath from her lungs as if she just took a punch straight to the gut. 

It was home.

Her home.

The remnants of what had been the posts for clotheslines knocked astray, the chimney crumbling and the front door knocked askew. There were no signs of undead or bodies around the cottage that The Matthews had called home, though that did not stop her from slipping into the shadows before she drew closer. 

There was the tree her father had hung a swing from, and the bench that Lysian had gotten proposed to at. The sight of such places in disrepair was almost enough to drive her to tears, but she was on a mission. She needed answers and not just a trip down memory lane. Finally taking a deep breath and swallowing down her fear, Lya made her way into her old home. And it was like a time capsule, untouched in all the years she had been away. Her mother’s favorite cast iron cookware still hung on the walls yet rusted from neglect, the table covered with dark blue tablecloth sporting more holes than cloth nowadays. Moving to the center of the room she just sat down, clutching the box Asphodel had given her as she looked around a place that used to be filled with such light and laughter. A home that welcomed all, carefully created by Lyn Matthews and pondered if she was really a woman who would have kept that big of a secret.

Would she have kept her children from a whole family of support? And if so...Why? “Why…Why would you be out here? Of all places, why run from your own family? Annalise does not seem bad...You had brothers, a mother and father. What would drive you to give all that up?” The young woman asked the shadows, but not even the wind stirred to answer her. 

But, was she really ready for any answer she would receive? Could she accept it if the loving mother she had known was truly a selfish woman who abandoned her family? 

There was only one way to find out.

That box thrummed in her hands, and only seemed to grow in power as she sat there, lost in her own thoughts. Usually magic like this would terrify Callyanne. But, at this moment, her need to know outweighed the fear in her heart. Her hand shook, gripping the lid until she grew white-knuckled before prying it off…

The first thing she felt was cold, unimaginable cold as an unnatural darkness filled the room. Lya felt her back against the ground, her gaze up at the stars above visible through the holes within the thatch roof of her childhood cottage. Was it a trap? Some sort of lesson that at times you just need to be knocked on your back to get your head in order? She was thinking of some choice words for her adopted mother about using magic like that just to scare her before a voice made her grow pale. “My little fox…” A soft pained voice whispered, her tone loving yet sad as it held an unnatural echo to it. For a moment she could not move, she couldn’t even breathe until Lya finally forced herself up to sit and in front of her on the ground sat the ethereal image of her mother. Her auburn hair twisted up in the no nonsense bun that Lyn had always wore, a simple gown with an apron on her form and prayer beads wrapped around her wrist as always. “Momma…” Lya’s voice cracked, tears beginning to freely spill as she stared at the older woman. “Momma....Momma I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I was such a shite child, and I put you through so much pain. And that I was never...I was never able to make you proud. I couldn’t keep Matthias safe either, I lost him Momma. I lost him and its all my fa-” Before the guilt ridden words could leave her, the ghost of her mother drew forward, bringing a hand up to shush her youngest. “Hush...Hush, I didn’t raise you to talk about yourself in that way.” Lyn whispered, trying to console her daughter the best she could. “None of my children were shite, as you so lovingly put it. You all just grew in your own ways. And you were never meant to be your brother’s keeper Lya. He was your elder sibling, and while it pains me, I made my peace long ago. The important thing is that you’re alive. You are alive and you have a loving family and beautiful children. You cannot keep blaming yourself for the past Callyanne. You were just a little girl, and we asked so much of you when we told you to run. I asked so much of you...To see the magic you held, and to know I chose to let you learn it your own way instead of helping you with it. That is a regret I have to live with. That if I had trained you...Maybe you would not have struggled for so long. If I had just gotten that letter out in time…” The woman sighed, leaning closer and resting her ghostly forehead against Lya’s. “We don’t have much time. This magic will not last forever, but in time, if you grow your skills you can learn ways to talk to me when you need me. But, for now...I will try to answer the questions you came here for.” Her words made Lya pause, that hand around her heart gripping tighter even as her mother tried to soothe her. “Trained me...Regret...Does that mean...That you..” “Yes Cally...Your cousin is correct. I am a Harlowe. Anastasia Harlowe by birth.” Her words were soft, but it didn’t ease the blow that came to Lya. “Did father kn-” “Yes...He knew, I had explained my past to him before we married. But, to him it didn’t matter. I was Lyn now, I was his Lyn.” Speaking of her husband brought a soft, bittersweet smile to the spirit’s lips. “But, why...Why hide this from us?” “The truth is never so easy to explain Cally. Your sister knew, but you and your brother were not old enough...I had planned to say something by the time you two were ready to strike out on your own. But, we didn’t get enough time. And even now...My time is limited. Just know, there is darkness in the house my little fox. But it doesn’t always hide in the shadows. I loved my family, with all I was. But, I could not support the choices they made, so I had to take my leave. I wouldn’t let them choose my destiny for me. Instead I followed the call of the Light and trusted where it took me. But, you have allies there, there is one person who knew of you. Who knew where I was, but I can only assume he thought us all dead when he never heard from me again. Solomon, my eldest brother and knight of the House. I wish I could tell you more. I wish...I could give you all my knowledge and help keep you safe. But even now the magic wanes.” Her form began to slowly fade in and out, the magic that had been held within the box beginning to fade. “No...No mother please. Please don’t leave. I can’t...I have so much more to ask. I..” Once more, Lyn rested her forehead against Lya’s as tears ran down the young woman’s face. “Momma, please don’t leave me again. I’m scared…I’m so scared…” And with that, the resolve was broken, and even the spirit seemed to weep. “You’re scared, because you’re smart Cally. My little clever fox...Go under my bed, there is a lockbox. I know now that you should be able to open it. My diary can explain more, and the letters...Just know. I am so proud. So proud of you. And I will always love you little fox. We all will always be here, and we will always love you.” Her words began to ebb off, even as Lya seemed to desperately try to grip onto the spirit, only to fall through and be left gripping the dust on the ground. A wail left her, uncaring of who or what might hear. It was the keening of a woman who felt her loss all over again, to have someone she loved and missed for so long, only be here for the briefest moments. Though her questions were answered, she knew Asphodel had been right. It wasn’t the knowledge she was worried that Lya couldn’t handle, no, but instead it was the knowledge that their meeting would be brief. It was knowing that the grief would come back fresh once more, and the fear that Lya wouldn’t be able to gather herself from it again.

But, she had grown stronger in the past few years. Though she keened and screamed her grief to the heavens, mourning once more the loss of the childhood she was robbed of, and the family ripped from her grasp.

Several moments later, the woman finally picked herself up from the ground, the tears dried to her face as she moved past the broken door to her parents room. The room where she would snuggle up with the loving pair reading her passages from their holy texts, or putting on shadow puppet shows for the siblings to distract them from storms that raged outside. The memories felt empty as she reached under the bed to find the lockbox her mother had mentioned. Her hands gently tracing along the cedar box and the fox insignia carved into the top. The box that would give her all her answers, and that would shed true light onto the messy history of Anastasia Harlowe...Lyn Matthews, and all those steps in between. Sitting on the ground, she took her time opening the box. Revealing at first a choker necklace, a cameo with the image of a dancing fox that held a locket. Inside were the image of a couple on one side and two similar looking men on the other. While the faces seemed familiar to Lya now, she couldn’t quite place them. So for now the necklace was placed aside revealing a letter addressed but never sent. And that name her mother had mentioned written on the envelope. 

Solomon.

Trembling fingers moved to grip the letter opening the seal and peering inside;

My dearest Omen,

I hope this letter reaches you in better conditions than we are having here. Rumors of plague are running rampant and even Henry fears that things may find their way out of control soon enough. I am writing this in hopes that you may be able to help. I know it is a lot to ask, especially with how I left things with Alley-cat, and everyone else and it puts you in a strange position. But, you are the only one I trust. I have already explained everything to my oldest, the other two. They don’t know the truth yet, but in time I hope you can explain it fair better than I could. 

My little Callyanne is showing gifts in shadow magic that remind me of the magic of our family. It scares me, and I keep telling myself I will explain things to her and guide her. But, I scare myself into not doing it each time. I don’t want her to lose herself but I fear that training her might draw the attention of one of our brother’s people. 

Bah, but here I go, rambling again and getting off topic. As their godfather, I want you to take in my children. Lysian will send this letter out once her and the children get to a safe place and add the location of where they are hiding. With luck they may find refuge with some of my husband’s elven allies. You would like them I think, the husband trains spellbreakers. I pray that this letter reaches you well and in time we can all be reunited. Henry and I just know that the children will be safer far from here instead of having to watch us assist with these trying times. I know you’ll love your nephew, he has a strong presence on the training grounds as you did when we were kids.

And Cally will steal your heart and your dessert tarts before you know it, so watch out. She’s a slippery one, but such a caring young girl. I fear you may be wrapped around her finger in no time as you were to me when we were young.

Just...If this is to be my last letter. If things do not turn out the way I pray. Just know that I love you Solomon. I never blamed you or held you at fault for why I had to leave. And what happens next is not your fault. Sometimes, stories just have to come to an end. Just please, please watch out for my children. Perhaps I did them a disservice, trying to raise them with compassion and grace instead of teaching them to strive for strength. Perhaps the world will try to drive their compassion from them.

But, don’t let this world break their spirit. I beg this of you. 

And don’t let the loss of me break yours either.

With all my love always,

Anastasia Harlowe

By the time Lya and finished reading the letter, she could feel fresh tears on her cheeks. Her mother had prepared, she had wanted to get them out. But, it was too late. Before they could leave, the undead were upon them. And in the chaos, the plan was abandoned.

But, this was not her letter to keep, and if there was one thing Lya could do for her mother. It was at least to get her last thoughts to the person she wanted to have them. Finally, her hand moved to a bell at her ear, a spark of magic coming from it as Asphodel stepped out of a portal shortly after, offering a hand to her daughter on the ground. “Did you find what you needed Lya?” The elf asked in a softer tone than before. “I think I did Ma...I think I did…” She placed the contents of the box back, taking it with her as she took her adopted mother’s hand and let her draw her into the portal and back home. The next morning, a simple letter was drafted and sent out to Solomon with her mother’s final letter attached.

‘Honorable Solomon,

You don’t know me, though we’ve seen each other in passing within the Crow’s Nest. I know you may have suspected or heard from Annalise, but let me officially say that. 

Yes. I am Anastasia’s daughter. My mother’s true past was hidden from me all my life, but now I have found my peace and how to move on from it all. I hope that this letter can offer the same to you. I found it amongst her things, and felt that she would want you to have it. Even now.

I hope we can truly meet sometime soon.

Respectfully, Callyanne Matthews’

@annaliseharlowe​ @solomonharlowe​

[justanother-unluckysoul]

Working My Way Back To You 5/?

Killian gets captured. When Emma finally rescues him, he’s traumatized and nearly broken from the torture he endured. Angst and h/c galore as Emma helps him through it.

I tried to go easy on the whumpy side of it since it’s supposed to be for Comfortember, but it’s me so I probably failed lol

Thank you for your continued support of my little story! Today we have some Killian POV for the prompts “PTSD” and “Emotional Support Pet.” (because Emma's headspace is hard to get into for me lol) Killian is physically healed enough to leave the hospital, but his mental wounds remain…

No special warnings for this chapter.

Also, this is unbeta-d so forgive my errors.

If anyone would like to be tagged in future chapters so they won’t miss them, let me know :)

Read this chapter on AO3

Working My Way Back To You 

PTSD + Emotional Support Pet

Killian wakes at dawn, tugged from the comfort of sleep by the throbbing in his fingers, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. He’s so damn tired of waking up in misery. The doctor had decreased his medication, the one that dulled both the sharp edges of his pain and of his thoughts, leaving him clear minded at last, but hurting more than he’d ever let on. Emma’s still in the chair next to his bed, bent forward with her head resting on her forearms on the mattress, snoring softly. She’s supposed to have slept in the other bed, but after she’d woken Killian from his twisted dreams for the third time that night, she must have been too exhausted to move again. Killian closes his eyes, shame and frustration washing over him.

It’s been eight days since her and David dragged him out of that accursed cellar. The first few days, he mostly just slept, and wrestled with his nightmares, waking each morning feeling no better for the sleep he’d had. People – his friends – wanted to visit him but he declined them all after that first visit from Snow and David. Killian didn’t want anyone else to see him in this state, weakened and exhausted and flinching at every new sound, every sudden movement. His body felt like the string of a bow, constantly pulled tight, and the walks in the hospital garden didn’t help as there were always other people out there. He needed some quiet, and there was never a moment of that in this place. He needed some peace. Some release from this tension. Most of all, he just needed people to stop looking at him. And the stitches on his hand began to itch terribly as the wounds healed, further adding to his frustration. The doctor and the nurses bore the brunt of Killian’s dark mood, and he felt rotten for it, but he couldn’t stop himself lashing out. It was all he could do to remain civil with Emma.

But slowly, his anger had shifted into something like resignation – a hollow, empty feeling in his chest as he came to terms with what’s been done to him. Emma has hardly left his side since his rescue, and Killian feels so guilty that she must help him with everything now. His beautiful, perfect Swan. He’d tried his best to dispel the awkwardness, but there’s really nothing that can take away how humiliating using the bathroom is without a functional hand. Emma took it all in her stride, of course. She’d shaved his beard down the way he liked, fed him, dressed him, bathed him… And having Emma’s assistance with showering, now that was a bit of fun. She placed some manner of waterproof bag over his hand so the stitches would stay dry, tying it closed around his wrist to keep out the spray, and laughed when Killian commented on how brilliant the design of this ‘waterproof hand bag’ was. Because apparently, a hand bag was something else entirely, and this thing on his hand had actually been designed for a completely different use. But it worked well – as did Emma’s hands bathing him, and Killian smirks and his tongue darts out to wet his lips at that extremely pleasing memory, Emma’s stifled giggle and shut up, Killian, someone’s going to hear you. He definitely wants to experience that again in the privacy of their own home and this time he’d grab Emma and… The image in his mind falters because he still has the splints bracing his fingers, and the doctor says he can’t remove that for a while yet. Well, no matter, he’ll use his mouth then. And they could make as much noise as they wanted. Emma would-

“Killian, what are you thinking about?”

Emma’s looking at him with a sleepy, confused expression. He wonders how long she’s been awake.

“Oh, nothing, just… thinking how satisfying showering in our own home will feel tonight.”

And he lets his eyes blaze heatedly into hers as he slowly swipes his tongue across his lips, adding a little bounce of his eyebrows just to really make his meaning clear. It gets the reaction he’d hoped. Emma’s mouth drops open slightly and her face flushes, her mind obviously conjuring up a truly wonderful image of them in said shower.

“Killian,” she squeaks, glancing at the closed door in case someone has overheard him.

There’s nobody there, of course, and Killian gives her a wicked grin. She’s always been so much fun to tease.

 Killian’s briefly agreeable mood evaporates when the doctor comes in after breakfast, for his final examination to ensure Killian is well enough to leave. The daily exams have been gruelling, the doctor’s touch triggering memories he’d rather not have, and it’s only Emma’s steadying presence at his side that keeps him complying with them. Now as the doctor presses his stethoscope against Killian’s ribs he has to resist the urge to fight. Or to run. He’s not sure which compulsion is going to win out in the end.

“Take a deep breath for me,” the doctor instructs.

Killian does, wincing slightly at the consequential jabs of pain. Emma had done a marvellous job healing him, but it seemed that by the time she’d focused on his broken ribs, either her magic or just her concentration had begun to waver, leaving him with an uncomfortable twinge when he drew too large a breath. It didn’t bother him enough to ask her to heal it further.

“How does that feel?” the doctor asks, “Still some pain there, hmm?”

“Only a little.”

He just wants this over with. He wants to be at home in his own bed with Emma tucked into his side. He wants to stand on the Jolly Roger’s deck and breathe in the ocean air with his arm around Emma. Honestly, he’ll be happy to do anything, as long as it’s not in the hospital and it involves him touching Emma in some way. Then the doctor moves his attention to Killian’s hand and the urge to flee ramps up tenfold. Emma’s hand is heavy on his shoulder, squeezing a bit harder than what is necessary, though he appreciates the fortitude she’s relaying to him through the touch because he seems to be running on empty these days.

“You’re healing well,” the doctor says at the end of his assessment, “I think we can organize a jail break today, what do you think? Home for Christmas.”

Killian’s too busy trying to pull air into his strangely uncooperative lungs and calm his racing heart, like always after his exams. And now the doctor is giving him a look that makes him feel exposed and vulnerable. He doesn’t like it at all. He glares back, drawing on that dark sort of intensity that makes lesser men cower before him. The doctor is a lesser man, it seems, because even in Killian’s current state, it works. The doctor immediately breaks eye contact and picks some spot on the far wall to look at instead, shuffling his feet awkwardly.

“That would be great,” says Emma on Killian’s behalf, seemingly unaware of the silent exchange between the pirate and the doctor.

“Do you mind if I talk to you alone for a moment, Miss Swan?”

Killian feels a surge of dread at the doctor’s question, at the thought of being left alone. But when Emma meets his eyes in silent query, he nods his assent. He’ll be fine, he doesn’t need her to metaphorically hold his hand. He’s fine. Emma and the doctor leave the room and Killian is fine. And he doesn’t know why he’s trembling. He closes his eyes, breathes deep enough that his cracked ribs pinch at him again, calls up a soothing mental image of a full moon over the open sea. He knows how to deal with fear, he’s just not entirely sure why he’s feeling so much of it right now. It’s a small comfort that Snow White had brought him his brace and hook, left it with Emma in the hall outside because Killian adamantly refused to accept her visit. It makes him feel a bit more like himself, although the doctor wouldn’t allow Killian to actually wear the hook on it and made Emma take it home. “It is a weapon, Captain, and with your mental state being what it is, it wouldn’t be safe for the staff.” Killian had felt a strong impulse to punch the man for that comment but the fact the splints stopped his fingers from curling into the necessary fist had quickly crushed that urge. The return of his hook is yet another thing he’ll appreciate about leaving this damn hospital. That is, if the doctor even lets him leave today. Calm yourself, mate, or he certainly won’t. Between one careful breath and the next, Emma is back at his side, looking down at him with far too much concern.

“Hey, Killian. You okay?”

Her hand comes back to his shoulder, gentle and light this time, slow and deliberate so she doesn’t spook him - that’s happened before, Killian flinching away before he could stop himself, and Emma had been so upset with herself. She’s been more careful with him since then.

“Aye,” he says with a cheerfulness he doesn’t feel as he stands up, “What did the doc say?”

“That you’re healed enough to go home.”

Killian knows immediately that she’s hiding something. It makes no sense for the doctor to take her out of his hearing just to confirm that Killian can go home today. And there’s was a hesitation in Emma’s response and in her smile.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she replies too fast, but then seeing his disbelieving look she adds, “…that we need to worry about right now. Let’s just go home, okay?”

Killian looks into her eyes and sees hope and worry and love and he really, really can’t wait to get home. He presses a gentle kiss to her cheek.

“Let’s go home.”

 Their house is deafeningly quiet after the constant bustle of the hospital. Henry’s staying with Regina for the night, and Killian’s thankful for that because he’s worn out from the day’s events already, although there are still several hours of daylight left, and he doesn’t think he could handle the lad’s exuberance right now. He sits at the table, his hook finally back in place, and appreciates the sounds of her making hot chocolate, driving away the silence. He’d found himself craving a drink besides water and since he’s apparently not supposed to drink anything alcoholic while on this pain medication, hot chocolate it is then. He’s rather come to enjoy the sweet beverage, the warmth comforting and calming now that he’s used to just how sweet it is – even without Emma adding the cream or the sugar, the way she made her own. It had taken him some time to get used to this realm’s obsession with flavours and sometimes he still struggles. Everything was just so much. Emma’s approach pulls him from his reflections.

“Here you go,” she says, placing a mug on the table in front of him, with a straw in it.

Right. Killian had nearly forgotten that he couldn’t even hold a damn cup at the moment. Trying to hide his frustration, he dips his head to catch the straw in his mouth and takes a sip. Then he straightens up and gives Emma his full attention.

“So are you going to tell me what it was the doctor said to you?” he asks.

She takes a slow mouthful of her own drink, very obviously delaying her response.

“You’re showing signs of Petey Essdee,” she finally says in a rush.

Killian just raises his eyebrow. He’s not heard of that term before.

“Of what? Sorry, Swan, but you’re gonna have to explain that one to me.”

“Oh. Right. Of course. Um.” Her face scrunches up a little as she tries to think. “It’s post-traumatic stress disorder. Shell shock? Battle fatigue? I don’t know what you call it where you came from.”

But Killian knows that term well enough. In his pirating days, he’d seen many a man lose himself in the horrors of what he’d done or seen. One of them had been part of Killian’s own crew and he remembers with a rush of shame how he’d snarled you bloody coward and thrown the shivering man overboard for the mermaids, without a shred of remorse at the time. But Killian’s far stronger than those men and he’s been through worse things than this. His eyes narrow.

“Do you really think so?”

Emma shrugs a bit guiltily.

“The doctor’s right. The symptoms are there. Nightmares, avoidance,” she ticks them off on his fingers, “the way you don’t want anyone to touch your hand-”

“Of course I bloody don’t,” Killian snaps.

“…irritability,” she continues, giving him a meaningful look before continuing, “anxiety attacks. Killian, he just recommended you talk to Archie, okay? Work through those feelings a bit.”

He wants to say no. He really, really does. What does the cricket know of suffering anyway? He can’t help with this – Archie’s likely never experienced anything more alarming than that time Killian threatened to dissect him. But Emma’s meeting his eyes with a look just as intense as his own, and in the end he’s the one to break off the stare, take another mouthful of hot chocolate, and agree to what she’s asking of him.

“Why didn’t the doctor tell me this himself?” he asks, after a moment of quiet.

“He was… a bit scared of you, I think. You’ve been kind of short tempered lately.”

Killian can’t deny that.

 Though he has regained some of his strength through regular meals and plenty of rest, Killian guesses he still suffering from the effects of too little sleep and too many beatings, because his stamina is pathetically low – and it doesn’t help that his sleep is still interrupted by bad dreams. Because he fully intended to make full use of the shower that night, but he makes the mistake of lying down on the bed first (just for a moment, to gather his strength) and that’s the end of it. He wakes still on the bed, next to Emma, not long after dawn, the remnants of a dream he can’t quite remember making his heart race and his breaths shiver through him. Emma makes a quiet noise of displeasure as he carefully slips out from under the covers, although she doesn’t fully wake. Killian goes to the bathroom, snarls at his reflection in the mirror when he realises he can’t even splash water on his face, not without getting something to cover his stitches first. Bloody hell, he hates this with a fiery passion. Not for the first time since his rescue, Killian’s suddenly desperate to look upon the sea again and at least that is something he can do. He’d fallen asleep in his clothes, and Emma had obviously not wanted to disturb his sleep by stripping him, so it’s just a matter of slipping his boots back on and putting his hook into place. Then he awkwardly scribbles a note for Emma so she won’t worry when she wakes alone, with the pen tucked between his thumb and the rest of his hand. It’s legible enough, he decides, although far from his usual precision.

 The sun is still low on the horizon, casting deep shadows across the harbour. Killian settles on the edge of the dock, his boots dangling above the water, breathing the cold, salty air deep into his lungs. There’s a school of brightly coloured fish below his feet, swimming in a pattern that’s somehow both chaotic and soothing, and Killian feels himself begin to unwind. Gods, he’s missed this. He sits there until the sun is much higher, revelling in the warmth of it seeping through his leather coat, the briny scent, the taste of salt on his tongue, the sound of water lapping gently against the dock, the-

“Hey, Killian.”                                                                                                           

Killian jumps a little at how close the voice is. He feels himself losing his balance at his sudden motion and has a moment of panic when he can’t just grab the edge of the dock with his hand to stop his forward wobble. He stabs his hook into the wood instead to anchor himself. A hand catches his shoulder, further steadying him, and he absolutely does not flinch. (He does. Damn it. He wishes he would stop being so easily startled.)

“Sorry,” says Henry, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No harm done,” Killian assures him with a smile, pretending his heart isn’t trying to beat right out of his chest.

Henry releases Killian’s shoulder and sits down next to him.

“Mom said you were down here. What’s up?”

He peers into the water below them.

“Watching the fish, huh?”

“Yeah. It’s… calming. Being here. I’ve missed it.”

Killian doesn’t feel as much of a need to keep up his ‘tough pirate appearance,’ as Emma calls it, when it’s only Henry around. In fact, much to his surprise he realizes there are now several people he feels he can let down his guard around, for the most part. Emma, of course. David. Snow White. And he supposes he’ll have to do the same with the cricket fairly soon too. The idea brings a dark cloud over his thoughts again.

“Yeah, I bet. Hey, we should get some pet fish,” Henry says, “You know, maybe having a piece of this place at home will help and you won’t have to run off when you get nightmares.”

Henry immediately realizes he’s said the wrong thing. Killian’s muscles have tightened, his teeth biting down on the immediate defensive response he wants to give. He’s not sure why Henry’s flippant comment has bothered him so much, but it has. Maybe because he makes it sound like Killian is a coward. Running off when you get nightmares. And Killian can’t deny it because that’s exactly what he’d done, wasn’t it? Maybe he is a coward.

“I-I mean… Not that coming to the docks is wrong, I just…” Henry scrambles for words.

Killian takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, watching it hang in the air in front of his face.

“It’s alright, lad, I know your intention,” he says, careful to smooth the irrational anger that’s trying to sharpen his tone, “And it’s not a bad idea either, if you can convince your mother.”

Emma’s right about his outbursts. He hasn’t felt so out of control in a long time, the darkness twisting its way through his very soul, erupting hot and vicious at the slightest provocation. A shiver runs up his spine and he busies himself with working his hook out of the boards.

“Great!” Henry flashes him a grin. “And don’t worry, I’m sure she’ll agree.”

 And that’s how, about a week later, Emma and Killian’s house becomes home to a decent sized glass tank full of colourful fish that Henry calls “Killian’s emotional support fish.” And Henry had been right; watching them is calming. It’s not the same as being at the docks or on his ship, of course, but it does help. He’s grateful for the lad’s idea especially that time he wakes in the night with fear twisting his gut and realizes it’s pouring rain outside, freezing cold, and Emma would have his hide if he attempted to visit the docks in this weather, he puts Henry’s theory to the test. Later, Emma finds him sitting on the couch watching the fish across the room, breaths carefully slow and when she tucks herself against his side, he manages a smile that he actually means.

To be continued...

[elvensapphire1237]

Pain

This had never happened before.

We all stood around the well that allowed us to influence the emotions of our host.  The pain from what we had just heard was so thick you could feel it in the air.  Not a single one of us was safe from it.  Tears poured from our eyes as we watched the well.  You would expect Red to have stepped in at this news or at the very least Blue, but they stayed out of the well and parted for Brown to slowly step in and kneel until she was submerged to her waist.  

We stayed like that for hours.  Black kept us there.  That’s her true power.  She is justice and hate but she is also control.  She wasn’t in the well, she had her hands on the rim.  The well had long since turned a disgusting mud color, but the water was completely still.  This emotion wasn’t drifting to the host.  It was staying right here, trapped by Black.  There is only one who can break Black’s seal and that’s White.  Unfortunately, she seemed more broken than the rest of us.  Tears poured from her eyes and she trembled so much she could barely stand.  

“Now?” White asked.

“Not yet,” Black replied.

We waited, and waited, and waited, the question repeated over and over.  Hours past by as Black waited for our host to find somewhere safe. This would debilitate us once the emotions were let loose.  Black had to be sure we would be able to process this completely.  Meanwhile, Brown was frozen.  Stock still in the center of the pool; unmoving and unblinking.  It took us a while to figure out what she was when she first came here.  She arrived as we aged and matured, but she didn’t talk much so we weren’t entirely sure what she was.  

Now we understand that she is another one of the mixes.  Just as Green has the peace from Blue and the joy from yellow, so does Brown draw her power from the colors that make her.  She is the mix of opposites.  Yellow and Purple, Red and Green, Blue and Orange.  On the good days, she represents balance and maturity, responsibility.  On her bad days, she represents something much more horrifying.  

She is chaos.  

We all felt the change in the air.  Our host had arrived home.  She had been forced to hold it together long enough.   Now, it was time to fall apart. Black nodded to White and stepped away. On shaky legs, White stepped over the rim and dispelled the black that had been fortifying the edge.  Then, she kneeled next to Brown and took her hands. Their pain was finally given freedom, and I hope I never see such agony again.  

Their pain was released on a wail that was shouted to the sky.  Their screams of anguish echoed through the room and unleashed the torrent that was held in all of us.  This is the power of White.  She is all colors and connected to each one of us. We all dropped to the ground, our hands landing in the water thick with color and madness.  We wept and shed the emotions to our host: anger, sorrow, fear, frustration, regret, dread.  It all poured out in rushing waves.  The well overflowed and filled the room with splashes of color and pain.  

Only Black remained outside the circle, and we all knew why.  As much as this hurt, we all knew that even now we cannot bring ourselves to hate him.

[friendlyneighborhoodmadscientist]

Settle in folks, here’s a story from my most recent gaming session, it’s pretty long but it was such a transcendent moment I have to share it with all of you. Due to length I’m going to try to put it under a cut.

So a bit of background information. We are playing a Kingdom Hearts game and have been for… A while. We can’t quite remember exactly how long. It’s a custom system of the DM and my design (THAT I WOULD LOVE TO SHARE BUT CAN’T GET DISNEY OR SQUARE TO TALK TO ME ABOUT IT).

Our PCs:

Lonnie Clawford, a snow leopard from Zootopia, with an affinity for Ice, and focused on Power abilities (like Terra). Lonnie is functionally immortal in combat, kind of anxious, and grew up in Zootopia’s foster care system until she was like 12 and was picked up by our Master. Played by @thepioden​

Lydia, a young woman from The Corpse Bride (in our defense, we knew it was Tim Burton and forgot it wasn’t Disney until we finished the world) with an affinity for Moon (blame Saïx) and focused on Speed abilities; her combat style focuses especially on aerial tricks and abilities. Gravity is a suggestion at best for Lydia, she’s a hopeless romantic (“MISSION OF LOVE” is a common refrain from her), and she grew up an orphan on the streets until she was about 5-6 and was adopted by our Master. Played by @tsukidoesthething​

Polaris Caelestis, a young man from ??????????? (likely a Final Fantasy World; we didn’t learn my last name until halfway through the campaign so far) who was found as an infant by their Master in the void between worlds (earning him the nickname “Space Baby” from his friends). He has an affinity for Thunder and is focused on Magic abilities. Pol has spent the most time with his Keyblade, tends to try to solve every problem with his knowledge or magic (earning him the nickname “Mage-Wrists” from his friends), and he tries to be a Fixed Point for his friends. I play Pol.

By this point, we have journeyed through so many worlds. Atlantis, The Rescuers, Wall-E, Princess and the Frog, Wreck-It Ralph, Secret of Mana’s Japan-only Sequel, Zootopia, Corpse Bride, Treasure Planet, The Incredibles, Monster’s Inc. And we have ended our first ‘lap’ in Chrono Trigger. We arrive in the bleak, dead, post apocalyptic future, and pick up Robo/Prometheus as our companion. Together, we visit the remains of human civilization, lightly perform a few miracles for the survivors, and end up making our way up to Death’s Peak. All the while, an oppressive feeling of despair, desolation, and Darkness is mounting. At the summit, we find ourselves face to face with a Lavos-Spawn. A horrible tick-like monstrosity the size of a bus that at least in our game was ALSO a variety of Heartless.

So, it’s already not looking GREAT for us. As the boss fight begins, our DM starts this music:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nReqeBSp_WY

Our DM hands us each two notecards taped together along the edges; on one side was a Whisper of Darkness, and the other was a new keyblade (with some flavor text) the Darkness forced us to use.

Lonnie declined to share the Whisper of Darkness she received, but she was forced to use Shattered Steel: 

“If someone has to take hits, let it be you, because you deserve them. Maybe you will be remembered fondly if you keep real heroes alive. Better to spend yourself until you’re battered, broken, and shattered, than to let them see what you really are.”

It lightly corrupted her heart with Darkness if she gave or received a buff, which she does automatically when she stands next to an ally.

Lydia heard this Whisper of Darkness:

“Your mother would have lived if you had not abandoned her and run to spare your own petty feelings. You always have, and you always will flee when you fear pain, and it will always harm those you claim to love and protect.”

And she was forced to use Broken Wings:

“Only unburdened hearts can soar. When you think about what you could have done differently, you only drown in doubt and loathing; cast it aside, and the guilt and regret hang around your neck like unseen weights. Better to give up the skies before you crash, broken, to the ground.”

It lightly corrupted her heart with Darkness if she went into the air or used an ability while aerial.

Polaris heard this Whisper of Darkness

“You spout the tenets of hope, desperate to distract yourself from the ugly truth. Your identity is staked upon it; if there really is no hope, no redemption, then you yourself are a cruel lie to those around you.”

I was forced to use Endless Night:

“Light brings not hope, but casts how much is lost and beyond relief into painful clarity. You cannot heal all wounds, and insufficient healing does more harm than good. Better to do nothing, and turn away from a night you cannot dispel.”

It lightly corrupted my heart with Darkness if my MP pool changed.

With each boss fight thus far, our DM showed us an “Information” notecard that gave a hint to the boss fight’s gimmick.

This one was completely redacted out in permanent marker.

Needless to say, the boss had abilities that forced us next to each other, knocked us aerial, and drained our MP. On top of this, our characters could not communicate.

It was bad.

We fought futilely for a time, and I did crit the bastard with a melee attack to the face, but after we dealt about 100 damage, the boss rewound time and healed itself to full. We were on the ropes; I had nearly been knocked out, Lonnie had nearly been halfway corrupted, and Lydia … well she was actually kind of the MVP but it was still Not Great.

Prometheus spent most of the fight trying to get our attention and was very concerned about how atypically we were behaving. He pulled us back, out of the fight and out of the worst of the boss’s aura. Prometheus started playing some recordings of his creator, a Professor Ashtear (likely a descendant of Lucca, but our DM created the character from whole cloth). As the recordings played, the music swapped to: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FvEJSvgl9Us Our DM’s delivery of the below was quite frankly superb.

“Okay, diagnostics are complete; everything’s in the green. Ready to go offline and get some upgrades?”

“Professor? I have a concern.”

“What’s up, 66?”

“I understand the mission and I will assist to the best of my capacity, as always. However, my calculations all project that I am insufficient for the role I have been given.”

“That’s what all this preparation is for.”

“Acknowledged, but am I not a sub-optimal model for integration? A military unit such as a mobile defense platform--”

“--Wouldn’t have what you have. It’s nothing in the numbers, 66, it’s something you’ve got to feel in your heart.”

“I am a robot. I do not possess a heart.”

“You don’t think so? I’m sorry to hear that. Maybe one day you’ll understand, but in the meantime I guess you’ll just have to trust that you’ve been chosen for a reason. Do you trust my judgment?”

“Of course, Professor.”

“Then believe in my trust in you. Fate has a way of putting us all where we are supposed to be. And if you have doubts, check in with me, or Lumie, or the people you’ll be helping. You won’t ever be alone. Not really.”

“Acknowledged, Professor.”

“But not really understood, right? Hm, maybe a good first step would be to give you a proper name... I think I’ve got just the one. See you again when you wake up, Prometheus.”

 “No. I appreciate the thought, Prometheus, but we can’t cut out the groundwork we’re laying for short term gain.”

“But if we do not take any measures to accelerate our action plan--”

“I’m under no illusions. The work ahead of us will exceed my lifetime. Even optimistically, I will never live to see the fruits of our labors. Neither will Lumie, nor any child of hers or grandchild. The world’s going to get worse --a lot worse-- before it gets any better.”

“...Regretfully, I have reached the same conclusions. You are not perturbed?”

“Of course I am. I’m a problem-solver. It’s what I do, and I’ve always been very good at it. To be confronted with something like this, where there’s no possible way I can see it resolved? Especially when it’s so important? It’s a bitter pill to swallow, some days. But I’ve come to peace with it, because I know my efforts won’t go to waste. What I do now, I do to fling a light into the future. Every step I take is one that Lumie can follow forward. She can take what I’ve started and advance it a little further. The rest, we can entrust to you, and to those who come after us.”

“Future generations may not be as capable as you are. How can you be certain that they will know how to use what you will leave behind?”

“I can’t. All I can do is have faith. I won’t be the last good man in the world. Where there’s life, there is always hope. Besides, you’ll be there to tell them what I’ve done, right? Our legacies live on in the hearts we influence. If I know that, through you, my example will continue to guide and inspire --even if it’s in ways that I can’t expect or imagine-- then I can rest easy in the knowledge that I’ve done all I can do.”

“Understood, Professor. I will remember.”

“Registration complete. Administrative access and privileges have been successfully transferred to Mistress Illumina Ashtear.”

(coughs) “Excellent. Thank you, Prometheus. When you go down, would you mind sending Lumie up alone, first? There are some things I want to make sure to tell her before I say goodbye to the rest of the family.”

“...As you wish, Professor.”

“Something on your mind, old friend?”

“Regret. If I had returned to escort you here sooner, your condition would not have degraded so acutely. If I had prioritized repairing the medical facility over stabilizing the foundation, Mistress Illumina might have had time to treat your symptoms or cure them.”

“Maybe. Or maybe we’d have lost a promising young mind to that mutant attack that we’ll need in the future. Maybe the building would have collapsed, and all the functioning medical equipment would have buried Lumie and me both. Or maybe all of that would have worked out and we would have learned that there was nothing that could be done for me anyway.”

“Those are only negative hypotheticals. There are an equally infinite number of positive alternatives, and the only concrete data I have to analyze is from this negative outcome.”

“Listen to me, Prometheus: we all make mistakes, believe me, I know. Heated words regretted, or necessary words left unspoken; time not spent, or misspent. Things we’re not proud of, and can’t do over, and good intentions that don’t work out the way we thought they would. But what do we do when we break something?”

“Attempt repairs.”

“And if we can’t fix it, make something new from what you learned. The only way a mistake leads to a wholly negative outcome is when you choose not to face it. It can hurt. Sometimes it can hurt like hell, but that pain will shape you, whether you acknowledge it or not. It can slow your hands from doubt, or it can guide them with purpose.”

“I do not understand, Professor.”

(coughs) “That’s alright. You will, one day. For now, let me just say this: don’t forget me, but don’t let me haunt you. Keep moving forward, Prometheus, even if you stumble. Be who you are meant to be and do what you’re meant to do. Live on. It’s all I’ve ever hoped for you.”

As these recordings wrapped up, Prometheus turned and addressed the monster directly, (DM’s robot voice is exquisite), and the DM swapped the music track to his leitmotif from his original game:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eaUNpJAgD4w

“I understand. You are not the creature that has taken so much from this planet. You are its offspring, leaching from our remains as you prepare to invade another world and repeat this heinous tragedy. Defeating you will not restore our resources, or the people we have lost. It will not save our planet; it will only spare a host of strangers I will never meet. And I understand now, that this is a worthy cause.”

“I am a robot. I was not designed or built for this battle. I still have reservations about my aptitude for the role and responsibilities I have been given. I have no statistical evidence to prove that I can prevail. But fate has a way of putting us all where we are meant to be. I have no compunction in my code to fight this battle, but I feel an imperative to achieve victory. It is irrational, but I understand it. Logic and concrete analysis compel me to doubt. My belief in those who chose to invest their hopes and dreams in me instruct me to ignore the odds.”

“I understand now. I am Prometheus, and I am alive. When we prevail over you, I will take what I have learned down off this mountain, and I will get back to work. I will let myself feel loss. I will let myself hurt, and I will grow to be more than I have been. I will continue on, as I know those I have left behind would want me to. I am alive. Their memories are alive in me. There are still people I have to protect. This world is still alive.”

The Professor’s voice sounds one more time. “Where there is life, there is hope.” A woman’s voice answers. “Where there is life, there is hope.” (The phrase echoes again and again, on down through the generations. Finally, the whole host of voices, Prometheus’s among them, rings out in a shout.) We were offered the opportunity to roll an Insight check to join in. Lonnie and Pol rolled first, and we BOTH got nat 20’s; with that, he didn’t even make Lydia roll, and we three joined our voices to the chorus: “WHERE THERE IS LIFE, THERE IS HOPE!”

With this, the DM said we were fully healed, the corruption to our hearts gone in an instant, and the DM instructed us to open the sealed notecard-packets. On the back of the corrupted keyblades were new purified (and mechanically magnificent) ones for each of us (also with flavor text).

Lonnie received Resonant Glass:

“No one voice can sing a chord. If I fear I am unworthy for the melody, then let me be the harmony. If I doubt the character of my soul, let me raise my voice with those that know me best, that I may hear my heart resonate with theirs.”

Lydia received Reclaim the Wind:

“Hopes and dreams have ever been the wind beneath our wings. If I sin, then let the hope to mend what may yet be righted and lift my face to the skies --not to avert my eyes, but to pursue the dream of my better self.”

Pol received First Light

“Not even the brightest star can light the void alone, and a beacon saves only those that pursue it. If my spark must pass before the Darkness, let it seed an ember in the hearts of those that chase the Dawn, a reminder that every night ends.”

 Prometheus addresses the boss one last time before the fight begins anew: “Now, Spawn of Lavos. (Dukes up) Prepare for termination.”

It was electric; we all could perfectly visualize the moment. I think we all had tears in our eyes at one point or another.

The DM changed the music one last time (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oWSB3qL5qs8) and showed us an Information card about how we could disable the boss’s temporal rewinding. Furthermore, any Dual-Tech/Team Attack we performed with Prometheus would automatically critically hit.

We kicked its spiny ass.

[cupidmarwani-archive]

Afterward (7/13)

Chicago, Illinois: The Sexton Baby, Connor Rhodes

??9 January 2019 | ??:?? Local Time

Thankfully one of the nurses gave me my notebook to write things down before they start doing more tests or decide they need to keep me way too long. I don’t know how much time I’ve lost, but I need to talk to someone in charge. Connor is dangerous to everyone in the hospital, and I need to dispel his spirit sooner rather than later. The next time he lashes out, his victim may not be as lucky as I was. If Dr. Halstead hadn’t been right there, I wonder if I would’ve died.

9[Addendum: 18 January 2019 | ??:?? Local Time]

April later informed me it was the eighteenth, and that I missed roughly two and a half days for treatment of two partially collapsed lungs.

-

For the first hour that Sarah’s awake again, some indeterminate amount of days later, everything is tests and questions and lights in her eyes, all accompanied by a dull ache in her chest from what she’s told is her lungs trying to heal. They have a tube in her side still, draining out into a dish that needs cleaning more often than it gets. She’s still so tired and wheezing, even with the oxygen mask over her face, but she knows she needs to get up and dispel the dangerous grip the thing that took Connor has on this hospital.

But when they start to let her rest again, April comes to visit. She looks exhausted and small, and it makes Sarah’s chest hurt in a completely different way. She reaches out with the hand not filled with needles and tubes. April takes it without hesitation, raises it to her lips to kiss, and that’s the moment when Sarah knows that she has to do everything possible to save April. She’s too good, and she reminds her so much of an angel that it’s unreal. 

“How long was I out?” Her voice is scratchy, clearly unused for a long time.

“Three days,” April answers. “It’s the eighteenth. Your lungs collapsed, and we still can’t figure out why. What happened?”

“Like I said earlier, Connor. I tried to talk to Dr. Halstead, and Connor got in. He tried to kill me, but it’s because he was scared. I can’t give up on him. And I really need to be discharged before anyone else gets hurt.”

Sarah struggles to sit upright in spite of the pain, which has her monitor beeping angrily and April immediately trying to stop her. She needs to get out of bed and find a way to help, not be trapped here to listen to the spirits around her and know that everyone in the building is in danger. When she glances around, she can see the mother holding the baby that’s been haunting April. It must be hell for her, especially when she’s paying Sarah to free her from all that. 

And isn’t that a painful reminder, that she’s being paid to be here, and she doesn’t really have much of a chance with April. But Sarah can’t focus on that right now- she has work to do. So she insists on sitting up and trying to find her coat because it has a lot of important stuff in it. But she can’t find it, an issue that absolutely doesn’t help her right now. And then she hears footsteps approaching, and it’s Will, with Connor over his shoulder.

“I know you didn’t mean it,” Sarah says immediately, her voice still scratchy and a little breathless. “It’s okay, Connor, I just want to help you.”

April and Will share a look over her head- they must not be able to see him this time. But Sarah is used to that, and she ignores them in favor of watching Connor shift his weight, the blood on his face dripping to his jawline. She doesn’t remember seeing that before, and it means she should take a look at his body. And that could be the key to this all, she suddenly realizes. Connor is the host; if his body can no longer support it, then Connor moves on and everyone will be safe.

Sarah grabs April’s sleeve and pulls her closer. “Where’s Connor’s body? I need to see it.”

“You need to rest. You’re really sick,” Will argues.

No. No, she doesn’t and isn’t, and she needs to help people. That’s all she’s good for. It’s her job. They don’t understand how much danger they’re in right now. Connor, and everyone else who’s died in this hospital recently, are an active threat, to the point that this hospital should be evacuated and shut down until the threat is contained. More people could die. They could get hurt. April especially.

“Maybe we should let her,” April says. “This is her expertise. If she says we’re in danger, I think we should believe her.”

In an instant, Connor is behind her and he has his hands in her chest just like with Sarah, and once again, Will is able to see him.

“Tell him to stop!” Sarah cries, struggling to get up and do something, anything to banish him, but she doesn’t have her supplies. “He cares about you, Will, tell him to stop!”

“Stop!”

At Will’s voice, Connor does. He pulls his hands from April’s chest as she collapses forward, coughing but seemingly faring better than Sarah was when it happened to her. Sarah rubs her back, but her eyes are locked on Connor, who stares at Will like he’s waiting to hear something else.

“Stop hurting people,” Will says, sounding so small and sad. “That’s not you, Connor. That’s not the man you were when you died. You saved people, remember?”

Connor doesn’t say anything, but he has this look on his face. Sad, genuine, hurting. Someone who needs to be helped, not just dismissed from the world of the living so he may find peace in a life beyond this one. To see him squishes any anger that Sarah might have had as a result of his earlier actions. He just needs help, like April does. A different kind of help, maybe, but help nonetheless. 

He walks away, leaving the three of them there. Will starts asking April if she’s okay, insisting he listen to her chest in case Connor hurt her like he did Sarah. But already, she’s standing up and regaining her breathing. She’s alright, better off, and now inclined to let Sarah do her job and keep them all safe.

“I can try and discharge you long enough to go see Connor’s body tomorrow morning,” Will says, his voice all crackling autumn leaves and dead tree branches. “Rest tonight. You too, April.”

Then he leaves, and Sarah finds April crawling into the hospital bed beside her. It’s a tight fit, but a reassuring one that makes it impossible to ignore that they’re both alive. This reminds Sarah of what it felt like the last time she had someone to love, way before the accident, and they shared clumsy kisses in her childhood bedroom with curtains drawn tight just in case. This is as peaceful, filled with apprehension, but in a different kind of way. April’s head is a welcome weight on her chest, even if it adds more strain to lungs already complaining of overexertion from her sudden awakening and seeing Connor try to kill someone else.

“We’ll be okay,” Sarah whispers.

She can’t be sure, can’t promise, but it feels like the right thing to say in a moment like this one. There’s nothing else to say. Just as she thinks about that, she registers the silence- the rest of the spirits left when Connor did, providing them this brief respite hold each other and wonder what happens next.

“I’m sorry I dragged you into this.”

“It’s my job, April.”

April gets up, bracing her forearms on either side of Sarah’s chest carefully and leans forward. Their noses touch, and there’s so much to look at, so much to admire, but all Sarah can think about is how soft her lips look. A little glossy with chapstick, but plush and like something out of a magazine, the sort of lips Sarah had seen on makeup ads as a child and wondered what they would feel like to kiss.

Her curiosity is finally settled.

The moment April kisses her, the whole world melts away. It’s all warmth and an emotion Sarah can only describe as sunshine. She lifts her hands to do something, and finds one resting on the nape of April’s neck and the other on her back. More than anything, she wants to kiss her until the day she dies. This is bliss. This is what heaven feels like. For the second they part to breathe, it’s like burning to death. But then April is there again and everything is perfect. 

She wants more than she can have, especially when they’re both so fragile. She doesn’t ask, though, merely enjoys what she can at this moment before it’s gone and April probably has a freak out the way Sarah’s last not-quite-girlfriend did the first time they kissed. And the second. Third. Fourth. Last. This is the last thing she wants to think about, but some things, one simply can’t forget. 

When April pulls away, though, she’s smiling and licks her swollen lips. “I wanted to make sure I got the chance to do that.”

Struck speechless, all Sarah can do is nod and allow April to settle back down laying on her chest again. She’s quick to drift off, the steady rise and fall of April’s ribs enough to reassure her that she won’t be dying in the night unless Connor, or worse, the thing that killed him, show up to bare bloodthirsty metaphorical teeth.

The thing is, she knows what’s lurking. It doesn’t have a name, that she can find, but she’s encountered it before. Sometimes a place gets so overwhelmed by negative energy that it gets physical. Then it finds a host- someone already in a lot of pain, someone who wouldn’t be able to move on immediately after death anyways. And with something to anchor it, it destroys everything in its path. When Sarah encountered one for the first time in a small Maine town, it had been around for nearly two hundred years and had killed countless people- mostly children, because they were afraid. This energy, it clings to fear and pain and everything that slowly eats a person alive.

And maybe, just maybe, the real Connor is still in there. It’s possible; he’s only been dead a few months, and his spirit listens to someone he loved in his life. There’s hope he can still be saved, rescued from the infestation and allowed to move on without being destroyed in the cleanse. It’s not a guarantee, but it’s a chance, and that’s one Sarah wouldn’t be able to forgive herself for not taking.

When she finally falls asleep, her dreams are a mixture between Connor’s blood stained face and the way it felt to kiss April.

[no-drama-llama90]

Bellarke Ramble

So I saw this idea in a post and I couldn’t help myself... it’s my first Bellarke Fic so be kind please!?!? I’m tagging @blarkehart @raven-reyes-of-sunshine and @the100--positivity as I thought you guys might want to have a look.

CAN’T SLEEP?

Clarke startled upright in bed, her covers pooling around her waist as she took deep breaths, trying to rid herself of the dread that still sat heavily in her stomach, leftover from the nightmare that had plagued her sleep. She rested her head in one hand, drawing her knees up to her chest, trying the pull herself together as quietly as possible.

Clarke looked to the side to see Madi still sleeping deeply, peacefully unaware of Clarke’s struggle. Clarkes gaze softened as she looked at her child, the sight of Madi quickly dispelling any lingering fears.

As quietly as possible, Clarke slid out of bed and threw on some clothes. She gave Madi one last glance, before she slipped out the door, heading towards the one place she found peace in the cavernous metal ship that was currently home to the survivors of earth.

She halted in the doorway of the training room, realising that despite the early hour in the morning, it was occupied.

Bellamy looked up from the punching bag, halting his workout as Clarke materialised in the doorway.

“Can’t sleep?” Was his only greeting as he picked up a towel and ran it over his hair.

“No. You?” Clarke answered, cocking her head to the side questioningly.

Bellamy gave an unhumorous chuckle. “Too many nightmares to sleep.”

Their eyes locked, Clarke not having to say a word. Bellamy knew that out of everyone, Clarke understood best what went on in his head.

“We haven’t spent much time together since…” Bellamy’s voice petered out, his hands moving restlessly through his hair.

Clarke finished the sentence for him. “Since thinking I was dead for six years, after which we spent weeks fighting on opposites sides and then finally were put to sleep for over a hundred years while we travelled through space to another planet?”

“Yeah that,” Bellamy laughed, his whole face lighting up in a way that didn’t happen very often. He shuffled a little nervously, pulling at the shoulder of his grey shirt. Clarke gave a small wistful smile at the familiar gesture.

“You want to spar?” Clarke asked, wanting to break the awkwardness that had suddenly manifested in the large room making it seem claustrophobically small.

Bellamy raised an eyebrow. “You think you can take me, Princess?”

“Oh, you have no idea,” Clarke replied, shrugging her jacket off of her shoulders and throwing it haphazardly into the corner. “Hand to hand?” Clarke stretched quickly, looking up at Bellamy as she did.

Bellamy threw her a smirk that made her instantly straighten. It was a look full of pure mischief.

“Why not make it interesting?” He crossed the room and grabbed two swords, swinging one effortlessly in his hand, grinning like an idiot at Clarke.

Clarke shook her head at his cockiness, grabbing the other sword from him and walking into the centre of the room waiting for him to join her.

“On guard... or whatever the hell you say,” Clarke said, raising her sword and placing her feet into a fighting stance.

“On guard?” Bellamy gave her a pitying look. “Are we in some type of romance novel? Who the heck says on guard?”

Clarke answered him with a death glare, swinging her blade towards his face with no warning.

Bellamy blocked the solid swing, his eyes glittering with a mixture of respect and exhilaration. He lunged forwards, his sword a blur as he attacked in quick succession. Clarke blocked his flurried movements but the force of his attack made her take a few steps back. Determined not to be over powered by the taller and heavier man, Clarke continued to block Bellamy’s advances, watching carefully. At the first sign of an opening, she rammed the pommel of her sword into Bellamys ribs, making him double over with pain.

While he was still winded, Clarke spun in a whirl of movement, trapping Bellamy up against the wall, her sword resting lightly against the skin of his throat.

Clarke’s chest was heaving but her hands were steady as she locked eyes with Bellamy, only centimetres separating them. Neither of them broke contact and their gaze intensified until Clarke could barley breathe and it felt like there was electricity crackling in the small space between them. Clarke’s sword slowly slipped until it was hanging by her side but she didn’t seem to notice.

Bellamys breaths were coming quickly, his chest rising and falling, decreasing the space between them and making it almost unbearable.

Something changed in Bellamy’s eyes and Clarke felt her heart flutter in response. Without even realising what she was doing, Clarke leaned forwards so they were pressed against each other. Every inch of Clarke felt like she was simultaneously on fire and being doused with water at the same time. The way Bellamy stopped breathing told her that he felt the same.

Slowly Bellamy leant towards Clarke, his eyes flicking between her eyes and lips. Clarke felt her body stretch upwards in response, shortening the distance between them.

Bellamy paused, their lips barely a centimetre apart, breaths mingling together and eyes still locked in their intense gaze.

“Clarke?” A small questioning voice came from the training room door.

Bellamy and Clarke jumped apart like they had been struck by lightening.

Clarke looked over to see Madi standing in the doorway. Madi looked between the two of them, her gaze taking in their guilty expression and the awkwardness that had reemerged between them.

“Hey, sweet.” Clarke crossed the room to Madi’s side. “You okay?” Clarke ran her fingers through the younger girls hair in a distinctively maternal gesture. Bellamy watched the two of them, his expression almost rueful.

Madi glanced towards Bellamy and then turned her gaze back to the woman who raised her. “I had a bad dream and then I couldn’t find you when I woke up.”

Clarke gathered her into a hug, propping her chin on Madi’s brown curls. “The Commanders again?”

Madi nodded into her shoulder, refusing to show any fear. She was the Commander after all. Such emotions were beneath her. She only let Clarke see the worry and uncertainty that plagued the young Commander at times.

“Lets get you back into bed.” Clarke pulled back and placed one hand on either side of her daughters face, giving her a quick kiss on the forehead.

“Good night, Bellamy.” Madi looked towards Bellamy still standing in the middle of the room, sending a smile towards the man who had been one of her biggest supports.

Bellamy raised a hand in a wave. “Night, Madi.”

Madi walked through the doorway and Clarke followed but paused before she crossed into the hallway. She turned back and locked eyes with Bellamy once again.

They stood completely motionless, their gaze relaying everything they refused to voice, before Clarke turned and left, leaving Bellamy once again alone with his thoughts.

[draculalive]

Dr. Seward's Diary

29 September, night. -- A little before twelve o'clock we three -- Arthur, Quincey Morris, and myself -- called for the Professor. It was odd to notice that by common consent we had all put on black clothes. Of course, Arthur wore black, for he was in deep mourning, but the rest of us wore it by instinct. We got to the churchyard by half-past one, and strolled about, keeping out of official observation, so that when the gravediggers had completed their task and the sexton under the belief that every one had gone, had locked the gate, we had the place all to ourselves. Van Helsing, instead of his little black bag, had with him a long leather one, something like a cricketing bag; it was manifestly of fair weight.

When we were alone and had heard the last of the footsteps die out up the road, we silently, and as if by ordered intention, followed the Professor to the tomb. He unlocked the door, and we entered, closing it behind us. Then he took from his bag the lantern, which he lit, and also two wax candles, which, when lighted, he stuck, by melting their own ends, on other coffins, so that they might give light sufficient to work by. When he again lifted the lid off Lucy's coffin we all looked -- Arthur trembling like an aspen -- and saw that the body lay there in all its death-beauty. But there was no love in my own heart, nothing but loathing for the foul Thing which had taken Lucy's shape without her soul. I could see even Arthur's face grow hard as he looked. Presently he said to Van Helsing:---

"Is this really Lucy's body, or only a demon in her shape?"

"It is her body, and yet not it. But wait a while, and you all see her as she was, and is."

She seemed like a nightmare of Lucy as she lay there; the pointed teeth, the bloodstained, voluptuous mouth -- which it made one shudder to see -- the whole carnal and unspiritual appearance, seeming like a devilish mockery of Lucy's sweet purity. Van Helsing, with his usual methodicalness, began taking the various contents from his bag and placing them ready for use. First he took out a soldering iron and some plumbing solder, and then a small oil-lamp, which gave out, when lit in a corner of the tomb, gas which burned at fierce heat with a blue flame; then his operating knives, which he placed to hand; and last a round wooden stake, some two and a half or three inches thick and about three feet long. One end of it was hardened by charring in the fire, and was sharpened to a fine point. With this stake came a heavy hammer, such as in households is used in the coal-cellar for breaking the lumps. To me, a doctor's preparations for work of any kind are stimulating and bracing, but the effect of these things on both Arthur and Quincey was to cause them a sort of consternation. They both, however, kept their courage, and remained silent and quiet.

When all was ready, Van Helsing said:---

"Before we do anything, let me tell you this; it is out of the lore and experience of the ancients and of all those who have studied the powers of the Un-Dead. When they become such, there comes with the change the curse of immortality; they cannot die, but must go on age after age adding new victims and multiplying the evils of the world; for all that die from the preying of the Un-Dead becomes themselves Un-Dead, and prey on their kind. And so the circle goes on ever widening, like as the ripples from a stone thrown in the water. Friend Arthur, if you had met that kiss which you know of before poor Lucy die; or again, last night when you open your arms to her, you would in time, when you had died, have become nosferatu, as they call it in Eastern Europe, and would all time make more of those Un-Deads that so have fill us with horror. The career of this so unhappy dear lady is but just begun. Those children whose blood she suck are not as yet so much the worse; but if she live on, Un-Dead, more and more they lose their blood and by her power over them they come to her; and so she draw their blood with that so wicked mouth. But if she die in truth, then all cease; the tiny wounds of the throats disappear, and they go back to their plays unknowing ever of what has been. But of the most blessed of all, when this now Un-Dead be made to rest as true dead, then the soul of the poor lady whom we love shall again be free. Instead of working wickedness by night and growing more debased in the assimilating of it by day, she shall take her place with the other Angels. So that, my friend, it will be a blessed hand for her that shall strike the blow that sets her free. To this I am willing; but is there none amongst us who has a better right? Will it be no joy to think of hereafter in the silence of the night when sleep is not: 'It was my hand that sent her to the stars; it was the hand of him that loved her best; the hand that of all she would herself have chosen, had it been to her to choose?' Tell me if there be such a one amongst us?"

We all looked at Arthur. He saw, too, what we all did, the infinite kindness which suggested that his should be the hand which would restore Lucy to us as a holy, and not an unholy, memory; he stepped forward and said bravely, though his hand trembled, and his face was as pale as snow:---

"My true friend, from the bottom of my broken heart I thank you. Tell me what I am to do, and I shall not falter!" Van Helsing laid a hand on his shoulder, and said:---

"Brave lad! A moment's courage, and it is done. This stake must be driven through her. It will be a fearful ordeal -- be not deceived in that -- but it will be only a short time, and you will then rejoice more than your pain was great; from this grim tomb you will emerge as though you tread on air. But you must not falter when once you have begun. Only think that we, your true friends, are round you, and that we pray for you all the time."

"Go on," said Arthur hoarsely. "Tell me what I am to do."

"Take this stake in your left hand, ready to place the point over the heart, and the hammer in your right. Then when we begin our prayer for the dead -- I shall read him, I have here the book, and the others shall follow -- strike in God's name, that so all may be well with the dead that we love and that the Un-Dead pass away."

Arthur took the stake and the hammer, and when once his mind was set on action his hands never trembled nor even quivered. Van Helsing opened his missal and began to read, and Quincey and I followed as well as we could. Arthur placed the point over the heart, and as I looked I could see its dint in the white flesh. Then he struck with all his might.

The Thing in the coffin writhed; and a hideous, blood-curdling screech came from the opened red lips. The body shook and quivered and twisted in wild contortions; the sharp white teeth champed together till the lips were cut, and the mouth was smeared with a crimson foam. But Arthur never faltered. He looked like a figure of Thor as his untrembling arm rose and fell, driving deeper and deeper the mercy-bearing stake, whilst the blood from the pierced heart welled and spurted up around it. His face was set, and high duty seemed to shine through it; the sight of it gave us courage so that our voices seemed to ring through the little vault.

And then the writhing and quivering of the body became less, and the teeth seemed to champ, and the face to quiver. Finally it lay still. The terrible task was over.

The hammer fell from Arthur's hand. He reeled and would have fallen had we not caught him. The great drops of sweat sprang from his forehead, and his breath came in broken gasps. It had indeed been an awful strain on him; and had he not been forced to his task by more than human considerations he could never have gone through with it. For a few minutes we were so taken up with him that we did not look towards the coffin. When we did, however, a murmur of startled surprise ran from one to the other of us. We gazed so eagerly that Arthur rose, for he had been seated on the ground, and came and looked too; and then a glad, strange light broke over his face and dispelled altogether the gloom of horror that lay upon it.

There, in the coffin lay no longer the foul Thing that we had so dreaded and grown to hate that the work of her destruction was yielded as a privilege to the one best entitled to it, but Lucy as we had seen her in her life, with her face of unequalled sweetness and purity. True that there were there, as we had seen them in life, the traces of care and pain and waste; but these were all dear to us, for they marked her truth to what we knew. One and all we felt that the holy calm that lay like sunshine over the wasted face and form was only an earthly token and symbol of the calm that was to reign for ever.

Van Helsing came and laid his hand on Arthur's shoulder, and said to him:---

"And now, Arthur my friend, dear lad, am I not forgiven?"

The reaction of the terrible strain came as he took the old man's hand in his, and raising it to his lips, pressed it, and said:---

"Forgiven! God bless you that you have given my dear one her soul again, and me peace." He put his hands on the Professor's shoulder, and laying his head on his breast, cried for a while silently, whilst we stood unmoving. When he raised his head Van Helsing said to him:---

"And now, my child, you may kiss her. Kiss her dead lips if you will, as she would have you to, if for her to choose. For she is not a grinning devil now -- not any more a foul Thing for all eternity. No longer she is the devil's Un-Dead. She is God's true dead, whose soul is with Him!"

Arthur bent and kissed her, and then we sent him and Quincey out of the tomb; the Professor and I sawed the top off the stake, leaving the point of it in the body. Then we cut off the head and filled the mouth with garlic. We soldered up the leaden coffin, screwed on the coffin-lid, and gathering up our belongings, came away. When the Professor locked the door he gave the key to Arthur.

Outside the air was sweet, the sun shone, and the birds sang, and it seemed as if all nature were tuned to a different pitch. There was gladness and mirth and peace everywhere, for we were at rest ourselves on one account, and we were glad, though it was with a tempered joy.

Before we moved away Van Helsing said:---

"Now, my friends, one step of our work is done, one the most harrowing to ourselves. But there remains a greater task: to find out the author of all this our sorrow and to stamp him out. I have clues which we can follow; but it is a long task, and a difficult, and there is danger in it, and pain. Shall you not all help me? We have learned to believe, all of us -- is it not so? And since so, do we not see our duty? Yes! And do we not promise to go on to the bitter end?"

Each in turn, we took his hand, and the promise was made. Then said the Professor as we moved off:---

"Two nights hence you shall meet with me and dine together at seven of the clock with friend John. I shall entreat two others, two that you know not as yet; and I shall be ready to all our work show and our plans unfold. Friend John, you come with me home, for I have much to consult about, and you can help me. To-night I leave for Amsterdam, but shall return to-morrow night. And then begins our great quest. But first I shall have much to say, so that you may know what is to do and to dread. Then our promise shall be made to each other anew; for there is a terrible task before us, and once our feet are on the ploughshare we must not draw back."

When we arrived at the Berkeley Hotel, Van Helsing found a telegram waiting for him:---

Am coming up by train. Jonathan at Whitby. Important news. -- MINA HARKER.

The Professor was delighted. "Ah, that wonderful Madam Mina," he said, "pearl among women! She arrive, but I cannot stay. She must go to your house, friend John. You must meet her at the station. Telegraph her en route, so that she may be prepared."

When the wire was despatched he had a cup of tea; over it he told me of a diary kept by Jonathan Harker when abroad, and gave me a typewritten copy of it, as also of Mrs. Harker's diary at Whitby. "Take these," he said, "and study them well. When I have returned you will be master of all the facts, and we can then better enter on our inquisition. Keep them safe, for there is in them much of treasure. You will need all your faith, even you who have had such an experience as that of to-day. What is here told," he laid his hand heavily and gravely on the packet of papers as he spoke, "may be the beginning of the end to you and me and many another; or it may sound the knell of the Un-Dead who walk the earth. Read all, I pray you, with the open mind; and if you can add in any way to the story here told do so, for it is all-important. You have kept diary of all these so strange things; is it not so? Yes! Then we shall go through all these together when we meet." He then made ready for his departure, and shortly after drove off to Liverpool Street. I took my way to Paddington, where I arrived about fifteen minutes before the train came in.

The crowd melted away, after the bustling fashion common to arrival platforms; and I was beginning to feel uneasy, lest I might miss my guest, when a sweet-faced, dainty-looking girl stepped up to me, and, after a quick glance, said: "Dr. Seward, is it not?"

"And you are Mrs. Harker!" I answered at once; whereupon she held out her hand.

"I knew you from the description of poor dear Lucy; but -- -- " She stopped suddenly, and a quick blush overspread her face.

The blush that rose to my own cheeks somehow set us both at ease, for it was a tacit answer to her own. I got her luggage, which included a typewriter, and we took the Underground to Fenchurch Street, after I had sent a wire to my housekeeper to have a sitting-room and bedroom prepared at once for Mrs. Harker.

In due time we arrived. She knew, of course, that the place was a lunatic asylum, but I could see that she was unable to repress a shudder when we entered.

She told me that, if she might, she would come presently to my study, as she had much to say. So here I am finishing my entry in my phonograph diary whilst I await her. As yet I have not had the chance of looking at the papers which Van Helsing left with me, though they lie open before me. I must get her interested in something, so that I may have an opportunity of reading them. She does not know how precious time is, or what a task we have in hand. I must be careful not to frighten her. Here she is!

[army-author]

jimin scenario | cry me a galaxy

❝ In the emergency room on Christmas Eve, a celestial being comes to answer your whispered prayer ❞

➸ prompt: You and I meet in the emergency room on Christmas Eve.

➸ pairing: guardian angel jimin x reader

➸ warnings: depictions of illness and death

➸ requested by anon | 4.9k words | angst, guardian angel au

➸ author’s note: I listened to ‘crystal snow’ on repeat while writing this, I highly recommend that you listen as well while reading, it will help with the mood I was going for here!

You hate hospitals. The smell of disinfectant, the grim faces of families in waiting rooms, the silence that hangs in the corridors. For a place that’s meant to heal, there’s something damaging about the heavy atmosphere.

Today is the worst day to visit the emergency room, painfully aware that you shouldn’t be there - not on Christmas Eve evening. This time should be spent around a crackling fire, with a healthy and happy family, watching your favourite festive films and waiting for sleep to descend and the next day to dawn. Bad things shouldn’t happen on today of all days, not with all people proclaiming ‘joy to the world, and peace on earth’.

Yet here you are, unrest wringing your stomach, as you guide your grandma past the other families, waiting with blank expressions – children with broken bones, and drunkards with deep gashes.

“Don’t worry,” your grandma squeezes your hand as you walk, “It’s nothing. Just a pain in my chest. I’m sure we’re both being silly, overreacting like this.”

But you know enough of the symptoms, and her breathless words do nothing to dispel your anxiety. “I just want to be sure,” you murmur, placing your soft hand in her own wrinkly one, spotted with age.

“You always do like to make a big fuss, don’t you?” she smiles, before her lips fall in a wince, her face distorting under the pain, as her wrinkles stretch to meet each other like an intricate puzzle locking together. Her hand squeezes yours tighter as you lead her to the front desk. “Just wait, we’ll be laughing about this tomorrow, remembering how we overreacted.” With her frail voice, it sounds more like a question, like she expects you to convince her that she’s okay. It’s a horrible feeling, having the one you’ve always relied on needing to rely on you instead. Another reminder that all the adults you looked up to are growing feeble, were always feeble, but hid it behind false assurance, insuring your peace and happiness when you were younger. But you’re grown up now, and expected to know what to do when you see your grandma, grey in face, with sweat beading on her brow.

You swallow past the thickness building in your throat, and manage to say, “Of course, grammy. We’re just overreacting.”

At the front desk, you give your name and address and your grandma lists her symptoms off. Feeling nauseous hearing it all, cementing what’s happening, you turn your gaze away, to glance around the waiting room again, and your eyes fall on a man sitting alone, who seems to have nothing wrong with him.

He sits in the chair closest to the front desk, in a spotless white shirt and black trousers, with his legs crossed. Curious, you sweep your gaze over him, taking in his shimmering pale skin, his plump lips, and his blonde hair brushed back from his forehead. He catches you staring, with his angled eyes glancing over – striking you with the vast galaxy that bends and twists inside his gaze, dark irises holding the ink-black of space, flecked with diamond stars. You blink a few times, dizzied by his stare, and pull your eyes away from his hold, like a worm hole, sucking you in.

On your other side, your grandma’s hand gives your fingers a squeeze again. “Is everything okay, sweetheart?”

“Oh... yeah,” you turn back to her, blinking away the fogging brilliance of the man’s gaze, and tumbling back to the awful reality of her colour-sapped face, “Don’t worry about me, grammy. I’m fine.”

“Okay.” She bounces your hand up and down a few times in her own, “You had me worried, staring off into nothing like that.”

Into nothing? You glance back to the chair where the man had been sitting, seeing it completely empty now. You blink a few times, then snap your neck to the left and right, searching for the man with the galaxy in his gaze. But there’s no sign of him, nothing but a spot of sparkling dust as the foot of his chair, glittering like a slice of night’s sky.

“The woman at the front desk said a nurse would be with us soon,” your grandma tells you, as you pull your gaze back to her, with brows drawing together. You feel guilty for spacing off around her, caught up in the looks of mysterious strangers. You’re here for her, and it’s your responsibility to make sure she’s okay – after all the years she’s cared for you, you can do no less. Shame catches at your throat, choking you as you lead your grandma over to one of the chairs, to let her sit down. You’ll focus on nothing else but her from now on.

Shoes tap closer, and you look up to see a male nurse smiling at you. “I’m here to run a brief exam and test the severity of your condition,” he explains, “Please follow me.”

You help your grandma up again, but she tries to wave off your assistance, mumbling, “I can walk by myself.”

You let go of her, but hover close behind as you walk, filled with worry, but not wanting to insult her with unwanted help. She always has been stubborn. As you walk, her breath gets heavier and heavier, and you’re almost ready to cave, and offer your shoulder for support, when the nurse reaches the examination room, and asks if you will wait outside. You nod, keeping your face brave as you wave off your grandma.

But with the door closing in your face, your façade crumbles in ruin around your feet. With only the drab blue and white of the walls for company, corridor tucked away from the busyness of the emergency room, you finally let go of the breath caught in your throat. Sliding down the wall to the floor, you tuck your knees up to your chin and finally allow yourself to think about what happened in the past few hours.

You know what these symptoms are, and although you never wanted to say the words around your grandmother, they still toll loud and clear in your mind: heart attack. You curse yourself for not noticing sooner, dismissing when your grandma first mentioned having pain in her chest. It was probably just indigestion, that’s what you thought. She was old, and her body responded more violently to small things. So it was probably nothing. But after the nausea, her loss of breath, her blood draining from her face, you realised it was serious – that you’d have to drive her to the emergency room. And even yet on the way over, your mind had refused to connect to the two words that now stick in your head. Maybe because, if they had, you wouldn’t have been able to stay calm when your grandma needed you most.

Why hadn’t you picked up on it sooner? Why hadn’t you called an ambulance, instead of insisting on driving her yourself? Why hadn’t you been more attentive? People can die from this. She could die from this. The thought clutches your heart with icy fingers, squeezing blood out. Resting your forehead against your knees, you shut out the cool cleanness of the hospital with closed eyes and plead to the heavens above, “Please let her be okay. Please. Please. Please.” You breath out in a whoosh, trying to keep yourself together, trembling on the verge of cracking. But memoires of your grandma’s scared face, breaking through her normally cheery expression for one second, before she wobbled back to stoicism and asked if you would drive her to the hospital “just in case” only digs the shards of guilt deeper into your heart. And the first tears begin to fall, spotting onto your jeans. With a curse, you wipe at your eyes with the back of your hand, trying to pull yourself back together. You don’t have the right to cry now. You’re not the one being seen to by nurses, you’re not the one in pain. These are only selfish tears cried by a selfish person.

“It’s perfectly alright to cry.”

Your sobbing shudders to a halt, and you glance up, embarrassed to be caught like this. In front of you is the man you noticed earlier, the one with swirling nebulae in his irises. Remembering his mysterious disappearance earlier, you wonder if you’re imagining things now, pushed over the edge by tiredness and stress. You struggle to get up, trying to use the legs that have fallen asleep with you sitting huddled on the floor.

“Hey, no, it’s okay!” He crouches down so that his dangerously deep eyes are on level with your own. “Don’t be scared.”

Your lips tremble, trying to fight out the words lodged in your throat, but nothing’s coming out.

“You can… see me, right?” The man moves closer, tilting up your chin with a finger, so you can’t look away. You give a small nod as affirmation. “Good.”

“W-what are you?” you stammer, as he lets go of your face, and sinks back to crouch with his weight on his heels, “Why did you disappear earlier?”

“Sorry, about that,” he says, “I didn’t mean to startle you. This form’s a little hard for me to keep, even if it’s only you seeing me.” After this, he gives you a gentle smile that pushes up the edges of his eyes, scrunching away his celestial irises, reducing them to crescent moons. “To answer your earlier question, I’m your guardian angel. But you can call me Jimin.”

Your mouth falls open in disbelief, eyes scanning over his body, seeming perfectly human. If it weren’t for the twisting, tumbling stars in his eyes, and the soft glimmer of his silvery skin, you would believe him totally normal.

“Guardian… angel?” you repeat, deciding you must be dreaming. Maybe you’ll wake up soon, and your grandma will be better, and Christmas will be just a couple of hours away, with no fears for the future.

He nods his head. “Actually, I’ve been with you for a long time… but this is the first time I can let you see me.” His eyes glaze over, and he gives his head a small shake to disrupt whatever thoughts are swirling in his mind, “It’s not normal for a guardian angel to appear in front of the one they protect.”

A cold settles in your stomach. Whatever sort of dream this is, it doesn’t seem a good one. More like a nightmare, which you can’t escape, no matter how many times you pinch yourself. “If you’re here… does that mean something bad will happen?” Your hands grip at the sleeves of your jumper, searching desperately for something to comfort you, but without your grandma around, no hand to hold, and no wrinkled face to smile down and tell you that you’ll be okay, you have nothing. “Will grammy be okay?”

The angel’s face remains placid, as he says, “I’m not her guardian angel, so I can’t answer that. All I know is that you need me.”

“Why?” you stomach floods with ice-cold dread, “There’s nothing wrong with me…”

You pull yourself up from the floor, keeping your hand on the wall to steady yourself as you wipe the last remains of tears from your face. “What’s going to happen to me?”

Jimin stands up, shining eyes watching you carefully, like he might watch a scared animal circling in a cage. “I can’t tell you.”

Your hands ride into your hair, pulling at your fringe in anxiety. “Something’s going to happen to grammy isn’t it? And you’re here to help me after that. That’s what’s going on, right?”

“Like I said, I can’t reveal your future. All I can say is that you’ll need me soon.”

Anger bubbles below your fear. “Well that’s useful, isn’t it? Why bother showing up if you can’t do anything?”

His eyes squeeze shut as your voice raises. “I’m trying my best, okay. I know it’s frustrating. I wish I could tell you, I really do… but there are certain rules I have to follow.”

“But you know...” you reason, “You know something will happen. If it’s grammy, then, can’t you do something for her? Keep her safe. Forget about me!”

“I already told you - I’m responsible for you, not her.”

“But I don’t care about myself,” you say, “I’m not important.”

He winces at this, galaxy eyes plunging to pure, devouring black. “Don’t say that.”

Your heart shudders inside you at his words, “But it’s true. I’m really not important. Grammy is. And if she… if she… goes… it’s going to be my fault… because I didn’t pick up on her symptoms sooner. Didn’t get her to the hospital on time.”

“It is not your fault.” Jimin’s voice is firm, but you’re not listening anymore, slipping into a panic, hands worrying at the soft skin just below your sleeves, where the veins rise up in your wrists.

You’re convinced that inside the examination rooms, things are going badly – envisioning the ECG readings going crazy before they settle down to a flat line. Death.

Jimin calls your name, drawing your eyes back to his.  “It is not your fault. Okay? Can you repeat it with me?”

You shake your head, feeling your heart a dead weight inside you. “She’s going to die… isn’t she…?”

Jimin’s eyes are dull, no stars orbiting in his irises now. As you keep shaking your head, beyond your own tears you can see his body slowly fading. With one blink and escaped tears sliding down your cheeks, he completely disappears from your vision, leaving you breathless in the hospital ward, holding back sobs, with the back of your hand pressed to your mouth.

The silence of the empty corridor only lasts a few seconds, as two doctors come running down the hall and disappear into the examination room where your grandma is. You catch a glimpse of her past the nurse, strapped in with tubes. Then the door slams shut.

You listen to the sounds inside the room, breath stuck in frozen lungs. There are hushed voices, worried tones and then someone shouting “clear!” You squeeze your eyes shut, clenching your jaw to hold back more tears from falling.

When you open your eyes, Jimin is in front of you again, his eyes sad.

“Go away.” You jump back from him, “You’re not supposed to be here! I’m fine. Go help my grammy!”

He shakes his head, “That’s not my job.”

“Not your job?” you growl, “She’s dying on the other side of that door, and what are you here for? My emotional support? I don’t care about me! I care about her. Go and help her!”

He says rooted in place, eyes pained as they watch your own. He doesn’t say anything, letting you rail at him. With your anger drained out of you, you slump down, body weak from all the emotions rushing through you. With eyes fixed on the floor, your breath comes fast.

Jimin’s shoes step into your vision, and then his arms are wrapping around you, pulling you close to him. “I’m so sorry I can’t do more,” he says, “I’m sorry you have to go through this.” You think you catch a shake in his voice, but you can’t tell.

Then he’s fading again, the warmth of his body leaving yours as the doors to the examination room open once more, and the nurse steps out.

You intercept him. “Is she okay? Are things going alright?”

The nurse’s face remains neutral. “I’m afraid that things aren’t looking good.”

All energy rushes from your body, replaced by a dull emptiness. So this is it. The nurse easing you into the idea of death.

“Is there anyone else in the close family you’d like to call?” the nurse asks, “Anyone else you want here?”

You bite your lip, mind falling to your mother working on the other side of the world over Christmas, always leaving you in the care of her own mother for as long as you can remember. What would it help for her to know now? She can’t come over right away. Can’t offer you the support you desperately need. As far as you are concerned, your family is only you and your grandma.

You shake your head, “No.” and the nurse nods his head, before heading back into the examination room, promising:

“I’ll keep you updated.” But you already know that the next time he comes out to speak with you, it’s going to be a grim announcement.

You stare blankly at the door, left swinging, hoping this is still a dream, but getting the awful sense you might not wake up.

Jimin appears again, head in his hands, crouched on the floor where you once sat. And despite your anger at his uselessness, doing nothing to help your grandma, you can’t help but feel a stab of pain as he moans, “This is all going the same away again.”

You crouch down beside him, hand falling to his shoulder, as you ask, “What do you mean by that?”

He looks up to you, black eyes still as startling as they were before, filled with tears like melted diamonds, twinkling before the stars and planets in his pupils. “This wasn’t meant to happen this way. Not this time.” His voice breaks, and he bites down on his full lips, so hard that the skin turns white below his teeth. “I… I keep coming back to this moment over and over and over and I keep trying to change it for you… because that’s my job… but I don’t know how many more times I can keep doing it. I’m changing nothing. It just keep repeating. And I keep making you hurt.”

“You…” Your mind tumbles in confusion, as you try to make sense of what he said, “You came back? You mean from the future?”

He nods hopelessly. “Many futures actually. But they all end the same.”

“End the same, how?”

He shakes his head. “I can’t tell you.”

You sigh, feeling helpless. “If I knew what it is I’m trying to avoid, maybe I could stop it from happening,” you reason, but all you get in response is:

“I can’t. I’m really sorry… this must be so infuriating for you.” His face falls, lips trembling and eyes flooding over.

“Jimin…” desperate to see a different expression on his perfect face, you bury your head into his chest, and after a second of stillness, his arms hesitantly wrap around you.

“I can’t keep doing this,” he mumbles into your hair, “I can’t keep watching you suffer over and over again...”

“Don’t you have the power to change it?” you ask.

“I wish,” he says, “But my power is limited. All I can do is reverse time, pull back the seconds before… well – before you need me, and try to alter them so that the outcome is different. But every time it’s the same. I’m trapped like this. Watching this part of your life over and over until I right it.”

“Even this… is this the same?” you ask, and he replies:

“We’ve had this exact same conversation as many times as I can count.”

“What if you told me what happened next? Changed the course of the conversation?”

“Impossible.”

You sigh against his shirt, feeling the warmth of him, comforting below you, like the familiarity of your bed. You’ve felt this before, and you wonder if you’ve sensed his presence by your side before, without even realising he’s there. The thought makes you feel both sad, and happy, realising that you weren’t always as lonely as you thought, with a guardian angel by your side.

His hand gentle, he runs his fingers through your hair, and you close your eyes under the touch, sinking into familiarity. It reminds you of when your grandma would brush your hair for you. Grandma.

Your eyes snap open, and you’re sitting alone in the empty corridor, with only a few shining specks of dust on your fingertips to remind you of the man by your side just seconds before.

The doors open again and one of the doctors steps out. His face is grim. You know it’s not good, before he opens his mouth.

“Can we talk?”

You stand up, brushing dust from the seat of your jeans. A few stray flecks of shining stardust fall to the floor.

“I’m afraid it’s bad news.”

Even though you were expecting it, your body isn’t ready to accept. You shake your head, as your brain fills with the roaring of blood.

“There’s been a complication.”

No.

“I’m really sorry.”

You disconnect. That someone listening to the doctor, that’s not you. It’s someone else, waiting while the doctor dodges around the word for “dead”. If Jimin would just appear again, and pull you away, draw you into a nicer dream, where angels bring good news, and stardust on your fingertips fills you with joy, rather than dread.

“We did all we could, but your grandmother’s heart was too weak. We couldn’t get it to start again.”

You nod, blankly.

The doctor is still talking, detailing the illness and their attempts and failure to prevent it, but you don’t register it. Words whirls by in a mesh of sound, with medical terms you don’t understand and snippets you do like ‘bad’, ‘nothing we could do’, ‘so sorry’.

At last he stops talking, eyes training on your own. “Will you be okay?”

You nod again, voice sounding distant as you talk: “I just need time to process.”

His eyebrows furrow in concern, registering your shock. You just mumble, “Can I go out to get some air,” and he bows his head respectfully.

With that, you push yourself down the corridor, out into the emergency room again, past those still waiting to be seen. The world is a blur of clour to you, melted like an abstract painting. You just know you need out. Need air.

You’re aware of Jimin’s voice shouting your name somewhere, but you don’t care. He’s useless to you now that your grandma is gone, dead. She can’t be dead. It’s not possible. The strongest women you’ve ever known. Taken by some fault in her heart. It can’t be real. This has to be a dream.

Your bash your way through the exit, and stand with the December air stinging your cheeks. The clock on the post just outside shows it’s two minutes past midnight. Christmas morning.

You want to throw up.

Instead, you drive yourself forwards, keep walking, not seeing, just moving, needing something to do with your body to keep the thoughts away. This can’t be happening. This isn’t happening. There’s no way any of this could happen. A life taken. And yours destroyed. It can’t be happening. Not on Christmas. Bad things don’t happen on Christmas.

A beeping pulls you out of your thoughts, and you find yourself standing on the road, with lights speeding towards you. Another beep sounds, piercing your ears, and your brain suddenly connects back to your body, realising what’s going on. Before a scream can leave your lips, you see a dash of colour, a glimpse of star filled eyes, and Jimin’s body is in-between you and the oncoming car, white wings spreading out from his back. You scrunch your eyes shut as his arms wrap around you, body pressed close, and there’s a crash, followed by the soft fluttering of falling feathers…

…

…is this what it feels like to die?

Your eyes stutter open to the bright light of a billion blinding stars, shining brilliant around you. You glance down at your feet, seeing nothing below but more of the seas of space. It’s as if you’ve fallen into Jimin’s eyes. In front of you, there he is, now with white wings growing from his back.

He smiles when you look up, but there’s a sadness in his smile. “It happened again. Sorry. I failed you once more.”

“Jimin...” You reach out to him, across the all engulfing darkness of space between you, catching his glowing skin below your palms, and threading his fingers through yours.

“I don’t know if I can save you,” he says, head falling, hair covering his eyes. You see tears shimmering on his lashes. “Sorry. I’m really useless aren’t I? I can’t even do the one job I’ve been given. I can’t keep you from dying. I’ve tried so many times, and this is always the outcome... it’s all my fault.”

“No, don’t say that,” you cup his cheek in your hand, overwhelmed by the pain of this man you’ve only known for a day, and yet who’s been by your side all your life. So many times, so many times, so many times he’s gone back for you, put himself through this, all to scrape back the second that you run out into your own death in the middle of the road. You can’t imagine what that’s like, repeating that moment. You can’t begin to understand his pain. All you can do is say, “Do you remember what you said to me earlier? You told me that what happened to my grammy wasn’t my fault. I want you to know this isn’t your fault either.”

He laughs past his tears, “I did say that didn’t I? Guess I’m a hypocrite.”

“So, repeat it for me. Tell yourself it’s not your fault.”

His eyes rise to yours, empty of all that now orbits you. The galaxy in his pupils has spilled out into the space around you, an eternity’s worth of starry tears, building his own universe with every death he lives over and over for you, trying to pull back your life.

“Say it. Please.” you whisper.

“But…” he bites his lip, “It is my fault. Completely my fault. If I wasn’t so useless, I’d know how to fix this, how to bring back your life, to not see death repeated over and over and over.”

“But by that logic it’s also my fault for running into the middle of the road,” you say, “And it’s the driver’s fault for not stopping. And it’s the doctor’s fault for not being able to save my grandma, for stirring up these desperate feelings inside me… do you see how pointless it is trying to tie down blame?”

Floating outside of gravity, the tears that leaves his eyes drift out into the space around you, shuddering into frozen crystals, that shine brightly as they sail into the darkness, shining as new born stars.

“Do you see?” you press on the soft skin of his cheeks, wanting him to understand. When he says nothing, you go on, “Listen. Even if you keep on failing, if we have this conversation a million more times, please don’t go on blaming yourself. Let go of the fault, for me, for yourself. Because in the seconds before I died, I wasn’t angry with you, I didn’t blame you, not even a bit. So don’t hold onto that feeling. Please?”

His hand raises to cup your own, framing his face. “I just want it to be different,” he whispers, “But every time… all I see is the same… your face just before the car-”

“Do something different then,” you say, “It doesn’t need to be something big. Even just smiling at me the first time you see me. One small second can change the whole course of a life, right?”

Around you, the pinpricks of light from a thousand stars begin to glow brighter, shining to fill up the blackness, flooding it with light.

“It’s time I went back,” Jimin says, “I’ll try to save you again.”

“I trust you will.”

His eyes grow sad, staring back to you, leaking tears of stardust and silver. “I’ll try to live up to that trust.”

As the light grows blinding, turning your vision to white, you repeat, “Remember, it’s not your fault.”

In the whiteness, you feel his hands melt from your own, and nothingness swallows you up.

♡♡♡

You hate hospitals. The smell of disinfectant, the grim faces of families in waiting rooms, the silence that hangs in the corridors. For a place that’s meant to heal, there’s something damaging about the heavy atmosphere.

Today is the worst day to visit the emergency room, painfully aware that you shouldn’t be there - not on Christmas Eve evening. Bad things shouldn’t happen on today of all days, not with all people proclaiming ‘joy to the world, and peace on earth’.

Yet here you are, unrest wringing your stomach, as you guide your grandma past the other families, waiting with blank expressions – children with broken bones, and drunkards with deep gashes. And one man at the edge of the room with starry eyes. As your gaze connects with his, a smile slips across his face. Unsure if you should know his name, you smile back shyly. The galaxy in his pupils dips away as his eyes scrunch up to crescent moons and you feel at ease with him close by. Because bad things really can’t happen on Christmas Eve. The stars in his eyes promise this much.

“Don’t worry,” your grandma squeezes your hand as you walk by, “I might be ill, but I have a good feeling tonight.”

♡ END ♡

Author’s note: It’s been a long time since I’ve written pure angst, so I’m a bit rusty. I hope this wasn’t too melodramatic...

[whimsicalworldofme]

Too Soon

I really don’t have a description for this. It’s probably going to hurt. It hurt to write. 

Word Count: 1593

Content Warnings: Mentions of death

Two weeks into married life and things had already taken a turn. Poe accepted a promotion back up to Commander which meant more missions, especially since word had reached them that the First Order had ramped up building something, likely another attempt at a super weapon. Ava wondered if they’d ever learn that the Resistance would just destroy it as soon as possible. It happened every time. All of this did, the fighting, the intermittent victories, tentative eras of peace, then another subset rising to power only to abuse it. She wished it would all stop. That, however, required fighting back, which she understood. And so, Poe was out twelve out of the first fourteen days of their being married. When he got home that night he only had enough energy to eat dinner with the family before crawling into bed. Ava had joined him shortly after, wanting nothing more than to be next to him. The emotional strain of having him away for so long had left her more worn out than she imagined, and they fell asleep while the sun was still up.

               “Everything is going to be all right,” Leia’s voice, quiet, barely more than a whisper, floated into Ava’s ear, waking her up with a start. Her eyes flew open and she turned her head to look around expecting to see the general standing over the edge of the bed to send Poe out again. In the dark of the bedroom all she could see was her husband soundly asleep still, arm around her waist, peacefully unaware of what she’d just heard. Fears raced through Ava’s mind and she reached out with the Force for Leia, hoping that it was just a nightmare, some stress induced imagining. But when she reached, trying to find Leia with the Force, she was gone.

               “No,” she gasped in pain. She sat up and wrapped her arms around herself, tears burning her eyes as they fell. “No, not you too,” she whispered, pleading. “Please.”  

               She shut her eyes and tried to stifle the horrible sobs that threatened to overtake her. Sheets rustled and weight shifted on the mattress. A gentle hand stroked her hair and drew her close. Ava laid her head on Poe’s chest, letting herself cry.

               “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” He was no stranger to waking up in the middle of the night to soothe her back to sleep after a nasty nightmare. It didn’t happen as often now as it had thirteen years ago, but they still came for her sometimes, the visions of Ben Solo, garbed in black, wielding a red lightsaber, poised to kill.  But every time she woke from those dreams, Poe was right there, sweet, beautiful man that he was, to forfeit his own rest to calm her down and make sure she got back to sleep.

               “Leia is gone,” she muttered against another surge of tears. She heard his heart skip a beat, felt his arm tense around her. She wished that she hadn’t had to be the one to tell him but thought it might hurt less hearing it from her.

               “What?” He faltered, and Ava looked up to see him staring down at her with a furrowed brow, tears brimming in his eyes against his doubts. “What do you mean she’s gone?” His breath grew shallower. He knew what she meant, but that didn’t mean he was prepared to accept it. Ava sat up as he kicked the blankets off his legs, watching as he stumbled out of bed. He fumbled around in the dark to find the pants he’d dropped on the floor earlier.

               “Kriff,” he yelped when he almost fell from tripping over his boots. He righted himself and pulled his pants on, hopping a little to get them up on his hips before buttoning them. He plopped down on his side of the bed and pulled on his socks and boots before bending over to pluck up his shirt.

               “Poe what are you going to do?” Ava asked between sniffs and gulps. She wiped tears off her cheeks.

               “It’s just a nightmare,” he strode over to her side of the bed, pulling on his shirt as he did. His face was set with grim resolve as he leaned down and kissed her lightly, brushing away another streaking tear from her cheek with his thumb. “You’ll see. I’m going to go talk to Leia. It’s all right.”

               Ava didn’t have the heart to argue. Poe knew full well that she would have already utilized her connection to the Force to try and dispel the fears. He couldn’t allow himself to believe the truth of the matter and she didn’t blame him. She didn’t want to believe it either. Poe grabbed his jacket and slung it on as he walked out of the room. Ava sat in quiet tears, trying to keep from being loud enough to wake Luke in the next room. She hoped that he would sleep pleasantly unaware through the night. Telling him would be difficult but it could hopefully wait until the morning.

               Lying back down, she curled onto her side and tried to find peace in meditative thought. Leia had managed to out-survive the other rebels of her generation, but she had never fully recovered physically from the attacks during their escape to Crait. On top of that, she held a lingering, soul-battering pain from the loss of her husband, her twin brother, and her oldest friend all in the course of a few days. She hid it well from most but every now and then Ava felt it through the Force when the general unintentionally let her guard down. Lesser women would’ve given up and crumbled years ago from all the strife she had endured. Not Leia. She pushed on, put all thoughts of her own pain aside to focus on helping others. The only reason the Resistance was in such a good position right now, with their growing numbers, the gaining support through the galaxy, the efficiency and efficacy, was that Leia devoted her every waking moment to it. She had always known, as all people do, that one day she wouldn’t be around to lead them so she made sure she built up the ranks of officers with good people like her, people who would follow her same selfless path when she was gone. For years she had been preparing the Resistance for the day when they would have to carry on without her. Ava wondered if anyone had sensed that day would come so soon.

               The fact that she had prepared the Resistance to succeed without her did little to console Ava’s personal feelings of loss though. Leia had been more of a mother to her than any other woman in her life, including the mother who gave her life and the aunt who had raised her. The general was the first person to beam with pride when Ava showed her how she could lift things with the Force. Leia had been the one to convince Luke to take on both her and Ben as his apprentices before starting his school, insisting that she had every bit as much potential. Without Leia’s string pulling, Ava knew she wouldn’t have had the things she had needed to care for Luke as a baby. She had been there for every routine test, check-up, and sono-holo. She held Ava’s hand in labor and was the first person to hold Luke before laying him on Ava’s chest. No one could have prepared Ava better to teach Luke about his connection to the Force and his legendary family history. Leia was the matriarch of their hodgepodge family. Ava knew that she would want them to keep going, to remember her with love, and carry her with them without sorrow. But the void she left behind weighed far too much right at that moment.

               The door clattered open and Ava rolled over to see Poe stagger in, hunched over, head hanging. He glanced at her from under his heavy brow, his jaw clenching and unclenching. He shook his head, unable to speak the words. Ava hated seeing him this way, defeated, heartbroken. His arms seemed weak as he shrugged out of his jacket, not caring where it landed on the floor. He stepped out of his boots as though it were nothing. Without a word Ava sat up and Poe trudged around to his side of the bed and dropped heavily to a seat, his head in his hands, crying the horrible tears that he’d tried so hard to avoid, the truth finally hitting him. Ava scooted over and wrapped her arms around him, resting her head on his shoulder, letting him know that he wasn’t alone. Poe turned after a few minutes and slipped his arms around her, holding her tight, pressing his forehead to hers.

               “I think Leia was ready to be at rest,” Ava said quietly sniffing past her own tears. “I heard her tell me that everything would be all right. There wasn’t any pain or fear, just acceptance and love.”

               “It’s like my mom dying all over again,” Poe choked.

               Ava shifted so that she was laying back in the pillows and with a soft touch to his arm she guided him to lay down too, holding him close to her, his head on her chest as she stroked his hair, letting him cry.

               “It’s too soon,” he held onto her as though afraid she might melt into thin air if he let go. “It’s too soon.”  

               “I know.”

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