#i don’t watch doc but i imagine he’s void too

[vegley]

hi guys ^_^

[thexanwillshine]

a;lskfjdk

Author: thexanwillshine (twitter, ao3) Pairings: Levi x Hange Cross-Postings: AO3 Notes: made for Day 2: Confessions of Levihan Week 2021

“But Levi,” Hange whines as she slumps her head on the back of her sofa and closes her eyes. “Kissing scenes are so tricky to write.”

Perhaps it’s the fact that it’s almost 5:30 in the morning. It could also be because he's tired from lack of sleep. Whatever the case, Levi Ackerman’s filter completely disappears when he asks, “Do you need a demonstration?”

Levi Ackerman can argue that every writer he’s met is always a little bit more eccentric than the average person, but no one proves his theory more than Hange Zoë.

Hange wakes him up in the middle of the night, voice screeching on the phone in her excitement. He responds groggily—as one does when their sleep is disturbed at an ungodly hour by an overly-excited author who acts as if they’ve just found out the answers to the universe—and tries to keep himself sober enough to understand what in the goddamn fuck Hange was talking about this time.

“Levaaiiii,” she says, drawling out his name in a manner that was both annoying and endearing, “I’ve figured it out!”

He can almost imagine the look on her face: starry-eyed in her joy, mouth stretched wide into a grin, fingers shaking as she bounces in glee, shifting her weight from the heels of her feet to the tips of her toes . . .

And Levi exhales in both relief and the tiniest hint of delight, because this is exactly how he wants Hange to be: happy .

Nevertheless, he replies “Figured what out?” snarkily.

Hange’s response comes out quickly, as if she needed to say everything that had to be said in the span of five seconds or less. “So you know how I’ve been trying to write a fiction novel because I wanted to get out of my comfort zone?”

Levi hums in acknowledgement as he fixes the covers over his legs before turning on his bedside lamp. He leans back on the bed frame and closes his eyes to listen to her ramble.

“So I was thinking, I wanted to write a romance novel, because you know how people fall in love and stuff?”

“No Hange, I’ve never heard of that concept in my entire life,” Levi says in a deadpan voice.

Hange laughs, because of course she would know that’s his pathetic attempt at lighthearted conversation. Levi is glad that she knows him better than most people, and it is this sense of familiarity that made him feel particularly comfortable when graced with her presence.

“Just because you’ve never fallen in love before doesn’t mean it’s not real, Levi!” Hange tells him in jest.

Wrong, Levi thinks.

“After all, you’ve probably never wanted to kiss someone your entire life!”

Wrong, Levi thinks.

“Sure, Hange.”

He rolls his eyes at her teasing, because yes, Levi has fallen in love—and maybe, just maybe, he’s still on the road to understanding what it meant to treasure someone far more than just a regular friend.

He shakes off such thoughts before maneuvering Hange back to the initial reason why she had called. “So, what did you want to tell me?”

“I finished,” she proclaims on the phone, her voice proud, “I finished writing the first ten chapters.”

Levi blinks in confusion before sitting straight up, the information processing in his mind that was still a bit drunk with sleep. “You what?” “I couldn’t stop writing,” Hange told him sheepishly, detecting the slightest hint of concern in her editor’s voice, “I’ve been writing for the past 24 or so hours. Maybe more.”

Levi grunts in annoyance, pulling the covers away from his body and jumping out of his unmade bed. He runs a hand through his dark locks, sighing. “Four-eyes, you need to get some sleep.”

“But Levi,” Hange says in protest, “I need you to read my draft. There are some parts I just don’t think are super natural.”

“And I was sleeping like a regular human being,” Levi retorted as he shrugged off his shorts. After that, he put on jeans that he had recently washed before patting down the shirt he was wearing in a pathetic attempt to get rid of the wrinkles that had accumulated while he tossed and turned in bed.

“Oh my gosh, Levi, I didn’t realize the time!” Hange replies, and he can almost feel her guilt starting to set in. “You should go back to sleep,” she immediately adds. “Take care of yourself!”

Levi slips on his rubber shoes and grabs his umbrella before answering. “Coming from you? Not that credible.”

Hange laughs light-heartedly, and his heart flutters just a tiny bit. Levi pushes the feeling away almost as quickly as it had come.

“Have you eaten?” he asks, almost dreading the reply.

There was none.

“Hange,” he calls, but there’s still no response. “Hange. Answer me,” he says firmly, prodding her on. “Have you eaten?”

The laughter that comes out from the other end is nervous. “Woops.”

Levi sighs. He opens his car door and slips inside smoothly, grabbing his keys from his pocket and starting the engine. “Hange, you’re supposed to eat.”

“Sorry,” she tells him honestly. “I really didn’t want to ruin my momentum. I can’t believe I forgot.” She mumbles her second sentence, sounding almost deep in thought. “I’ll go find food now! Want me to email you the working draft? You can look at it in the morning when you wake up.”

“No need,” Levi tells her, placing his phone on his dashboard and accelerating his car. “I’m on the way.”

“Levi!” Hange exclaimed excitedly as she heard her doorbell ring at around four in the morning.

She rushes to the door in delight, opening it to reveal Levi standing in front of her, a paper bag in his hand and a jacket half-heartedly slung over his shoulder.

“Hi,” he greets calmly, before walking inside and letting himself in.

Inwardly, Hange thanks whatever god is out there for her foresight. Her unit was relatively clean since she hadn’t really done anything since Levi’s last visit. The place seemed to pass Levi’s health protocols, since he sat on her couch and placed the paper bag on the table right across from him.

“Eat,” he tells her, crossing his arms over his chest.

Hange grins, before plopping down beside him and opening the paper bag. “What did you get me?”

“You’ll see.”

She raises an eyebrow at his ambiguity, before taking a glimpse inside the paper bag.

The smell of quesadillas immediately fills the room, and Hange lets out a soft squeal, taking out the food from the bag quickly.

“Oh my gosh,” Hange says as she nudges him on the shoulder. “You also got me onion rings! You know me too well, Levi.”

“Unfortunately,” Levi responds sarcastically, and Hange laughs almost automatically.

As Hange hums in glee, picking apart the paper wrapped around the food items, Levi maintains his silence. They stay like that as Hange eats. Every so often, she would comment about how the amount of cheese was perfect and how the onion rings just about melted in her mouth. Levi alternates between watching her eat and scrolls through his phone placidly.

Soon, he chooses to break the silence. “So where’s your draft?”

Hange is munching on her last piece of quesadilla when she glances in his direction. “Oh, it’s on my laptop! I can’t believe I forgot to tell you, this food was just so good.”

Levi stands up and heads on over to Hange’s room, gently pushing the door open and scanning the area for her laptop. On top of her unmade bed was a half open Macbook Pro, which he gently took before returning to his seat beside Hange.

Without hesitation, Levi opens the laptop and inputs the password. For some reason, Hange made it his birthday—1225—because she claimed that no one would guess such a random date. He is greeted with a blaring Google Docs document entitled “a;lskfjdk.”

“Nice title you got there,” he comments, and Hange chuckles.

“I didn’t want to think of a title yet, okay!” Hange pouts, and Levi nudges her foot gently in an attempt to comfort her from his own teasing.

He scans the document first before reading it. Hange is a good writer, but fiction is an entirely new genre for her. Immediately, he notices common habits from writing research papers leak into her new work: overexplaining, using words that are too formal for her target audience, sentences a little bit void from emotion.

He takes note of these comments on her notes app before going over her draft again, this time more meticulously than he had done previously. During this time, Hange finishes eating, wraps her trash and tosses them all inside the paper bag before standing up and dumping the entire thing inside her garbage bin.

“Levi,” she calls as she washes her hands through the sink faucet. Levi gives her the smallest hint that he’s listening by raising his eyebrow, but he doesn’t take his gaze away from her laptop. “I’m going to take a shower,” she announces, and he waves his hand dismissively.

Hange smiles to herself. Levi is always nagging her whenever she would accidentally hyperfixate on her writing, but he acts the same way when reading her works.

When Hange stepped inside the shower, Levi was already conducting a deep dive in her third chapter. The gears in his head slowly begin to turn as he begins to analyze her work.

The story revolved around the tales of the people who went to the clinic. The first chapter was a brief introduction on who the main characters were: There’s Janelle, a bright-eyed psychologist whose passion influenced the people around her. Together with El and Bea, her trusted assistants studying under her guidance, they would aid the people who went to the Hopiatria Clinic seeking care.

Meanwhile, the second chapter featured a child who felt as if she was being blamed for the death of her mother by her father. Her mother had died in a plane crash shortly after the young girl wished that her mom could go home on her sixth birthday. Janelle talks to the child gently while El and Bea provide emotional support, offering the child toys and biscuits whenever the need arises.

The third chapter was trickier, and it was there that Levi noticed a twist in Hange’s writing. The story revolved around a boy busy getting her doctorate, and a young girl who had been in love with him ever since they were in college. It’s the young girl who comes to Janelle’s office, and she relays the tale of her unrequited childhood romance to the psychologist.

The young girl is passionate, and wanted to take a step forward in order to guide her towards falling out of love with her best friend. Janelle presents two suggestions: (1) confession, while being fully-open to the possibility of rejection, and (2) accepting rejection without confession. The young girl decides to go with the first option, but to her surprise, the boy returns her feelings.

Everything seemed well-written up until the end of the chapter, where Hange had written,

And then they kissed.

Levi scrolled down the page, tilting his head to the side in slight confusion. That’s it? He thought, trying to find the rest.

Everything had been so well-described; from the girl’s internal turmoil—caused by her fear of destroying their friendship and the pain that came with unrequited love—to the boy confessing his own emotions for her.

The ending was anticlimactic, to say the least.

As he blinked at the google document in confusion, already typing out his comment on her notes app, Hange emerged from the bathroom. Her hair was loose on her shoulders, wet from her shower. Wrapped around her waist is his bathrobe, which she had borrowed from him long ago and never bothered to return it.

Levi scoffs as he glances in her direction. Here she was, parading with the cloth on and rubbing that specific fact in his face.

“Hey,” Hange greeted, smiling as she ran a hand through her brown locks, “How’s the reading going?”

“It was okay until the third chapter,” Levi says honestly, pointing the laptop screen in her direction. “The ending’s anticlimactic.”

Hange hummed, pursing her lips together. “Yeah. I didn’t really know how to end it,” she tells him as she opens her cabinet and grabs a few pieces of clothing. “Give me a bit, I’m going to change.”

She disappears into her room and Levi focuses on her story, trying to think of a way to spur Hange on and perhaps actively improve the ending’s writing.

Hange emerges in a loose t-shirt (which was, once again, his) and shorts. She sits down right beside him, leaning over his shoulder to glance at her laptop and read the specific line that particularly irked Levi.

“It’s that one, right?” Hange asks, pointing at the last sentence. “And then they kissed.”

“Yeah,” Levi responds, shaking his head. “Everything was so well-written up ‘till that point. You were able to describe the emotions perfectly, and the narration’s not that bad . . save for a few paragraphs that maybe should’ve stayed in your research papers.”

Hange chuckles. “Old habits die hard,” she responds, before taking her Macbook from his lap and transferring it to hers. “So what should I write?”

Levi shrugs. “I’m just your editor. You’re the writer.”

Hange pouts. “Yeah, but I don’t know how to make this better.”

“Maybe describe the scene more,” Levi suggests. “Everything ended so abruptly. Every emotion you’ve created and built disappeared in that one line.”

She nods in agreement. “But Levi,” Hange whines as she slumps her head on the back of her sofa and closes her eyes. “Kissing scenes are so tricky to write.”

Perhaps it’s the fact that it’s almost 5:30 in the morning. It could also be because he's tired from lack of sleep. Whatever the case, Levi Ackerman’s filter completely disappears when he asks, “Do you need a demonstration?”

Hange’s eyes shoot open immediately, and Levi’s face turns red just as quickly.

“F-Forget it,” he says, interrupting her just when he saw Hange open her mouth to speak. Any semblance of calm in his body disappears immediately, and his heart starts pounding against his chest in a rhythm that reminds him too much of a beating drum.

Hange, however, looks elated.

“You want to kiss me?” she tells him in excitement, blinking at him. “I’d like that. It could help me write this scene, you know.”

Levi looks away. “It was just a spur of the moment question.”

“So, you’re not going to kiss me?”

He actively avoids her gaze because he can already see from his peripheral vision that she looks sad, disappointed even. He grunts in response, closing his eyes and focusing his attention on a random spot on the wall.

“Oh,” Hange replies, “Well, I thought it was a good idea.”

Contrary to popular belief, Levi does want to kiss Hange. More than anything.

There were many reasons why: Because she looks so handsome and beautiful at the same time, and her very smile could light up any room she’d walk into. Because she says his name in the most endearing way. Because she understands his flaws. Because she has one of the kindest hearts he’s ever seen. Because she welcomes him with open arms, not a single thread of hesitation in her mind.

Most of all, it was simply because she was Hange.

He steals a glance in her direction, and she’s slightly fiddling with the hem of his shirt, her head downcast. Her sad expression tugs at hi

Levi thinks he’s already in this too deep, so he decides to speak.

“Did you want me to kiss you?”

From his periphery, he sees her look up at him so quickly he thought her neck would break. “What would you do if I said yes?”

He doesn’t dare turn his head in her direction when he replies quietly, “What do you think?”

“Would you kiss me?” Hange asks inquisitively, tilting her head to the side.

Levi’s heart skips a beat.

“Maybe,” he says in a voice barely above a whisper. “If you’d let me.”

Hange is silent for a moment, and Levi thinks this is it, I’m going to be rejected, but he feels a gentle finger touch his chin and turn his head in Hange’s direction.

He is met with her brown orbs, shining just a bit in what seemed like hidden glee. He cocks an eyebrow at her then, confused.

“I’m letting you,” Hange says, laughing. “Kiss me, I mean.” Her face is already slowly nearing his, and he can almost see the way her thick lashes brushed against her skin.

Slowly, Levi raises his head just a tiny bit and responds against her lips, “Okay.”

Hange smiles and closes the distance between them, wrapping her arms around his neck as he does the same around her waist. She tastes like the peppermint of her toothpaste, smells like his shampoo (which he had kept in her apartment since he always found himself staying over), and felt warm as her skin made contact with his. Hange's lips are gentle, slow, and a little shy—so different from how she usually is. Levi knows it’s because she doesn’t want to scare him off, so he makes the first move and nips at her lower lip, taking it between his teeth and sucking it gently.

She lets out a moan, and Levi takes this as a sign to continue. He slides his hand over her back, and she shudders and deepens the kiss at the same time. Her tongue meets his, and they battle for dominance. Hange’s hand sweeps over his undercut and pushes him towards him, and it is then that he lets out a sound that vaguely resembles pleasure.

After a few minutes, Hange whispers “Levi,” as her lips make contact with his. He hums in response, pulling his lips away from her and connecting his forehead with hers.

“Hange,” he says, breathless.

“Is this you telling me you like me?” Hange asks, closing her eyes.

He doesn’t form a reply through words, but he nods and closes his eyes as well.

“Great,” Hange tells him, pecking his lips with her own. “Because I like you too. Ever since I met you, I’ve liked you. Even though you were so rude to me on the first day of college.”

He chuckles silently in relief, pulling her closer to him before placing his chin on her shoulder. “Think you’ll be able to write the ending now that you know what a kiss feels like?”

Hange laughs, and it vibrates against his shoulder as she hugs him tighter. “It’s exhilarating. I probably wouldn’t be able to put into words how good I feel that you like me back.”

“Try,” Levi teases.

“Well . . . you know that alternative title I wrote for the fictional novel?”

Levi’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “The keyboard smash?”

Hange nods. “Yeah. That’s exactly what I feel like right now.”

a;lskfjdk.

[lovelybucky1]

Strawberry Kisses- Chapter 4

warnings: mentions of a case, 18+ minors dni

series masterlist

It’s been four days since my lunch with Spencer, and my desire to call him is growing. Not wanting to seem too eager, I waited to call him for a while, but I couldn’t wait anymore.

I dial his number and it rings for longer this time before I hear his voice through the speaker.

“Spencer Reid”, he answers.

“Hey, Doc”, I say.

“Y/n”, he replies, the smile evident in his voice.

“I was wondering if you wanted to come over tonight. I don’t have fancy doctor money like you do, so I was just planning on watching a movie at my place.”

“I’m sorry, Y/n, I’m on a case in Georgia.”

I can’t help but feel disappointed even though I knew it was a possibility. We do work for the FBI.

“It’s okay, Spencer. Good luck on the case.” I go to hang up, but I hear Spencer shout from the other side.

“Wait, don’t hang up! I’m back at the hotel, we can still talk if you want”, he says. I smile to myself.

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

We are silent for a second and I find myself lost in the lull of his soft breaths.

“How’ve you been”, I ask. I knew better than to ask about the case since most of it is classified.

“I’m tired”, he says plainly.

“I don’t want to keep you up past your bedtime, baby boy”, I tease. He laughs softly.

“I’m more mentally tired than physically. Doing the work isn’t the hard part. It’s being with the others for so long”, he says quietly, as if it’s a shameful secret.

“What do you mean?”

“I learned a long time ago that most people aren’t big fans of the real me. Most of the time, the stuff I say goes right over their heads and they don’t care enough to understand it. They’re still my friends, but it’s different. They have my back when I need them to, but they don’t want to hear about the latest books I’ve read or Star Trek lore.” Spencer sighs. “I don’t think anyone has known the real me in a long time.”

I am quiet for a moment, choosing my next words carefully.

“I want to know the real you, Spencer. You could talk about whatever you wanted and I’d listen.”

“Really?”, Spencer asks, as if he couldn’t believe it.

“Of course, Doc”, I say sincerely. “What are you doing?”

“Sitting on the balcony.”

“For fun?”, I laugh.

“We had to double up on rooms and I don’t want Morgan eavesdropping. Plus, looking at the sky relaxes me.”

I smile to myself, imagining Spencer sitting on the railing of the balcony, eyes reflecting the starlight. I walk over to my window and open it so I can see farther outside.

“It’s a nice night”, I say.

“Did you know that there are 3,706 known planets?”

“I didn’t.”

“And there’s a planet that’s entirely made up of diamonds.”

“The universe’s engagement ring”, I laugh.

“For the universe’s luckiest lady”, he replies. “Do you know your constellations?”, he asks. I shake my head, momentarily forgetting that he can’t see me.

“I know a couple, but I wouldn’t be able to point them out”, I reply.

“When I was a kid, I hated astronomy. I wanted to know everything there was to know, and with space, there’s so much left unanswered. I can’t even wrap my head around the idea of an endless void filled with rocks that may or may not support life, just like earth.”

“I never liked thinking about that. It makes me feel small and insignificant. My, maybe, ninety years spent here means nothing in the grand scheme of things, but maybe the fact that I get to exist on this planet at the same time as you means something.” It was sappier than I intended, but I meant every word.

Instead of replying, Spencer let out a gasp.

“Did you see that?”, he asks, sounding almost giddy.

“See what?”

“A shooting star. Make a wish before it’s too late”, he laughs.

I wish that Spencer lives happily ever after.

“What did you wish for?”, I ask.

“If I tell you, it won’t come true.”

“I didn’t take you for a superstitious man, Doctor”, I tease.

“I’m not, but it’s still good to have dreams, right?”

“Yeah, it is.”

We fall back into silence. Our breathing is synchronized, the distance between us clearly not weakening our connection.

I couldn’t hear over the line, but Agent Morgan stepped onto the balcony and said good night to Spencer.

“Good night”, he replied.

“O-oh yeah, it’s getting late and you probably have to wake up early”, I say, not hiding my disappointment well.

“What? No, Y/n that wasn’t-” I cut him off.

“Don’t worry about it, Doc. I’ll see you when you get back.”

“Okay… Good night, Y/n.”

“Night, Spence. Be safe.”

I hang up the phone and put it face down on my nightstand. I crawl into bed and slip under the covers, the window still open, the cool night’s air filling the room.

I hold my pillow to my chest and tuck it under my chin. The last thought before I succumb to sleep was: I wish this were Spencer.

[therealvinelle]

if you can, could you explain a situation for me? in breaking dawn part 1, jake is explaining to the cullens the entirety of sam's plan and the fact that the treaty is void in his mind. carlisle and esme explain that they don't feel the same and will not initiate anything first from their end. emmett, i believe, brings up the point 5hat no one has fed. esme then replies, "we'll make do.". we see from both emmett and jasper's reactions that they do not like this plan and do not agree with it, probably moreso jasper. would it not have made more sense to allow them to feed especially given jasper's difficulty with the cullen diet?

bella is a vulnerable human inside the household, and with jasper inside the house without being able to leave with the presence of the wolves outside as well, wouldn't it have caused some kind of incident or accident?

do you think esme only had edward and bella on her mind when she said this? or was it something else? because I cannot understand that scene and why she says what she says at all.

Sure.

Sam was on the warpath. As far as he knew Bella was gestating the Kraken. The moment he learns of this pregnancy in Breaking Dawn he launches an attack on the Cullens. Jake’s desertion and Seth and Leah subsequently following is what stalled him, not because he changed his mind but because he lost the element of surprise and the numbers changed. He had ten wolves and the Cullens had seven vampires, one desertion later Sam has seven wolves and the Cullens have seven vampires and three wolves. If Sam attacks, his side will lose.

If the Cullens split up, however, these numbers change, and Sam has a chance.

Carlisle and Jacob discuss this in detail in Breaking Dawn, with Jacob offering that all the Cullens can go hunt while he and the Clearwaters protect Bella, because Sam won’t want to attack seven vampires when his own numbers are so low. Carlisle refuses, because then Sam will be able to attack Jacob and the Clearwaters, and it’ll be a bloodbath. They compromise on a few vampires hunting, and a few staying behind:

“Speaking of hunting,” he began in a somber tone. “That’s going to be an issue for my family. I understand that our previous truce is inoperative at the moment, so I wanted your advice. Will Sam be hunting for us outside of the perimeter you’ve created? We don’t want to take a chance with hurting any of your family—or losing any of ours. If you were in our shoes, how would you proceed?”

(...)

“It’s a risk,” I said, trying to ignore the other eyes I felt on me and to talk only to him. “Sam’s calmed down some, but I’m pretty sure that in his head, the treaty is void. As long as he thinks the tribe, or any other human, is in real danger, he’s not going to ask questions first, if you know what I mean. But, with all that, his priority is going to be La Push. There really aren’t enough of them to keep a decent watch on the people while putting out hunting parties big enough to do much damage. I’d bet he’s keeping it close to home.”

Carlisle nodded thoughtfully.

“So I guess I’d say, go out together, just in case. And probably you should go in the day, ’cause we’d be expecting night. Traditional vampire stuff. You’re fast—go over the mountains and hunt far enough away that there’s no chance he’d send anyone that far from home.”

“And leave Bella behind, unprotected?”

I snorted. “What are we, chopped liver?”

Carlisle laughed, and then his face was serious again. “Jacob, you can’t fight against your brothers.”

My eyes tightened. “I’m not saying it wouldn’t be hard, but if they were really coming to kill her—I would be able to stop them.”

Carlisle shook his head, anxious. “No, I didn’t mean that you would be… incapable. But that it would be very wrong. I can’t have that on my conscience.”

“It wouldn’t be on yours, Doc. It would be on mine. And I can take it.”

“No, Jacob. We will make sure that our actions don’t make that a necessity.” He frowned thoughtfully “We’ll go three at a time,” he decided after a second. “That’s probably the best we can do.”

“I don’t know, Doc. Dividing down the middle isn’t the best strategy.”

“We’ve got some extra abilities that will even it up. If Edward is one of the three, he’ll be able to give us a few miles’ radius of safety.”

We both glanced at Edward. His expression had Carlisle backtracking quickly.

“I’m sure there are other ways, too,” Carlisle said. Clearly, there was no physical need strong enough to get Edward away from Bella now. “Alice, I would imagine you could see which routes would be a mistake?”

“The ones that disappear,” Alice said, nodding. “Easy.” (Breaking Dawn, page 185-186)

This excerpt wound up very long, but I had to include that last part there. Just... jesus christ, Edward, your family could get killed.

But yes.

It was numbers, numbers, numbers.

The Cullens couldn’t all leave at once, and the solution they found is the above, that they should hunt by turn.

[ajbwasntwriting]

Daughter!Reader X Negan, Reader x Daryl: Chapter 8. Civil Unrest

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For all intents and purposes this is filler so the next chapter will be up in the next few minutes

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if you wish to be added to the tag list please dm me. All chapters can be found under the tag AJ’s Negan’s Daughter AU

In a few days you were up on your feet, your need to survive driving your fast recovery. As soon as you could sit up without nearly fainting and you could bend your fingers without much pain you started taking patients. Mainly burns and cuts. You kept your head down while working, adding to your intimidating reputation. They didn’t realise you were just trying to conceal yourself while looking for familiar faces. You rarely left the medical bay, even when it was icy cold.

Carol checked on you regularly, seemingly incredibly concerned for you. It almost pained you to suspect her to be out to get you. Luckily she seemed convinced that because you had been alone for so long that you’d take a long time getting used to the walls. Maybe she figured out that you were just biding time for leaving again.

“Are you okay?” Laura pulled you from your thoughts. You looked up suddenly, nodded, and went back to your reading. All these patient profiles from the previous physician were thorough. “Why would Emmett be this detailed with extremely basic medical care” you tought, then again he was a captive here just as much as you were. He probably had nothing better to do. “Are you sure? You look so serious.” She continued. You looked up to her. She was lying on one of the beds chewing on a piece of hard plastic. Having to keep a watch on ‘The New Doc’ would’ve been extremely boring.

“Just a lot of reading” you sat up and stretched your arms, not realising how long you had sat hunched over the hand-written pages. “Doctors have horrible handwriting and this guy sure likes to drag his point out”

“How bad is it?” She asked. You lifted the profile of another patient and followed along with your finger.

“The left Thenar has suffered tremendous infliction resulting in the loss of elasticity and possible avulsion of the tissue” You read aloud in a dramatic voice

“What?” Laura said, taking the plastic out of her mouth for a moment

“He pulled the muscle in his thumb, possibly tearing it” you flopped the paper down, rubbing your forehead.

“And all those pages are full of that shit” Laura pressed. You sighed with a nod.

“I never thought I’d be grateful to have done AP english.” you sighed

“Okay smart ass no need to show off” Laura chuckled, chewing on the plastic again.

“Please,” you sat back in the chair “My old man made me do it. ‘You already speak english so it should be a breeze’ he said”

“Those kind of parents?”

“You’re familiar?”

“Yep” Laura sat up, hunching over her now crossed legs. “My dad was a lawyer. Mom was an accountant. They kept pushing me to over achieve”

“Bet they weren’t happy with that” you spoke, pointing to your neck to reference Laura’s tattoo. Her hand went over it instinctively.

“I had already skipped town with my boyfriend before I got this.” She laughed. The smile melted away as she slowly stroked her neck. “Hadn’t seen them since. Probably dead.”

The room got a lot more quiet. It was crazy to think you both were so close in age but had gone through so much hell in the same world. But Laura was a saviour. You were Negan’s kid. If you were to be friends it would have to be at an arm’s reach.

The momentum changed when Carol arrived in, holding a small tray with cookies on them. The smell told you they were fresh. Your heart wanted to tell her to get out, but those cookies smelled too damn good.

“How’s the hard work going ladies.” she spoke with a cheery voice, setting the tray down in front of you. You were on it instantly. You took a cookie with you as you limped over to lock the door to the medical bay. “Any news?” Carol whispered

Carol had asked you and Laura to investigate the uprising of Negan supporters in the Sanctuary. Well, mainly Laura since she would know more people in Carol’s eyes. The payment, cookies. Though Laura would probably do it for free. She enjoyed the new peace that came with being aligned with the other settlements.

“Just the usual hot-heads” Laura sighed. You limped back to your chair.

“They like to complain to me.” you gently sat down. You’d only been back walking without the full splint for a couple days now but the clunky half splint on your lower leg wasn’t exactly walker friendly. “‘You should’ve seen how great we were when Negan was running the place’ and other shit”

“What do you think of it?” Carol asks you seriously. You suck the sugar off your fingers happily.

“He mustn’t have been that good if he’s not in charge anymore.”

They had their little meeting then as Carol was leaving you piped up,

“How’s the bridge team?”

“No.” Carol retorted quickly as if speaking to a child. “You are not going out there how many times do I have to tell you.”

“I could help-”

“You’re needed here Y/N” she spoke firmly.

“Yes, mom.” you groaned from your chair, earning a laugh from Laura. Carol left quickly.

“Why do you wanna join the bridge team so badly?” Laura asked through a mouthful of cookie.

“I miss the fresh air, I guess” and there’s more chances to get away from you all.

That evening you were restless. Normally it was the pain that kept you up late but it also exhausted you. You got out of the medical bed you’d claimed as your own, one of three that outfitted the med bay. You limped your way out of the medbay, not bothered if you woke Laura. The bathroom was down the hall so she would just assume you had to pee, especially since you had taken the torch dedicated to midnight bathroom visits. Being the medic gave you the luxury of a torch instead of matches and a candle.

It hurt to climb up so many stairs, with both your wounds and the cold seeping into your skin, but you’d be tired by the time you came back down anyway. You walked onto what used to be Negan’s floor. Your ‘family’s’ floor. You’d wanted to see it for a while now, out of curiosity more than anything else.

You first went to your father’s room. Pushing the door open you felt a burst of cold air whip around you viciously. The room has been stripped of its furnishings, right down to the carpets. Taken away to be burned most likely. The windows were shattered, the bullet holes in the ceiling giving away the method. It was so completely devoid of any sign of human life one would say it always had been. You closed the door and continued onto the parlour where the wives would spend their day. This room didn’t have windows but the room was still completely void of any of the glamour that once adorned it. The only remnants was the wall paper which was peeling off due to the damp.

The image of the forgotten rooms didn’t stir emotion in the way you thought they would. You imagined getting overwhelmed with emotion, but you felt nothing. No that wasn’t right, you felt a loss. Not a loss of the grandeur you had gotten to enjoy in captivity, not a loss of the fake smiles from your many ‘mothers’. You felt a loss of your father. You mourned the man you had called your father, and the idea that all that was left of the memory of him were these halls where cowards bowed to him. You felt an overwhelming realisation that the man you called ‘Pops’ had died long before ‘Negan’ formed.

Your final destination was your room. You figured it would also be empty but your room was a bit away, down the end of a hall few knew how to get too. You’d had more roaches as visitors than people. Your father had chosen it for you so the ‘common nobodies’ wouldn’t see you easily, another measure to keep you safe.

It also worked the other way as you round the corner and see a light coming from what used to be your room. The hall was lined with offices and storage rooms you knew you could dive into if someone appeared so you turned off your light and walked down the hall gingerly on your feet. You were now only a couple feet away from the door when you heard voices coming from the end of the hall, from what used to be your room.

“I still can’t believe they put this bitch here to keep an eye on us. That fucking redneck was an ass but atleast he didn’t pretend to be all fucking nice”

“It’s probably a play to get us to relax. They’ve got us locked in this factory and don’t give us nearly enough food, and they won’t let us go to the other settlements”

“We’re prisoners. They said they only wanted to lock up Negan but now we’re all starving.”

“Enough of your bitching.”

They went on to talk about how many people were on their side and their efforts to get weapons. They clearly had no idea you were listening. After all, what kind of idiot is gonna climb up over ten floors for no reason. Other than sentiment perhaps. It sounded like there were about four people in the room, but they spoke like they had a few under their influence. They were looking for weapons and a means to get back at ‘Rick and his posse’.

“We’ll bring them that bitch Carol’s head on a spike for them.”

“What about the bridge? We got people working there for food.”

“And then what? They’re just gonna keep extorting us for slave labour or let us starve.”

You were so drawn in by their words that the door opening startled you. You charged from your spot into an open room, a storage closet of a sort. You knew it was too risky to close the door so you stood against the wall next to the door. They walked along the hall bantering loudly. You sidestepped deeper into the room, knocking something with your foot making a loud metal sound. The voices stopped and you instantly froze, holding your breath like your life depended on it. A light shun into the closet, then the other way.

“Probably just a rat” one of the voices spoke. “We can set some traps and stew it for dinner”.

They continued down the hall, their steps growing faint a minute or so later. The adrenaline began to subside and the pain from the recent strain on your leg made itself very apparent. You stepped out of the closet and walked down the hall to your old room. Maybe they left some evidence you could use to barter for your freedom.

You opened the door to your room, only illuminated by the moonlight coming from the window. Unlike the other rooms, your room hadn’t been completely ransacked. The mattress had been taken off the frame but the metal skeleton remained as well as the rug under your bed. Other than that it appeared empty. You turned on your torch to get a better view.

On your bed frame lay what had to be near a hundred dead wild flowers. Your breath caught in your throat at the site. You moved and sat on the bed frame, the metal sending a chill up your body. You placed a hand on the dry stems and something hit the ground with a thump. You moved to look under the bed as quick as you could, reaching under the bed you cut yourself on something sharp. You moved your torch on it and grabbed it again, this time from a less dangerous end.

Under the bed you pulled out the knife that had your name engraved on it. The metal shun bright in the light as if lovingly polished until it’s inevitable abandonment. You hadn’t realized you had begun to cry until a tear fell onto the blade and began to fill the engraving.

~Tag List~

@bodeckersbitch @lauren-novak​ @aestthete

[star-spangledstud]

MIND GAMES - THREE

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary: The team goes on a mission. You meet someone who might expose you. 

Warnings: angst, mentions of violence 

Note: Wanna be tagged in future chapters? Shoot me a message :) Sorry for being MIA for so long. I’ve been sad. Blegh. 

SERIES MASTERLIST.

PREVIOUS CHAPTER.

Over the few days that follow, you become increasingly paranoid. It’s your own fault, because you shouldn’t have lied to the people that have welcomed you into their homes with open arms, but lying is a survival skill that you were taught many years ago, and old habits die hard. You become shadowy, avoid team members in the hallways and common areas of the penthouse floor you all share, and stay in your room as much as possible without alarming anyone. Of course Natasha knows something is up, but Steve doesn’t, and he waves off her concern as you simply ‘needing more time to adjust, Nat’. You watch their body language during breakfast – one of two meals a day you simply cannot get out of without causing anyone’s alarm bells to start ringing – and engage in light conversation wherever possible to keep them out of your hair.

Guilt gnaws at your insides when you find yourself wandering the deserted wrap-around balcony at nearly 3 a.m., brain searching for a clue to any bad things that might happen. If any one of them figures out you’re ex-hydra you’re done for, that much you know, but the man with golden hair and twinkling azure eyes might just be your ticket to safety.

The thought alone sickens you, because you vowed never to mess with someone’s feelings to get what you need ever again. It’s a twisted thought, but the vines of its root wrap themselves around the stem of your brain nonetheless.

A month after first moving in, you’ve already figured out their routines. Steve’s the early riser of the bunch, getting up every morning at 6:30 a..m. sharp to go on a run around the city. On rare occasions, he manages to convince Sam to come along with him, but more often than not, he remains in his bed until at least 10 o’clock, when Steve’s already come back to shower and get dressed for the day. Tony and Bruce are in the lab 24/7, both of them constantly bickering about artificial intelligence and microbiology among other matters you can’t even begin to understand. As a result, you don’t see them around too often, a notion you don’t particularly mind. Clint left to be with his family two weeks ago and hasn’t been back since, and Natasha leaves all the time, sometimes for days at a time. You don’t dare to ask anyone where she goes when she disappears, but nobody seems surprised to find her seat at the dining table empty again.

It’s a gloomy day when you wake up to find the entire place void of all life. Not even Steve, who’s adamant about his morning coffee, is there to grace you with his presence when you walk into the kitchen that Saturday morning. The counter is clean, no empty coffee cups, half-eaten bowls of oatmeal or bread crumbs to indicate anyone’s eaten yet, and all of the chairs are still perfectly lined against the table.

Your pulse involuntarily quickens to an uncomfortable pace, and you bite the inside of your cheek until the metallic taste of blood is heavy on your tongue. With quick steps, you walk towards the common room, footsteps loud in your ears when you consider where they might be. As expected, there’s nobody there. The TV is switched off, there are no dents in the heavy fabric of the couch from where Steve usually sits, and again, no empty cups or bowls can be found on the coffee table. You have the jitters when you finally get to the library, which is again void of all life.

Black socks covered in small holes squeak across the wooden floors when you walk around the room. It’s not surprising to see the library vacant. You’re sure Avengers have more pressing matters to tend to than reading books on any given day, but it was your last hope nonetheless. With your head tilted to the side, you focus on scanning the titles that line the walls. You follow every shelf in the room until your eye finally catches something. You take the book with a sigh, flip through its tattered pages, and wonder for a moment which one of the Avengers has read the crap out of Pride and Prejudice. Definitely not Sam, judging by his internal monologue. That guy doesn’t appear to have an ounce of romanticism inside him.  

 “They’re out,” a gentle voice suddenly says behind you, “Steve didn’t want to wake you up this morning to tell you.”

You slap your hand over your heart in surprise, and inhale sharply, “Jesus Christ, doc. You scared the hell out of me.”

Bruce throws his hands up in the air and shrugs his shoulders, “Sorry, it’s just me.”

“Are they on a mission?” you ask, feeling your heart jump in your chest like a skippy ball.

“Yeah, they should be back in a few days. Are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

You swallow thickly, noticing all of a sudden how your mouth is dry like sandpaper, “you just spooked me, that’s all. What kind of mission is it?”

“Intel gathering, in an out. That’s why I didn’t come. They only bring me when they need the green guy,” he says.

“Oh yeah,” you reply slowly, “how’s he holding up?”

“Asleep,” Bruce smiles, then clears his throat, “for now, anyway. Would you like to get some breakfast?”

You follow Bruce through the rain, which started to gust from the grey sky just as you were getting dressed. You’d rather have said no, but you knew you couldn’t; it wouldn’t be polite to decline his offer. Besides, he’s oblivious, and for whatever reason, he trusts you. When he bites into his chocolate croissant, you know why – Steve’s let you in. This notion once more confirms the thoughts that have been occupying your mind for the last week; Steve is your one-way ticket to inclusivity.

You shudder at the thought and fake a smile before taking a large sip of coffee. The cafe is small, mostly empty, and your seat by the window gives you a perfect view of pedestrians struggling in the howling, icy wind. One year ago, you could never have imagined yourself sitting in a café with a cup of coffee clutched between your fingers, chatting with someone who you could potentially call a friend. The idea alone of being able to enjoy a warm mug filled with freshly brewed coffee would’ve sounded preposterous to you.

There was no warmth with HYDRA. Only cold.

It takes the team three days to return from their mission. Three long days, during which you spend most of your time with Bruce in his lab, perched on a desk-chair with a book in your hands while he works on – actually, you have no idea what he’s working on. You quickly grow to become fond of him, because he doesn’t feel the need to constantly fill the silence between you with empty words. His thoughts are coherent, focused on his project, and the lingo is too advanced for you to understand, which makes it easy to drown out. His inner monologue is quiet, except for a few angry words from the Hulk when Bruce becomes frustrated with his work, but that only happened on day two, and only for ten minutes.

Steve smells like gun powder and sweat when he hugs you softly against his chest after exiting the Quinjet. Natasha waves at you, and the smile that dons her dirt-caked face surprises you, but you return it nonetheless. Sam even ruffles your hair, causes a sound to escape your throat that you haven’t heard yourself make in over a decade; a strange combination of a snort and a chuckle that sounds like music to your own ears. Your heart pounds again, but in a good way this time, because for a small moment in time, you’ve managed to put the guilt on the back-burner. The roaring engine behind you falls silent at last, and nobody else visibly exits the plane before you make it inside.  

“You held up okay?” Steve asks as he follows you back inside the building.

You nod in response and shove your hands deep inside the pockets of your hoodie, “I’ve been helping Bruce with his research.”

“Oh, did you? How’s it coming?” he asks.

His eyes sparkle like two tiny stars even through the exhaustion that nearly forces them shut every time he blinks. He’s exhausted, you can tell, and you have to bite your tongue before you make a comment about the state he’s in.

“I mostly sat there while he did all the thinking. Turns out computer science isn’t really my thing after all.”

Steve fights a yawn that threatens to overcome him, and nods, “yeah, I feel you. I can barely get the damn things to start. I’ve given up on technology.”

He turns back to face you when he’s come to a halt in front of his room.

“Sorry I didn’t tell you where I went,” he tells you, meaning it as he says it, “we kinda left in a hurry, and you were still sleeping.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you reply, “I understand.”

He quickly retreats after that, leaving you once again with nothing to do. You go back to your room to grab the worn copy of Pride and Prejudice from your nightstand and, after plopping down on your bed, flip to the page where you last left off. You read for a while, before the idea to make some tea with warm milk and honey pops into your head, and you skip along the hallway to the kitchen with the book securely wrapped in your arms.

You’re surprised to hear Steve’s voice when you enter the common area, and a smile appears on his face the second his eyes fall on you. You raise one arm to wave at him, but a loud gasp and a large thud followed by the sound of breaking glass have you freezing on the spot before you can open your mouth to greet him at all.

Your head snaps towards the source of the sound, causing your neck to twist and crack painfully. Red, glowing eyes meet your large ones when you dare to look up at whoever made the noise, and the book in your hands falls to the ground with a loud bang that startles everyone in the room. You stumble backwards when you can feel the woman standing before you deep inside of your head, and you nearly trip over the rug when you instinctly try to get away from her. Frantically, you scramble to stop her from seeing more than she’s already seen. Still, by the time you manage to build up a mental barrier to keep her out of your head, it’s already too late.

You haven’t seen her before, and you can’t remember for the life of you if the image of her has popped up in any of the Avengers’ heads. Your brain is mushy, images hazy as you try to focus on keeping the woman from digging around deeper. You can see distant memories of your time with HYDRA flash before her eyes, and the images blur with the present in a spasm that makes your eyes water.

Wanda Maximoff lets out a shrill, piercing shriek, one that chills everyone to the bone. Thor, who you didn’t even know was there, is by her side before she can collapse onto the cold, hard floor, and Steve jumps up from his chair before you have time to register his movements. He grabs your arm and drags you out of the kitchen, fingers digging painfully in your tender flesh when he pulls you away from the scene. Sympathy fills Sam’s dark brown eyes when you turn back around to look at him, and guilt roils in your stomach when the redhead sinks to her knees with tears streaming down her face.

Your arms hang limply to your side when you watch Steve pace back and forth around his room. You’re waiting for him to yell at you, to tell you to get the fuck out of the compound and never return, but he remains awfully quiet. His silence confuses and unnerves you simultaneously.

His eyes, swimming with unimaginable depth, find your face while the scent of his cologne and pure testosterone invades your nostrils. Pressure clamps down on your chest, and the intensity of his gaze causes you to shiver. Never in your entire life have you wanted to read someone’s mind more. 

“Are you alright?” your head cocks to the side, mouth twitching while you try to find words. 

You nearly gave that woman an aneurysm, and he’s asking you if you’re okay?

“Yes,” you stammer, “I’m so sorry.” 

“Wanda is telepathic,” Steve says, “she has trouble controlling what she sees sometimes.” 

“Like I said, I’m so so-” 

A soft exhale leaves your lips when Steve’s hands find their way to your shoulders, and your voice dies down in your throat when he bends down slightly to meet your eyes. Calloused fingertips penetrate the thin material of your t-shirt, and the warmth of his hands creates a buzzing sensation just beneath your skin. 

“She was in Europe, scouting the location of the mission with Rhodey. She’s been in Eastern Europe for a while, that’s why you haven’t seen her. I should’ve told you about her.”

“Will she be okay?” you ask. You hardly recognize your own voice. 

“Sam’s got her. She’s stronger than she looks. Are you sure you’re okay? You don’t look so good.” 

You don’t know how to respond. You crave a cigarette all of a sudden, even though you don’t smoke. Alcohol then, maybe, to numb down the prickling sensation of firing synapses and goosebumps that line your bare arms. Yeah, a good couple of shots of whiskey will do the trick. Not vodka though, you hate that stuff. 

You bite your bow-shaped lips and inhale deeply. Steve is so close that you can feel his breath fanning across your face. It’s wrong, being so near him after what just happened. You’re on thin ice. It won’t be long before the entire team, undoubtedly informed by what Wanda just saw, comes barging into Steve’s room, ready to drag you away to prison or worse, put a bullet through your skull. You deserve it, you think, for what you used to do. For who you used to be. You almost want somebody to call you out on your shit, because then at least you wouldn’t have to hide it anymore. 

But seconds turn into minutes, and nobody comes. It’s quiet, except for the sound of Steve’s breathing and the steady beating of his heart, and you realize when he looks at you with sympathy and sincerity that you hate yourself for lying. It’s an ironic realization, because lying is like second nature to you. HYDRA spent so much time ingraining it into your brain that it’s become almost like a second language, a means of communication that flows so naturally that you don’t even have an accent anymore. It’s brought you many things, and ruined even more people.

Your hands are going numb from how hard you’re clenching them into fists. Steve’s thumbs are rubbing small circles on your shoulders, and it takes all of your effort not to shake them off. You’re disgusted with yourself, bile threatening to rise to the back of your throat while the sensation of his warm fingers on you is the only thing left for you to feel. The world is dark and cold, but the heat radiating from Steve’s hands is just enough to stop you from getting frostbite. The concern is evident on his face, from the deep crease between his brows to the thin line of his lips; he’s worried about you, someone he doesn’t even know. Someone he would kill if he’d met you under any other circumstances.

You want to go home, you think to yourself, but as soon as the thought appears do you smack it down with your fist. You don’t have a home, you scold yourself, just like the doctors would tell you when you cried and screamed on the dingey operating table in the early days, when they didn’t control you yet. When they still wore their special masks to stop you from controlling their minds so they could freely fuck with yours.

It’s an icy reality, one that rattles you to your core every time it makes an appearance. Steve’s eyes are still scanning your face, which is twisted and contorted into a painful scowl before you even realize what’s happening.

An inexplicable panic washes over you, heart jackhammering in your chest while your cheeks turn a sickly shade of pink. A bead of sweat rolls down your back, followed by cold shivers that envelop your skin in ice. The scent of laundry detergent and cologne hits you like a truck, and you have to bite your tongue to stop yourself from gagging.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, his voice melting and morphing into the sound of rain slamming against the window like gunfire.

“My head,” you cry out in a desperate whimper, “it hurts.”

Steve forces your body down onto his bed, and while you begin to writhe in pain that causes white spots to dance in front of your eyes, he closes the curtains to keep the light from coming in. His mother had head aches all the time, and she’d be in bed for days on end if they got bad enough. He remembers her clear as day, lying in bed with an empty bucket next to her on the floor in the dark, because the light hurt so bad it would make her vomit sometimes. He’d tiptoe around the house because the sound of his feet creaking across the floorboards would pain her. He recognizes her in you, lying on his bed with your hands clutching the sides of your head.

“I’ll get you some aspirin,” he says, quieting his voice, the incident with Wanda long forgotten as instinct takes over.  

Tears blur your vision at this point, and it takes every ounce of focus that you have left to keep yourself from screaming out in pain. Aspirin won’t help, but you don’t possess the capability to tell him not to bother. You’ve experienced this type of pain before, and have endured it without medicine each time. Many times actually; while you were forced to extract information from the people taken and captured by HYDRA with whatever means necessary. This time however, it’s come as a surprise and it’s caught you completely off-guard, although you suspect Wanda’s poking and prodding has something to do with it.

With all the strength you have left, you manage to pull the covers over your head, engulfing yourself in darkness and warmth to drown out your senses. The sudden darkness is disorienting, but you welcome it with open arms. Steve opens his mouth, but shuts it, and heads for the door without uttering another word.

All you hear when Steve exits the room is the sound of your former victims crying out in despair.

NEXT CHAPTER.

TAGLIST:

@foxyjwls007​ @littlegasps​ @hurricane-abigail​ @idk123906​ @ bubblicious-trashcan @wooya1224

[thoughtsaboutshows]

Prompt

Okay so I swear this was asked/commented somewhere but for the life of me I can’t find the ask or whatever it is.  It was in my prompt google doc so I’m assuming I’m not crazy and it’s real...whatever. 

This comes from a Post Part 4 world but things ended differently.  VERY differently.  Anyways, enjoy! 

26. “I love you, but you need to shut up.”

The Sanctum was a mess.  When Zelda Spellman had asked Nick to take point on reorganizing the books in the library, he had jumped at the chance.  The High Priestess had wanted the ancient texts catalogued and arranged in a way that made sense now that the Coven was the Order or Hecate rather than the Church of Night.  Nick had thought it sounded incredible, spending his days among the old books that had been his first friends when he arrived at the Academy.  The scent of old books and ripples of deep-rooted magic were familiar and made him buzz with excitement.

But despite the warlock’s love for reading and learning, he completely forgot just how vast the library was and how the piles and stacks of books seemed to never end.  By the end of the week and having spent nearly all day and all night in the dark space, Nick was starting to regret agreeing to the task.  He had hardly seen the light of day in the last week and he hadn’t much crossed paths with his light of day, Sabrina Spellman.  His beautiful girlfriend.  

Nick hadn’t spent close to a night out of her bed since she’d given herself to him for the first time and nearly merged with Sabrina Morningstar.  He’d become a near permanent resident in the Mortuary once the Void had been closed.  Nick had never held her so tightly as when she was bleeding and barely breathing, close to death, but alive all the same.  He’d muttered every clotting and transfusion spell he could think of until her skin had rid itself of its ashy color and become warm again.  He hadn’t left her side since. 

That was until he’d agreed to the Book Mission From Hell.  The hours he spent working ran late so most times he found himself crashing in his old room at the Academy or a Sanctum couch when he was too tired to walk or teleport.

He was in an exhausted frenzy, separating books about ancient gods by year, when he heard footsteps approaching.  He hadn’t had much human contact, conjuring food when needed, determined to get this job done so he could return to spending all of his time with Sabrina.  

“Hey there.”  Her soft voice pulled him from his focus.  Sabrina was dressed down today, in jeans and a simple top, but to him she was a vision.  Alive.  She was like a mirage, an oasis in the desert of the pile of books he’d been trapped in. 

“Hey there.”  He answered her and kept his eyes on her movements as she kicked off the door and moved to hop on the table he was sitting at.  

He didn’t know what to say, so he just started blurting out everything he was thinking.  No one had really come to see him, so he had no one to bounce ideas off of.  Did he put Lucifer in the history section?  Which rituals were the focus now?  Did they really need six copies of the false god’s book?

“Sabrina there’s just so much to go through.”  Nick muttered on and on.  Sabrina watched him with a quirked brow as the boy she loved rattled on about books she had never read.  His face was contorted and she could feel his heart beating and lungs working in overdrive.  He was in his work mode, and while she found it incredibly attractive that he was throwing himself headfirst into something and it reminded her of the days when he went diving in the ocean for a manifesto, she missed her boyfriend.  She missed the comfort of his arms at night and the way he drew a sigh from her with a simple brush of his nose against hers.  “And there’s books here, Spellman, that even I haven’t read.  I think I’m gonna be in here all month.  And don’t get me wrong, I have a stack going of books I’m going to take and study but there’s just so much we still don’t know and so much to learn and-”

“Nick.”  Sabrina tried but the boy kept rambling.  She used his full name then, knowing she only used it when she was serious or he was in trouble.  “Nicholas.”  

That pulled him from his rambling as he looked at her with tired and bloodshot eyes.  

“I love you, but you need to shut up.”   The corner of her mouth was turned up as she said it.  She’d kissed his smirk enough times that one had found a home on her lips as well, and she wore it proudly.  He was dumbfounded and stared at her so she hopped off the table and sat in his lap instead.  When she rolled her fingers through his curls, Nick felt the tension in his muscles disappear immediately.  He had no idea one person could be a never ending sense of calmness for him, but she was it, and she anchored him back to reality a million times over.  “You need a break, and I need my boyfriend back.” 

“Sabrina, there’s so much to be done.”  He tried to tell her, but she brushed her lips against his temple and he felt himself losing resolve already.  

“Yes, and it’ll still be there tomorrow.”  Her fingertips danced across his face and she took a moment to count his freckles.  When he’d leaned over her before going into the void, she was certain she’d seen the last of them.  Now that they’d all survived, she counted them every day.  “What good are you if your mind is in a million places.  Imagine the books you’ll put in the wrong place.”

“I’d never do that.”  Nick deadpanned with his typical charm and confidence.  The Nick she loved was creeping back and she hoped he’d creep back to the mortuary with her.  If only for a night.

“Even so, I miss you.”  She shifted his face and held both of his cheeks and leaned in to kiss him.  It was soft and delicate, but still filled him to the brim with love.

“I guess calling it early just this once couldn’t hurt.”  She had swayed him and her bright smile lit up the dark corners of the Sanctum.  “Let’s go home.” 

She kissed him again and he could taste the smile against his lips.  He knew she liked when he called the Mortuary home, so he’d say it over and over.  The Mortuary was lovely, filled with warmth and homemade biscuits and laughter.  But it wasn’t the building that was home.  It was the witch that was kissing him and holding him tight.  

The witch he had almost lost.

She was home.

And that home was forever.

[renegade-skywalker]

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2  / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 / Chapter 10 / Chapter 11 / Chapter 12 / Chapter 13 / Chapter 14 / Chapter 15 / Chapter 16 / Chapter 17 / Chapter 18 / Chapter 19 / Chapter 20 / Chapter 21: Homecoming

After years in exile, ex-Jedi General, Eden Valen (now going by Vale) continues to clean up after Revan and Malak’s mess of a war, only to find herself forever cursed with their unfinished business. As an ill-fated lead brings her to Tatooine, Eden finds that Revan’s mysterious plans go beyond the Republic, beyond the Outer Rim, and into the utter unknown. (A novelization of The Sith Lords and beyond)

Chapter Summary: Atton returns to a changed Peragus, fearing now for his life as well as his record, and Brianna catches Atris up to the Exile's whereabouts.

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3951, Peragus Mining Facility Atton

Atton's body ached. One and all.

First it was his head. A typical headache that soon blossomed into a full-blown migraine, and one the likes of which even the most hungover version of himself could not fathom surviving. And then it was his chest. It wasn't a respiratory ache, but a skeletal one. AS if he'd been kicked in the sternum at full force, the ribs beneath cracking in on themselves like an accordion, and while the medic assured him that he had nothing but a dislocated shoulder and some bruising from where he hit the wall on first impact, he felt as if each of his bones had been stomped on, chewed up, spit out, and hastily gathered back together before being glued and taped haphazardly, hoping for the best. His legs were still jelly, but they felt better than the rest of him, and for that he was thankful.

"Just another lap around the medbay and we should be good for the afternoon," his medic assured him, her mask of a smile having quickly become his new normal.

No other survivors came to join Atton in this wing of the medbay, and while Atton was thankful for the alone time, there was something about it that irked him. Especially seeing how on-edge his attendant was, how her eyes always seemed to be on alert despite the put-upon warmness she'd conjure while in his presence, trying to save face in a valiant attempt at bedside manner.

"You're already miles ahead of where you were a few days ago," she laughed, this time sounding genuinely pleased. "You might even be allowed back to work in about a week, if you're lucky."

Lucky. Atton agreed he would be lucky enough to go back to work, even if it killed him. But his attendant didn't know his sins enough to condemn him to the death that would certainly grant him, and he knew the comment was all part of her charade to make everything going on sound normal. If he was reading her facial expressions correctly, she believed that no one should be put back to work on this rock, at least not until the mysterious accidents stopped entirely. Judging by the look in her eyes and despite her forced smiles, she believed the facility should likely be evacuated completely, if anything, and Atton would have to agree. Not that he'd want anyone to know that.

"You sure about that, doc?" he joked, trying to act polite, trying to act normal. If keeping his head down before was hard, trying to act like the guilt of being a lone survivor wasn't eating away at him was another job entirely, and Atton wasn't sure he could keep it up much longer.

"Positive," she said, her brown eyes locking with his for a moment, her confidence shining through for once, even if she felt no one should be here at all, under any circumstances. But perhaps this was as much a show for him as it was for her, an elaborate farce meant to convince herself that it was worth staying here, if not for the pay but for the mere fact that management had them all trapped here until the next fuel shipment was set to leave the station in a standard week. "Wanna venture down the hall?"

"Sure, yeah, let's do it," Atton said, immediately trying not to shake his own head out of embarrassment for himself after he spoke, hoping he didn't sound as dumb as he felt. "You think I'm ready?"

"Psht, how will you know if you don't at least try?"

Well, damn. She's right.

Atton nodded, still feeling foolish as he allowed his medical attendant to stand him on his own two feet while she reached for the door's console to open it. She reached awkwardly forward, trying to keep hold of his torso in case he leaned too far left or two far right without assistance, and pressed her palm to the door's panel, the durasteel sliding out of place to allow them access beyond with a pleasant swish. The air hit Atton's face as if he were walking outdoors for the first time, and though he was still only exposed to the same old re-circulated air of Peragus' less-than-fresh ventilation system, it felt still felt like he was encroaching on new territory as he was led out of the primary medical wing and into the annex, where the more serious cases were often held.

The medbay was emptier than when he'd arrived, thankfully, but it still felt oddly hollow, lonely almost.

"Doing okay?" his attendant asked after a few paces. He remembered another medic calling her Yara, but he still felt strange referring to her as such, though part of him felt that she had introduced herself at some point but Atton simply failed to remember, either because of the drugs or the supposed concussion he suffered back in the rec hallway.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm good," Atton said, though his voice was stuck somewhere in the middle of his throat as he chalked up the strength to make every step beyond the open doorway, as if he were learning to walk again for the first time. He imagined it wasn't much different - smaller legs, maybe, but the feeling just as jelly-like.

"Now, just turn this corner here," she eased as Atton inevitably leant into her as they made a wide right turn into the adjoining hall, "Aaand we're clear."

He could feel her smile beside him, forced as usual, and especially so as the ICU loomed into view. From past experience, he knew the door to this room was not often left ajar, but now attendants raced in and out of it, reading datapads as they went, unable to waste any time walking that they could spend reading patient charts and calculating life-saving doses of Maker-knows-what.

When Atton first arrived, all the kolto tanks in the ICU were full. Each of them housed a miner, some still clad in their uniforms - the suit still fused to their skin in some cases. But there was one woman in the middle, clad only in the outfit-issued undergarments all miners were given, only she was wearing a set from a couple years back. Not too revealing, but revealing enough to expose the scars on her forearms, her weathered hands. A veteran, no doubt, though her face still seemed a bit too young for that to be the case, her sharp features framed by the black hair floating in the kolto fluid… or maybe it was brown? No, dark blonde-

Atton watched the woman from the corner of his peripheral vision as they walked the length of the hall, trying to glimpse at her silhouette from beyond the other busied medics that paid no attention to him or anything occurring beyond their data pads.

"Will they be okay in there?" Atton asked, his eyes never leaving the dark-haired woman in the center, even if his gaze wasn't exactly direct. Part of him almost felt embarrassed to look, bashful that he was even interested in who she might be if not a miner, but another part of him was simply too pained to look far enough in her direction to get a good enough look, his neck still stiff after the explosion.

"For the moment," his attendant admitted, "I'm still checking on them here and there, when I'm not looking after your sorry ass."

Atton paused, unsure if she was being serious or if this was her idea of a joke.

"I'm kidding," she said, though there was hardly a look of mirth on her face, "You only need to worry about yourself, hotshot. I'm not sure if anyone else will give a damn once you're dismissed."

"Dismissed?"

This time, she laughed, though more out of exhaustion than actual pleasure.

"Dismissed from medical leave," she confirmed, the laugh still pleasantly flavoring her voice even as it faded, "Once you're okayed to go back to work."

"Oh," Atton said dumbly, catching one last glance of the mystery woman in the ICU. "Right."

By the time Atton thought of speaking again, they were already back at his usual resting place, still void of any other patients, though Atton knew they were plenty.

"Any word on when I can at least start taking walks on my own?"

"As soon as your chart says so," she said, giving him a stern look though smiling despite it, "Though I have a feeling it will be soon, so don't worry."

She smiled wide enough that her eyes were barely slits, only Atton knew she wasn't smiling - not really.

"Sounds good," he said, attempting a smile in return, though knowing he failed despite the fake gesture.

"I'll be back tomorrow," the medic assured him from over her shoulder as she exited the room, the worry fast returning to her face as she approached the exit, "See you then."

"See you."

Yara. Her name is Yara. He wasn't sure why it mattered, or why he was so reluctant to say her name, to thank her. Likely because he didn't think he deserved to be alive, for one, and likely because a part of him felt that they would never see each other again.

------------------------------

3951 BBY, Dantooine Mission

It had been four years since Mission last stepped foot on Dantooine. As they descended the loading ramp, part of her was instantly transported back to that first time at Nevarra's side, eager as ever to be off Taris. But another part of Mission was hopelessly lost as she came face-to-face with the tall vegetation whistling around her, trying to make heads or tails of the place that resembled nothing of what she remembered.

"Does any of this look familiar to you?" Mission asked above the din of the ships' dying engine, her eyes squinting against the unyielding yellow-orange of the setting sun, "I thought this was supposed to be the main docking bay."

She was nearly yelling now as Zayne's piece of junk aircraft struggled to settle despite having already landed, the motors still running.

"That's what I thought," Zayne answered, coming up behind her, grabbing part of the landing module on the side of the ramp for support, struggling against the rush of air still whirring from the engine exhaust, his mop of hair obscuring his face entirely. "Why does it look so barren?"

Mission held up her right hand as a visor to better scan the horizon. This seemed to be the right place when they'd landed. From above, they could see the clearing set aside for the docking bay set not too far from a cluster of buildings, though it certainly all looked larger from the air, and the grass far less imposing from the top down.

"There," she said, pointing towards a large structure to their left, "I think that's one of the main settlements we saw before landing. I actually think we're outside the Jedi Temple, not beside it."

Mission recalled questioning the farmers here, residents that had claimed these rolling hills for millennia as they used it as their defense in what she remembered was a hard-boiled murder case - but her memory couldn't have been right about that, could it? It seemed so heavy in retrospect yet it was the memory that stuck. But even back then, the grass wasn't this tall. Sure, it was tall enough to hide the bulk of the property from outsiders, but it wasn't enough to dwarf the main dwelling entirely. The growth around them was certainly not intentional, and Mission felt strange as she further descended the ramp and walked into the grass in full, submerging herself as if in water.

"Hey Big Z, can you see anything?" she asked over her shoulder, sensing her long-time companion approach from behind, his familiar scent an anchor to both her past and present.

Zaalbar approached Mission with his usual lumbering stride, still a good head taller than the rest of them, though the grasses still shrouded his view in parts. He only nodded down at her after a moment, confirming her earlier report.

"Really? Just the one building, yeah?"

The more she stood on tiptoe, the more she recognized this specific valley, but the more the location registered the less it made sense. When they'd last been here, the main docking bay was adjacent to the Jedi Temple itself. The one they just landed in was more than several miles away, and in the middle of what had previously been open farmland and rolling hills. There was no other landing bay in sight when they landed. Whatever she had known before was gone entirely.

"I guess I'm surprised it's even still standing," Mission said softly, though she knew her voice wasn't audible over the still-dying engines. After a moment, she felt Big Z rest a hand on her shoulder, the sentiment translating regardless.

"I guess I didn't realize just how much damage Darth Malak really wrought on this place," Zayne muttered from nearby, still grasping the loading gear, though now it seemed to be out of an emotional need than a physical one.

Malak. In uttering his name alone, Mission was truly transported back in time. Even in their pursuit of her current whereabouts, Nevarra instantly became Revan in Mission's mind - though in memory only, not in spirit. Mission only ever knew the woman as Nevarra, insisting that she continue to call her such even long after their collective revelation. But the weight of Nevarra's past came back in full at the mention of Malak, once Revan's best friend and confidante, though Mission only ever knew him as a villain. It occurred to her now that Zayne had perhaps known the man too, being a Jedi and all, but also in the way he spoke his name, emphasizing the Darth moniker rather than the Malak end of it.

The engines were still sputtering to a halt when Asra appeared at the mouth of the ship, her eyes mere slits to sheild against the sharp winds whistling through the grasses in their direction.

"Not as formal as I expected," Asra said, the Togruta putting on airs as she forced a smile while descending the ramp. "Is that supposed to be our welcome party?"

Just beyond the field of grass was a dilapidated wall encircling an outdated console, and standing guard beside it and equally ancient was a rusted-silver protocol droid, growing copper at the hinges, twitching as it looked in their collective direction.

Asra and Mission locked eyes, shrugging in unison before they both waded through the shorter though still knee-high grasses over to the droid, casting wary glances about them as they went.

Zaalbar and Zayne weren't far behind. Once Asra and Mission cleared the grass and set foot on smooth stone, still cracked in places enough to let the weeds push through, the droid ambled toward them, eager for interaction.

"Greetings and good day, traveler. On behalf of the Khoonda settlement, I am programmed to welcome you to Dantooine."

"Oh, is that all?" Mission said, chuckling darkly through her sarcasm, "Can you tell us what this Khoonda even is?"

"Gr-Greetings! Greetings and good day, traveler. On behalf of the Khoonda settlement, I am programmed to welcome you to Dantooine."

Zayne and Zaalbar approached beside them, eyes questioning as the droid drawled on, twitching unnervingly as it went.

"Oh boy," Asra muttered, rubbing the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger, "Is this one of those protocol droids that needs a specifically worded prompt in order to function or is this one just busted?"

"Greetings!"

"Busted, it looks like," Mission sighed, "Guess we should just head to the settlement we saw, right? Take our chances?"

"I am programmed to welcome you to Dantooine."

"Probably our best bet," Zayne replied, eyes already squinting against the horizon to find their directive again, "I remember this hunk of junk. Damn thing hardly worked then, and I doubt it works now. I'm honestly surprised it hasn't been scrapped for parts."

"You remember this thing?" Asra asked, her eyes scanning the droid from top to bottom as if searching for any kind of remarkable feature.

Zayne didn't respond at first. Instead he studied the ruined walls that surrounded this sorry excuse for a landing pad, as if he recognized where they'd been salvaged from, as if he knew every minute detail that had altered this planet in the last ten or so years since he'd last been here. Of course he does.

"Not sure if the others told you, but I don't just have Jedi friends. I used to be one, too. Well, sort of."

Asra watched him for a beat, something akin to pity painting her face as she mulled over a reply.

"I'm sorry," she said after a while, her voice quiet, "Knowing what happened here and all."

"Thanks," he mumbled, his eyes locking with Mission even though he was answering Asra. Mission knew Zayne had formally trained on Taris, not Dantooine, but Taris had unfortunately met the same fate. Mission figured Zayne hadn't been back there yet, either.

"Don't worry about it, let's just keep moving."

"Random building it is, then," Asra resigned as they changed course, now faced with the taller grasses as they pushed onward.

"Any word from your friends?" Mission asked after a few quiet moments as she caught up with Zayne. A ghost of her old crush came rushing back as he glanced over his shoulder at her, a familiar warmth returning to his eyes as he quelled a smile.

"Not yet, though I expected the radio silence. They mentioned running into some trouble here after they'd landed and made camp, but nothing they couldn't handle."

"Trouble?" Mission echoed.

"Rural political stuff, local drama, that sort of thing," Zayne said, shaking his head, not worried or at least trying to act like it, "I didn't get the details, but it sounded more like a nuisance than any real trouble. Or at least, I hope so."

Mission suddenly felt bad even asking, biting her tongue before she could say anything else.

Big Z rumbled beside her, a comforting growl she was used to hearing whenever she got too deep in her own thoughts.

"Thanks, buddy," she murmured, glancing at him as he paved through the grass making way for the rest of them, hoping Zayne didn't hear or catch on as he fell a few paces behind.

"You sure Orex is okay holding down the fort?" she heard Zayne ask Asra after a few quiet beats.

Through the grass, Mission saw the silhouette of Asra shrug in response, confident as ever.

"Orex can hold down anything, though I'm sure he's antsy to get off that ship if that's what you're asking."

"How long have you known him, anyway?" Zayne ventured, slowing down a bit now.

"Not long, though it feels like longer. Been working for him for about a year now, though Darek's been on longer."

"How long have you known Darek?"

"A while," was all Asra afforded this time, and though she shied away from any specifics she did nothing to hide the ghost of a smile as she spoke.

"Orex seems to know what he's doing for someone so removed from the Jedi. But what's Darek's story?"

Big Z slowed once he realized the others were dawdling, Zayne perhaps stalling out of fear for what the rest of his crew might be caught up in despite his show of bravery, though Mission was only guessing.

"Ex-Mandalorian, Neo Crusader."

"Ah," was all Zayne said, the weight of his knowing evident in his tone, now coming to a full stop as they approached the proper mouth to the valley. The large estate wasn't far off, but now there was a silhouette fast approaching them, the shadow of a bobbing head floating through parted grass as it drew nearer.

"So I'm guessing this is the welcome party?" Asra asked, not expecting an answer as the distance between them and their mysterious pursuer drew smaller.

A hand shot into the air, an awkward hello from a few yards ahead, and the neighborly part of Mission emerged unwittingly as she returned the gesture.

Within moments, the silhouette became a slight brunette human woman with tired eyes, her hair pulled into a tight bun at the crown of her head, shiny enough to reflect the morning sun like a halo as if to make up for the clear exhaustion that painted her face.

"More visitors," the woman sighed, already exasperated as she approached, "You must be here to join the plunder of the old Jedi Enclave, like the rest of them. I'm afraid I can't just let you roam the grounds though, you'll have to speak with Administrator Adare, first."

Big Z looked at Mission, who looked at Asra and Zayne, all shrugging in turn.

"Not to be rude but...What are you talking about?" Zayne asked after exchanging glances with the others and awaiting a response, only to receive none.

"You're salvagers, right? Your ship looks banged up enough to be a part of that lot," the woman said, venturing a glance past them at the dock before looking both Asra and Mission from head to foot, as if with distaste, "But you look… different."

Asra and Mission exchanged glances, a heat rising in Mission's chest as words escaped her.

"Excuse me?" Asra asked, a sharpness rising in her voice Mission had not yet grown acquainted with but was instantly thankful for.

The woman shrank away slightly, raising her hands as if in apologetic surrender, though Mission still noticed the stranger's eyes scan both Mission's and Asra's lekku,as if it proved some unspoken point in her unintended backhanded comment.

Mumbling a half-hearted apology, the woman shook her head, a hand cradling her temple as if she'd been dealing with miscommunications like this all day. Or maybe all week.

"I'm sorry," she groaned, though she sounded more annoyed than anything. Mission only glared at her and rested her hand on her holster while they awaited the woman's further reply. "It's just that the only recent visitors we've had are salvagers. That, and a slew of mercenaries."

"I take it you don't get many visitors?" Zayne asked, crossing his arms.

"Not really, no. And when we do, they're usually-" she paused, unsure of how to continue as she looked about the four of them, eyeing Zaalbar last and longest.

Mission could feel the unspoken word trouble hang in the air between them, and knowing the woman would never finish her sentence, decided to speak up for her.

"Just show us the way, will you?" she said, her impatience clearer in her tone than she'd like. Glancing around, Asra nodded in agreement, looking towards the woman as she took another affirmative step forward, as if urging her reply. Big Z did the same, grumbling in the affirmative, though by the looks of it their mysterious greeter took it as some sort of threat. She took a step back, and after a moment simply nodded and braced herself before formally responding.

"Right this way."

Turning on a point, the woman parted the grass behind her and began walking, assuming an air of authority she'd yet to exude - and it was then that Mission also realized she'd never once introduced herself, not mentioning her name, her position, or where she stood in Dantooine's aftermath.

"So I guess we're off to see this Administrator, huh?" Asra asked hypothetically as she gained on Mission, each of them following in unison, though each of them remained a cautious step or two behind their mysterious greeter as she led them onward.

"Guess so," Mission answered, shrugging. Big Z followed, and last to move was Zayne, his gaze far off on the horizon still, as if he were lost in a thought that was far away from here. Not in distance - but in time, memory.

"You okay?" she asked, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder as he finally tore his eyes away from the distant hills to look in her general direction.

"I will be," he said after a beat, his gaze meeting hers as it did before, in silent knowing. He smiled despite the sadness clear in his eyes.

"Good," was all Mission could muster, still unsure of what to say. Zayne clapped her shoulder in kind, in quiet thanks, before followed the others, but Mission paused.

Glancing toward the hills Zayne had been watching, Mission saw that the sun had fully risen, a golden disc now hanging serenely over the hills. Just as it had been that first day off Taris with Nevarra, still raw from the destruction of her homeworld. Suddenly growing cold from an unseen chill, Mission wrapped her arms around herself, goosebumps rising along her skin despite the warmth emanating from the sun as she soaked the scene in.

The Jedi Temple is just over the ridge, she knew instantly, the fact taking hold as the view registered in her memory. Through the valley a ways, just past the river.

She could almost hear the trickling of the water as it flowed under the austere bridge that separated the rest of the valley from the sprawling grounds of the Jedi Temple. The birdsong that echoed over the grasses, the monolithic shadows of the brith lazing overhead like the occasional cloud-cover. Mission was bristling with too much teenage angst to admire the views then, and the planet was too ravaged for her to do so now. Sighing, she pressed onward, Zayne's head still barely visible in the tall grass before her.

----------------------------

3951 BBY, Dantooine Mical

The hilt was rough-hewn. Worn from use, yes, but the recklessness of its design was intentional. As if it were a hackneyed half-thought, a thrown-together weapon of little thought. But that was the idea. Make the opponent believe it was primitive. Have them grow accustomed to the single hilt, the lone blade erupting from the short end of the otherwise long stick. The weapon of a Jedi, but not one worth fearing... Only for the other end to reveal a longer blade - rougher around the edges, wilder, yet more precise in its execution - its energy crackling with untamed energy, bristling with chaos and ruin.

Exar Kun's lightsaber was a thing of genius. It was not just a lightsaber, but a puzzle. It was an illusion meant to lull his opponents into complacency, into believing they knew his fighting style, that they knew his traditional, if not unusual, Jedi weapon - an easily recognizable symbol of the Order and everything it stood for, only for it to transform before the final blow, before the second blade would surely cut through whatever defense his adversary had already choreographed in their mind's eye, rendering them helpless, if not dead in an instant.

And this is what made Kun's weapon so utterly and undeniably Sith in design. Subtle, subversive, serving a higher purpose. That, and it was dramatic as hell.

"It's no beauty, but it's also not as ugly as I imagined," Lonna Vash uttered from beside him, eyeing the contents of the parcel with distaste but respect, her gaze intent but critical, ever the Jedi. "But perhaps it is because of the history that comes with it. It's hard to believe that legends can alter memory so completely."

"And it's only been forty years, if we're counting back to the defeat of Exar Kun and not just the man at the height of his power. And that's the power of myth, isn't it?" Mical said reverently, his fingers spiriting over the hilt, housed in a bed of soft felt, "It didn't take long for Revan to don the mask and rise to prominence, for her visions to gain traction and near-mythic proportions, to become a symbol and more than a woman."

"Who knew that a repurposed Mandalorian mask would be the face of the Mandalorian's very enemy?" she smiled, not from any warmth to the memory but perhaps out of acknowledging the bitterness of the truth. "Still, a strange thought to consider."

Mical thought the hilt was beautiful in its simplicity, in its utter deception. The metalwork was unfinished in places, the veneer uneven in others. But the innerwork was intricate, precise enough to house a second crystal and harness its raw power unlike any other Jedi-crafted lightsaber in known history. It was the first double-blade known to modernity, though legend had it that Kun had fashioned this saber from an ancient Sith design. He knew not where, though he would love to find out. Perhaps the Sith that housed them now would have some idea…

Mical and Vash had taken to the rogue Sith's cargo area for the last couple of days while in hyperspace, seeing little of their host but much of his work. Master Vash spoke little of the man, only recounting sporadically recalled moments from distant years she spent with him as his first Jedi Master when he was a child. But the information she had seemed outdated if anything, and only relevant in the way the man's childhood interests clearly played a role in his adult present. Mical hadn't minded being locked in here for two days with little food since he had the man Master Vash called Aiden's work to sift through, piles of notes and unlocked datapads at his disposal, and nothing the likes of anything he'd ever seen before. Decades of Sith history rested demurely atop the messy-but-organized workspace begging to be perused, bits of information that were otherwise inaccessible to anyone not of the affiliation. But none of it dated beyond the Sith of Korriban lore - Ajunta Pall, Ludo Kresh. Mical knew they were not the first Sith. Nor were they the first to study, let alone worship, the Dark Side of the Force. It seemed their host knew this and was well aware of the fact, his research leaning towards not only ancient Sith but Sith origin as well, only to come up empty.

"My hilt was smoother, I'll say that," a voice came from over Mical's shoulder. He should have heard the door slide open, he should have felt the air pressure shift. But part of Mical knew this was the Sith's trick, his very intention to arrive unannounced, to see what his uninvited guests were doing unattended in his private quarters. "Though in my defense, I only ever had technical drawings to work from, never the real thing."

The man brushed a strand of dark hair from his sickly green eyes, piercing as they glittered over the now-exposed lightsaber hilt of Exar Kun, whose ghost had spoken to him in a vision. Mical glanced at Master Vash, as if for direction, wondering if they should perhaps cover the thing up lest it fall into the wrong hands. Vash said nothing.

Instead of reacting, the man ran a hand over his hair, long on top but cut short around the sides, before crossing his arms, watching both guests with a wary stare.

"Also, do call me Erebus. Aiden… no longer suits me."

Somehow Mical knew the man had not reached into his mind but must have simply overheard them in the past couple days, undoubtedly sick of hearing his abandoned name repeated - Aiden, Aiden, Aiden. Mical wanted to ask where Erebus had come from, and if there was an official tradition to Sith names, but instead found himself quiet as he simply shut the parcel closed so the famed saber was hidden out of sight again. As it was intended.

"Erebus," Vash said, as if tasting the name, testing it out. After a moment she nodded, "Erebus it is, then."

As much as Mical couldn't read the Sith, he also had a hard time getting a good impression of the Jedi. One moment she was critical, only to find her exceedingly agreeable the next. There seemed to be no rules to her logic, leaning conservative on some things but liberal in others, especially when it came to her former student.

Erebus nodded curtly, trying not to appear pleased with the approval, and sucked on his teeth, looking around the room as if it were all new to him.

"Perfect," he said quickly, crossing his arms, "Well, if you're interested, as I'm sure you are, we are set to arrive on Dantooine within the standard hour. I have some rations in the cupboard against the far wall if either of you are interested. Vintage Sith rations from Revan's empire - fun, I know. Not sure what the fare will be once we land or who will welcome us, if anyone. The landscape's changed, but I trust you two more more about it than I do."

Erebus looked around the room again, avoiding all eye contact, as he tried to peer at the container that now safely housed Exar Kun's lightsaber, trying his best not to appear interested or disappointed that it was being stored away from his prying eyes.

"You were supposed to meet up with your contacts here, yes?" Vash said, placing a gentle hand on Mical's shoulder. "Assuming they escaped Space City in time, we may run into them here if the Force wills it."

"I have a feeling we will, seeing how things have turned out so far," Erebus sighed, "Let's just hope my former Master doesn't catch up with us."

"Former?" Mical said before he even felt himself think it, instantly regretting speaking upon doing so. Erebus winced as if he felt the embarrassment second-hand.

"It's a guess, but seeing as I've been avoiding Ni-" Erebus almost uttered a name but stopped himself short, his eyes flashing as his gaze flitted from Mical to Vash with mild surprise before recovering, "Since I've avoiding reporting in lately, my Master might assume I've gone rogue. And since I've yet to make up my mind on that front, such an assumption might be correct enough to act upon."

Erebus flashed them a sardonic smile, meant to mask his fear with false bravado, though it was fooling no one.

"There's a radio over there," Erebus said, trying not to sound helpful despite everything he was doing to prove otherwise, "If you want to try and contact your - I don't know - your crew, your people. Whoever."

With a shrug he was gone again, the door that separated the cockpit from the cargo hold closing at his back with an audible whoosh this time. Mical and Vash exchanged glances before looking toward the far wall, noticing a small comms system hidden behind a series of paper notes tacked over it. Wanting to preserve the data, Mical gently tugged at the paper to reveal a panel underneath, his fingers enraptured by the feel of it, unsure he'd even seen paper up close before despite having read about it all his life. The comms system was strange, both outdated and futuristic at once.

"Have you seen this sort of ship before?" Master Vash asked as Mical paused over the control panel, his fingers touching the buttons but failing to press any of them after a minute of admiring the design of it all.

"It's a Star Forge vessel, isn't it?" he answered, trying to keep the awe from his voice. Vash only nodded, her eyes glittering over the panel as if she, too, was in wonderment, trying to soak it all in and make sense of it.

"I believe it is."

"You never saw one up close?"

Master Vash shook her head as she grimaced into a half-smile, meeting Mical's eyes for a brief moment before looking back to the panel, pressing a corner button that made the entire console light up. Unlike ships native to Republic space, these buttons were hexagonal, some diamond-shaped and others pointed, almost pyramidal, and each of them was a shade of white, cream or gold in color. One lone button in the corner was black as the space between stars, but the rest glittered like a sky in miniature

"It's so foreign," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "Yet so familiar."

The panel was not unlike modern comms systems in its layout, though the design was so utterly different. Mical wondered what had come first, only knowing part of the history behind Revan's mysteriously instantaneous fleet, yet somehow he knew that this was the blueprint for everything that came after, that every facet of this ship was likely as much a relic as anything Erebus had tracked and collected in this very room. But just how old was the blueprint? Where did she find it and will it into being?

"How much of this did you see in your vision, exactly?" Mical asked, turning to Master Vash. "You said you saw Dantooine, but did you see the planet? The Jedi Temple? Something that would happen here?"

Vash was quiet at first, still admiring the panel as the lights blinked demurely, as if waiting to be pressed, asking for it almost.

"Bits and pieces," she said, "I saw the rolling hills, the ruined Temple. I saw you there, actually, poring over datapads in the remains of the library."

"And Erebus?"

Vash's mouth thinned into a line, her gaze now intent on the panel and nothing else.

"I saw the two of us training. It looked like the Temple ruins, but I can't be sure. I haven't been here since the attack."

"By a one Darth Malak?"

Vash nodded.

"Do you think there is hope for a man like him, for Erebus?"

"Hope?" Vash scoffed. "The Jedi have fallen because there was something flawed about us. Perhaps not in our intentions but in how we executed our beliefs. If anyone knows Jedi history and the intricacies of it, it's that man. And if he turned to the Dark Side before the Order fell to ruin, then I fear he may have had a good reason for doing so."

Vash looked over her shoulder at the empty door that separated them from Erebus, and Mical turned to look along with her even though all there was no man there, only metal. But in his mind's eye, Mical wondered what Aiden had looked like as a boy, as a Jedi, what his copied saber looked like, fashioned from the legend of Exar Kun, whose ghost haunted the galaxy still, just as Revan did though still more a woman than a spectre.

"I don't mean to say that I condone his affiliations or whatever he's done to sustain them," Vash corrected, turning her attention from the closed door to Erebus' myriad of notes and scribblings scattered about them, "But I can see why he did, is all."

"And what of his sister, the Exile?"

"I wish I could tell you," she said, her voice lilting, "And the fact that I cannot is unfortunately the reason why I fear we're all here."

-----------------------------------

3951, Peragus Mining Facility Atton

The medbay was quiet. Eerily quiet. All Atton could hear were the soft whirring sounds of the machine beside him, lulling him to sleep, as needle-thin tubes administered more pain killers and antibiotics. The last medic to do a sweep of his empty ward gave him the run-down about a half-hour ago but Atton was already fast forgetting every word the young Sullustan said, who looked over his shoulder after every other word as if someone were watching him, or as if whatever treatment Atton was receiving were clandestine. Both afraid of and eager for the solitude, Atton nodded impatiently as he spoke, only calm once he was alone again… just for the panic to take over.

With the medics around, he was a mess. But alone? He wasn't sure what was worse.

As predicted, his attendant from the past few days – Yara – had yet to return, the medic turn-over almost as staggering as the number of incoming patients in the medbay's ICU. Atton was still the only occupant in the well ward, not that he was exactly healthy, but the fact that he wasn't in critical condition seemed to be the determining factor in his placement. Still, he saw little of the others, only catching glimpses through the open door whenever a new medic would enter to administer another round of treatment or ask how he was doing, as if he were an afterthought.

What the hell is going on here?

But now, all Atton yearned for was sleep. He'd tried to glimpse the bottle the Sullustan pierced with the IV needle before hooking it up to Atton's arm – y'know, for future reference – but he wasn't so lucky, the aurabesh too small for him to read from a distance.

Damn, I'm getting old. At 32, Atton was feeling the weight of his reckless decisions more and more now, especially after working in the gas mines for the last year, and he figured his newly acquired injuries only depleted his life expectancy if anything.

Before he could lament his possible future, Atton began to drift off, his eyes drooping, senses dulling, though he still seemed to have a fuzzy view of the room he was in, as if his eyes were only half-closed. But he was quickly losing command of his limbs and all voluntary movement, his body fast becoming a cage. And while part of him liked it, another part of him felt suffocated, unsure of this prison, even if it meant he could at least rest for the moment. If all he had to look at was the empty wall for several hours, then so be it.

The room remained unchanged, though Atton did not know for how long. Dreams flitted in and out of his bouts of consciousness, though his corner of the medbay remained a constant, a background character almost, as his mind delved into the abstract.

Atton never let himself dream. Even in his sleep, he was counting cards and power couplings, never sure of who might be watching, who might be looking for him. Revan's empire died not long after Malak took over, but he knew the others trained like him were still out there somewhere. One could never be too careful. But slipping into dreamlike oblivion was almost blissful now despite the chaos he knew that ravaged the rest of the station now, his mind both emptied but full at once. He dreamt of everything and nothing, his memory as thin as air, capturing nothing but wisps of memory, trails of thought that dissipated just as quickly. And then there was the droid.

It was an HK model. Not the kind seen on Peragus in any capacity. Especially considering a protocol droid was hardly needed here, if ever. It drifted about the room, as if floating, before suddenly appearing at Atton's face, its intelligence module mere inches from Atton's half-lidded eyes. He knew he was still dreaming, but part of this felt real – too real.

Atton tried to jerk awake, tried opening his eyes, but they only seemed to want to close further, the panic rising in his chest as the HK's amber eyes bore into his unblinkingly, saying nothing. He felt a metallic hand at his wrist, and then his elbow, and pluck. The IV the medic had inserted earlier was removed and replaced with something else, though Atton could not will his eyes to move enough to see what it was. The droid's cold fingers graced his wrist again, this time checking for a pulse, before finally pulling away and pausing, admiring its handiwork before gliding away.

And then… it paused, poised in the doorway, unmoving. Its silhouette stood still, swaying gently on its metal perch for what felt like eternity, becoming a fixture in the room just as anything else, before it swiftly turned on its heel and rushed towards Atton's bedside again, this time to shut his eyes closed, cold fingers flitting over his face as though Atton were a corpse. He shuddered and the HK was gone.

And then the nightmares started.

[c-c-cherry]

Bucci Gang Headcanons!!!

I’m not really one to usually post this kind of stuff, but these are some lil headcanons my pal @jjadegreen and I have come up with while stuck in the same house during the quarantine!! 

These literally range from *probably would happen* to *fucking crack* so y’all have been warned...

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Giorno is one of those people that has a secret sweet-tooth. Like. An insane one where if he actually decides to indulge in it he cannot fucking stop. 

When he does go overboard, it’s usually because Bruno got his favourite ice cream flavour from the store and it’s always at some ungodly hour of the night.

He usually blames it on Mista somehow. Accidentally ate the entire tub of ice cream at 3am? No biggie. Just put the spoon on Mista’s bedside table while he’s asleep! 

Everyone blames Mista for it EVERY TIME and now he��s not allowed to eat any ice cream when they buy it. Mista thinks it’s the Sex Pistols because he swears he doesn’t remember doing it. 

Giorno just sits there like *sweats* “yeah uh no it had to be Mista, right? There’s definitely no one else it could be, right? Right??”

One time Abbacchio caught him in the act at like 4am and they have yet to bring it up.

He would spill Giorno’s big secret, but he really likes to see Mista suffer.

Narancia wears skirts sometimes and it’s not a big deal. He vibes, they all just vibe. No toxic masculinity here. 

Narancia is genuinely afraid of those “IF YOU DO NOT SEND TO 10 PEOPLE THIS WILL APPEAR AT THE END OF YOUR BED AT 3AM” emails.

One time he couldn’t do it because Bruno took his phone away and he sat in bed all night fucking trembling in fear of what chain mail monster would eat his face off this time.

Abbacchio hates geese. No one knows why. Not even Bruno.

Narancia’s real stand name IS Aerosmith, but he’s dead set on calling it Lil’ Bomber because “that’s his rapper name.”

Mista is lactose intolerant but he doesn’t know because he just thinks it’s normal to feel excruciating pain when you eat ice cream. 

“Like how pineapples hurt your mouth when you eat them.” -Mista probably

Bruno literally had to take him to the hospital one night because he inhaled too much ice cream and would not stop throwing up and Mista was like “wait this doesn’t happen to you??”

Trish hates butterflies because *fun fact!* butterflies often feed on not only nectar and fruit, but DECAYING CORPSES of animals! 

When she was a kid, she was walking in some alleyway and ran into a dead animal covered in butterflies. One landed on her arm and she fucking screamed. She will never look at them the same ever again...

Giorno loves to make things into butterflies when they all spend time together, and Trish literally has to suppress a shudder every time one goes near her.

Fugo is one of those people that is basically not afraid of anything, but when a fucking bee comes near him he will LOSE IT. He’s one of those people that will have to get up and run away from a bee when it flies near him.

If you tell him that it will leave him alone if he stops moving, he will punch you.

Giorno likes to make shit into bees sometimes just to fuck with him

Bruno does not like dogs. It probably stems from some childhood experience that went sour, but he does not care. He will be stone-faced during any mission or situation, but if a dog tries to jump up and greet him he will freak. The fuck. Out.

One time Narancia and Mista brought home a dog from the streets and mama Bruno was like “NOPE” and zipped himself out of existence.

Abbacchio found him locked in the closet under the stairs when he got home and made them get rid of it.

Leone was more of a cat person anyway.

Abbacchio eats raw pasta.

Fugo plays chess with himself. When Giorno joins the team he’s like “ugh finally an intellectual” but Giorno has literally never seen a fucking chess board in his life and is too scared to tell Fugo so he just keeps making up excuses as to why he doesn’t “have time” to play chess with him today.

Mista doesn’t shower but he has a BOMB-ass face-care routine. Even Trish is jealous. His face? Baby soft? Ten out of ten. The rest of him? Axe body spray out of ten.

Narancia went through a goth phase pre-canon. Abbacchio was not happy because Bruno kept referring to him as “little Abba” but he let Narancia use his good lipstick anyway.

Mista found his special hat in a street gutter on a rainy day and it matched his sweater so he decided to just keep it. Abbacchio does Trish’s makeup. They go to Sephora together. I don’t make the rules.

Giorno never really told anyone (besides Bruno) that he got his stand naturally so they all assume he got it from Polpo’s lighter and when he mentioned something off-hand about “when I was a kid Gold and I…” everyone’s just like “bitch hold up-”

Abbacchio wears coloured contacts and his ass literally cannot see without them. 

Yes they are expensive as fuck. He blows half his pay-check on them every month. 

One time he lost them right before a mission so he had to pull out his heavy prescription glasses from like 8th grade. They literally looked like this.

I think you can imagine the outcome

Growing up, Giorno only listened to three songs. 

The only reason he had access to these songs was because he found a really old Walkman on the side of the road when he was wandering around once. The tape only had three songs on it; Dancing Queen, It's Raining Men, and some song by Mozart. These were the three songs of Giorno’s childhood. 

He still has it and likes to listen to the tape when he gets sad

Narancia doesn’t know what a period is. Neither does Mista. 

Bruno forces everyone into the living room after overhearing this and makes them all watch one of those really awkward sex-ed videos from the 90s (you know the ones)

It was one of the worst days of their lives

They still have the tape and Narancia sometimes slips it in the VHS player when they all least expect it just to fuck with everyone

Bruno once held a capo meeting at their house (biggest mistake of his life) and all you could heard blasting through the walls of the other room was “YoUr bOdy MiGht Be gOiNg tHrOuGh sOmE cHaNgEs, fOr eXaMpLe yOuR P-”

On that note, Giorno was definitely that one kid who took notes during Sex-Ed

Abbacchio listens to Avril Lavigne

Giorno shaves his arms. It kind of started by accident but now he literally cannot stop or else his arms will look completely fucked up

Bruno has sensitive teeth. He can’t drink water that’s too cold cause it hurts his mouth. Abbacchio makes him tea :)

Fugo plays piano to help him with his anger. He would say that he plays saxophone too, but it’s more like violently screeching into the mouthpiece instead of actually playing it.

Narancia thinks that lesbian is a nationality

Even though Giorno lived in Japan for just a couple years, he’s still pretty fluent in the language because his mother would only speak Japanese to him growing up

The gang has no idea that Giorno is Japanese and when a foreigner is struggling Giorno just swoops in with perfect Japanese and they’re all just really confused.

Giorno doesn’t cry during movies or TV shows, but he’s one of those people who fucking BAWLS during video game credits

Mista and Narancia beat Ocarina of Time together and Giorno was watching from the sidelines and AS SOON as the credits started rolling there were tears.

When KK Slider starts to sing in Animal Crossing New Horizons and your character is brought into a music void and the credits start rolling he tears up just a little bit

Mista is squeamish around dead bugs. Not live ones. Dead ones and solely dead ones

Mista and Trish go thrifting. Mista goes to check the pockets of clothes for spare cash (cause he’s a broke bitch) and Trish goes to buy clothes

Everyone thinks that Mista doesn’t change his clothes but he actually just buys like 7 of the same outfit

Mista sneezes like a white sports dad. You know the sneeze.

◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇

Bonus Bruabba shit because Jade and I always go fucking HARD when talking about our local mafia dads:

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Bruno ties up the little strings on Abbacchio’s tiddy shirt every morning.

They got promise rings. Leone’s trying to find a nice time to actually propose but the gang keeps fucking it up every time they try to go on a nice date together

Bruno and Leone watch thunderstorms together

-The rest of the bucci gang stay inside and play monopoly or something when’s its stormy but these two bring out blankets and sit on the front porch and just be all soft and shit watching the lightning light up the sky and listening to the rain on the roof above them.

Bucciarati and Abbacchio have been mistaken as the following: 

Bruno as a woman and Abbacchio as a man. Abbacchio as a woman and Bruno as a man. Two lesbians. But never an actual gay couple.

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Yeah so I have no idea what that was. These were taken from a google doc we have together that’s just all these jumbled, crack-filled headcanons just for fun. I’m sure you can sense the pure chaos in this. 

Go give my dude @jjadegreen a hello, sis made most of these!

uhhh let us know if you want any more from any other parts. Cause y’all know we probably got some. <3

[writing-the-end]

LoL Chapter 27- Hermits

Masterpost

A Wizard Hermits tale (AU, designs, ideas belongs to @theguardiansofredland)

Its not often the hermits get a chance to all be together. And while they know battles lie ahead of them, they take this moment to enjoy being a family again. 

______________________________________

Etho appears beside TFC, causing the mineral mage to sputter out the coffee he was sipping. “I caught sight of xB a few islands down!” 

The hermits murmur with excitement and follow Etho to the shoreline. Sure enough, xB is hauling Hypno and Beef onto the warm sand. Hypno thumps his hand against his head, an attempt to escape his clogged ears which only fails for him. “Can’t we take a sky turtle next time?” 

“But it’s more fun to swim!” xB chuckles, and with a flick of his finned ears and his grey tail he runs to hug the hermits. “It’s so good to be back, guys! I can’t remember the last time all of us were on the island together.”

“You guys said something about taking back Lairyon?” Beef raises an eyebrow, looking over at Doc. “This isn’t your rebellious phase coming back, is it?”

“We’ll explain everything on the way. TFC has a lot to tell.” Etho wraps his arms around Hypno and xB, before disappearing into their shared shadow. 

The kipling laughs, shaking his head and looking around the island. “Some things never change. I see you haven’t fixed the hole in False’s forge either.” 

The hermits laugh, the entire group filled with life as they return to the guild hall. Joe and Cleo regale the missing hermits with the story of their victory at the Chimaera’s Championship. Their battles and challenges in the arena, facing off against the best guilds and winning the cup. They also tell Hypno, xB, and Beef about the heist, the discovery. 

“Why am I not surprised?” Hypno hums, tapping his fingers against the wood of the table that he sits down at. TFC pats the boys on the head, grabbing at Beef’s face and tapping his finger on a scar he sees. Beef shrinks away, concerned for a second, but the guildmaster only chuckles in response.

“I can’t wait to hear that story. It’s good to have you guys back.” TFC pats him on the back. “Treat you to a pint of beer next time we go to town.” 

“Let’s hear about this big job you’ve got planned for us first.” xB raises an eyebrow. In response, TFC rolls out his map.

The paper has changed since they first decided to go after Dolios and his creepy crystals. If there’s one thing an outlaw guild knows how to do, it’s to find new jobs through the grapevine. “Dolios has these tales silenced. I’ve heard of at least six other guilds being attacked or wiped out by unknown magic. Unfortunately, we’re too late to help them.” Team ZIT glance at one another, but focus on the here and now. “But there are places we can make a difference, as well as get information and better ourselves as a group.”

TFC motions to the Evernight forest. “An old friend of mine said there has been stories of familiars and companion animals going missing. No trace of where they went, except for a few patches of charred grass.”

“Charred, or drained?” Mumbo muses. To anyone, that sounds like the signs of a dragon ravaging Foresta, but after Mumbo’s duel with a draconic mage he knows dragons aren’t that dastardly. Nothing is as dastardly as Dolios. 

TFC grins, the newest member and the guildmaster sharing a knowing glint. “There’s also Shellor- which, I believe one of our hermits here knows quite intimately.” Etho gives a two fingered salute, rocking on the back legs of his chair until they fall out from under him, dumping him on the floor. Doc, Beef, and BDubs laugh at him. “There’s a few spies who’ve seen things Dolios has done, but the hard part will be earning their trust.” 

“Hmm, yeah. I don’t think I really left Shellor on a good note.” Etho grimaces. 

“That’ll be you, Keralis, and Grian’s problem. Meanwhile, we also need some help in the magical beings department. And if there’s one group that has mysterious, arcane magic on lock, it’s-”

“The fae!” Stress slams down her hands, a bright smile on her face. Iskall jolts upright and nearly hits the table again on the way down. “But where will we go? The fjords? The mountains? Heartbreak Trench?” 

“The flowerfruit fields. While you’re there, you and BDubs can gather ingredients that we’ve been running low on.” TFC glances at the map, running a finger over the lime green patch on the map. “We do have two confirmed crystal sightings, as well as Gildara. Edenswell seems to be falling ill to dark magic, and there’s reasonable belief that Dolios isn’t getting these massive rocks from nowhere- he’s using gems from the mines.” 

Heads peek over one another in an attempt to see the map. The charcoal diamonds and swirls. Gildara still sits untouched, and every hermit looks at one another. Do any of them want to return to the beginning of this all? Even to put an end to the dark magic plaguing the land, the memories of what they saw, what they experienced, still remain. 

Except for those that weren’t there. “I don’t think I’d mind checking out this hokey little town you guys keep talking about.” Beef grins, glancing over at Hypno and Wels. “We’ll have that place brimming with flaxen fields and green gardens all over again.” 

TFC grins, dipping his head in thanks to the returning hermits. He leans back, looking at the filled guild hall. “It’s been so long since we’ve all been together. If only it were on good terms.” 

“It feels good to return home.” xB ruffles his hair with a scaled hand, looking around for a second, then returning to speaking. “Even if it’s just for a short time, we should enjoy everyone being together again.” 

“What I’m hearing is we need to have our signature hermit celebrations.” Tango’s face splits into a devious smile. All around him, other hermits get a similar smirk on their face. Before TFC can agree to the idea, the hermits are gone. Cleo rushes to her wrecked pirate ship, hefting kegs of ale with the aid of Stress. Wels commandeers False’s forge to begin baking his favorite sweets, while Mumbo, Grian, and Iskall work together to fix the pennants, lanterns, and flags that decorate the guild hall in a myriad of colors. 

Tango snaps his fingers, and a small flame dances at his fingertips, jumping from his nails to the wicks of the lanterns. He ducks out of the way just in time to avoid being smacked in the face by a massive fish, tossed from the sea by xB and grabbed by Grian midair. The whirlpool mage disappears back underwater, back to hunting in the realm he was born in. 

The sun begins to inch towards the western horizon, turning the sky ablaze in a mosaic of pinks, oranges, yellows, and reds. A blue flag flutters against the ancient oak tree, catching on a branch. BDubs reaches out from his seat near the food platters, hardly even glancing away from the fresh baked goods, and with a flick of his wrist the branch bends away and the flag flies free again. 

False appears beside Wels, grabbing a brownie from the hot pan and sticking her tongue out at him as she passes. When Wels objects she’s quick to retort. “You used my forge. It’s rental payment, paladin.” 

Beef sets out plates, which are promptly ignored once Impulse and Zedaph have finished cooking the tuna xB caught. Music swells from a music box the creation of Ren, with the help of Mumbo, the upbeat songs written and composed with Joe and requests from the other hermits for their favorite tunes. 

The music thrums against the low roar of talking, the sound only broken by the common lilt of laughter. Hermits tell their stories, whether they be heard for the thousandth time or a new tale to tell. Beef causes Hypno to flush as he recounts the prank he pulled on the dream mage. Hypno turns bright red, quiet voice cracking over the tale. “I smelled like centaur shit for a week! It was awful, I’ll tell you that.” 

A raucous laugh erupts from that table, overshadowing the story of Mumbo’s duel to xB. “I swear on my life, I thought she was gonna swallow me whole. Or burn me like coal.” Mumbo shakes his head. “I don’t think I ever want to go up against a draconic mage ever again in my life.” 

“I’m surprised a kipling, a draconic mage, and a desert wizard were one team. That’s a strange group. I don’t think I’ve even met each of the others.” xB takes a bite of his fish, marinated in fresh fruits that Cub plucked from nearby islands. “But I’m sure that kipling gave you guys a run for your money. That magic she had… it’s rare beyond imagination. In kipling legend, it means a legendary hero is about to arise.” 

“He definitely kicked Ren’s ass. I don’t think I ever saw so much water moved at once.” Mumbo shakes his head, and stuffs a red jelly tart into his mouth. 

Keralis stands, tossing his woven hat from the brown curls of his hair, and inviting himself onto the open floor. “I love this song! Come on, my wonderful friends, let’s dance!” 

The setting sun casts a golden glow, bouncing off verdant leaves, twisting along the waves of the Ashioll sea. Laughter and music dance in the gilded light, playing in the curls of Zedaph’s hair as he joins Keralis. The two bumble around, drunk from Cleo’s ale but enjoying themselves immensely. 

Only one hermit wasn’t taking part in the festivities. Atop the canopy that protects the guild hall below, Xisuma watches as the stars appear in the sky. For a few moments in the day, the void and the sun share the space above. And he always thinks of the one person he knows he should forget by now. But he would’ve loved this, even if he’s constantly worrying about being caught doing something wrong. 

“Hey X, you gonna mope up there all day or join us?” Jevin grins below, one hand placed on his hip and the other waving Xisuma down. “Just because you’re a void mage doesn’t mean you have to a-void everything!” 

Xisuma rolls his eyes, but smiles beneath his mask. “After that terrible pun, how can I say no?”

[sinnabonka]

I loved your post with all the reasons why destiel will be endgame! An other thing that came to my mind today was that if last episode was Cas last scene, I would think that Dean would somehow react more , I don’t know, violently? Don’t understand me wrong, I love Jensens microexpressions, but I would imagine, that if that really was his last scene with Misha and Deans last scene with Cas EVER he would show even more emotions? God, I don’t know if that makes any sense, but these are my feelings.

Hi, An! It absolutely does make sense, no worries. It’s something I’ve been thinking a lot about lately, too. (What else is new?) 

Let me start with screaming into the void: E X A C T L Y

I adore the scene, everything about it is perfect. I’m afraid that if I watch it once again, I’m gonna lose my mind. Both Jensen and Misha did something incredible here, I am in awe of what’s next. 

And it’s perfection scares the shit out of me, if I’m being honest. I started writing this meta / spec in order to prove myself wrong about it being the end of Cas. I just open Google doc with the question in mind - given everything we know about the story, what are the odds? 

I know I’m one sparkling fountain of positivity here, though, you can’t really trust what I’m saying. Because I simply don’t know. But lets look at it once again from slightly different perspective.

I do agree with you on this topic. For me, if it was indeed the end of Cas, the full closure was due. Like, let Dean react properly, if it’s his last chance.

 How cruel is this, right? To hear your best friend confessing his love to you and to loose him forever without the chance to process it properly? 

I know this happens in real life all the time. But that’s the difference between real life and a story - we control the narrative. 

Too cruel even for SPN. “Proud ending”, my ass. 

In my humble clowning opinion, if it was really the last time we / and Dean / see Cas and we had to know it, there had to be more despair in his reaction. More anger. Dean had to fight till the last second, he wouldn’t be listening to Cas and swallowing his tears, he would throw things and shout “Don’t you dare” and “son of a bitch” at him. He would reach to him. He would grab on his sleeve, before the empty takes him, or something. It would be more dramatic. 

 Because Destiel or not, we’ve all seen what loosing Cas does to Dean.

[juju-on-that-yeet]

Lost and Found

Whumptober Day 25: I Think I’ll Just Collapse Right Here, Thanks Prompt: Disorientation

After two days lost in the wilderness, Eric and the Jims are doing poorly. When help finally arrives, they’re too out of it to appreciate it. (continued from “Down, Down, Down”)

Warnings: Head injury, vomiting mentions

Read on AO3 (Full Whumptober Series)

Enjoy!

~

On the first full day of Eric and the Jims being stranded at the bottom of the ravine, they drink through their last water bottle.

The crushed granola bars weren’t enough to keep them from waking up hungry, and not even finishing off their water can stop the hunger pains from increasing throughout the day. RJ goes off to find food, but Eric is worried about what he might return with. Any mushroom or berry around here could easily be poisonous. RJ eventually returns not with food, but with news of a creek up ahead that they could get more water from. Eric is pretty sure they’d have to boil it to drink it safely, but the only container they have is their water bottle. When RJ makes another trip to the creek and comes back with a bottle full of water, though, Eric is less concerned. The water looks fine, and the sun is so hot, and the hunger hasn’t abated. So he and RJ drink, and they give some to CJ, too.

At least, they try; CJ is still barely conscious with no strength to drink on his own, and most of the water drips past his lips and down his neck. Every once in a while he groans and tries to sign something, but his hands are no clearer than they were the day before. Eric spends most of the day with him as RJ makes countless trips with their water bottle. His attempts to find food all fail, and the three go to sleep still hungry.

The second day begins when Eric wakes up with revulsion already crawling up his throat. He vomits creek water onto the ground beside him as RJ, newly awoken by Eric’s retching, rubs his back and tries to comfort him – until he has to vomit, too, and stumbles away from where the group has been sleeping to puke up yesterday’s water.

“Was there something in the water?” Eric gasps between heaves.

“I don’t know,” RJ coughs, “It could be because we haven’t eaten, too.”

A few hours pass. Eric and RJ continue to retch on and off, even when nothing more comes up. CJ, meanwhile, never so much as gags. He ate as little as the others did, but he barely drank any water, and in that Eric and RJ have their answer.

The repeated vomiting leaves RJ too weak to go looking for food again, or for a better source of water. Not that Eric much notices; his broken arm is hurting worse than it has before. The limb is swollen and discolored, and Eric can’t help but fear how much worse it is under the skin. RJ curls up, rubbing his bruises, probably aching all over from his own fall down the ravine. CJ still looks terrible; the wound on his head is inflamed, and his pupils still don’t match. He makes less noise than he did the day before, his attempts to sign are fewer and even less effective. Eric expects he won’t be able to sleep when night falls, but his aches and worries catch up to him and drag him under alarmingly fast.

The third day is hell.

Eric wakes up and doesn’t feel rested. His stomach is in knots, as though with no food available it has decided to eat itself instead. RJ is curled up again, whimpering. CJ is still asleep, or maybe he’s unconscious. The thought should send a pang of fear through Eric, but he doesn’t have the strength to be scared, he doesn’t have enough awareness to be afraid. Thoughts float in and out of his mind, thoughts of home, thoughts of the others, thoughts of rescue, but none of them strike any emotion. He’s too weak to feel a thing. He falls in and out of sleep, and he suspects RJ does, too. He can barely remember that there’s people with him, barely recall anything outside himself. It’s only hot. He’s only exhausted.

At some point in the day, something changes. It takes Eric several moments to realize that some new people have shown up. He can’t concentrate on what that means and watch the figures approach him at the same time, so he stops thinking and watches Bim and Wilford approach him.

“Oh god, guys, can you hear me!?” Bim half-asks, half-shrieks, frantic with worry. He dashes to Eric – and to the twins, Eric remembers their presence. Bim manages to wake RJ, who groans as he’s shaken out of his slumber.

“Good lord, what happened to you three?” Wilford asks Eric, looking uncharacteristically concerned. Eric’s throat is too dry for him to answer.

“CJ? CJ??” Bim says as he gently shakes CJ’s shoulder, trying to wake him. “CJ, come on, Cam, wake up!” The fear in his voice kicks up a notch. “Oh god, Cammie, buddy, please wake up–”

“Let’s get them home,” Wilford says, firmly but gently, interrupting Bim’s terrified ramble.

“Right, right,” he gasps. He carefully scoops up CJ, making sure to support his head. Wilford, meanwhile, picks up both RJ and Eric, holding them in one arm each. Wilford runs hot, but compared to the heat of the sun and dirt Eric’s been sitting on, he’s a welcome chill. Eric lets his head loll against Wilford’s shoulder as the group is teleported away.

The moment in Wilford’s void sends a bout of nausea through Eric, one that manifests as a sharp pain in his empty stomach. He groans as the group appears in the clinic. It takes a moment for his head to stop swimming as Bim yells for Dr. Iplier.

“Doc, we found them!” he cries, “They’re hurt, especially CJ!”

Dr. Iplier comes running in and spares a moment to look at all three sick, weakened egos before zeroing in on CJ.

“Christ, Bim, I won’t mince words,” Dr. Iplier mutters as he pries open CJ’s eyes to shine a light into them, “CJ’s on death’s door. This head injury he’s got must be doing awful things to his brain. I need Green and I need to get CJ into surgery now.”

“What about the others?” Wilford asks over Bim’s wail.

“Just get them each into a bed,” Dr. Iplier says, already turning to rush to the operating room, motioning for Bim to follow. “Grab Google or Ollie to put them on IVs and examine them further; anything else can wait.”

Wilford obeys. As soon as Eric’s head hits the cool pillow of his clinic bed, he falls asleep.

~~~

When Eric wakes up, his mind is much clearer. He’s still in a clinic bed, but there’s IVs in his good arm and a cast on his broken one. His warped and broken prosthetics have been removed, too. Eric feels sore and achy and still very hungry, but his bed is comfortable, and he’s finally out of the sun. Now that he can think straight, he’s worried about the twins again.

Some of the worry dissipates when he looks to the side and sees RJ in his own bed, with his own IVs and bandages. RJ is already awake, and he grins to see Eric’s eyes on him.

“You okay, AJ?” he asks.

“Yeah, I think so,” Eric answers, “You too?”

“Yeah,” RJ replies. His face falls a little. “I don’t know about CJ, though. He’s not on my other side.”

Eric looks at his own other side, but no, CJ isn’t there either. His heart clenches with fear. He remembers how badly CJ was hurt and shudders.

Fortunately, that’s when Eric hears footsteps coming towards him and RJ. The pair look to see Dr. Iplier opening the door to their hospital room.

“Hey, you’re both awake,” Dr. Iplier says, smiling gently. “According to Wilford, you guys were asleep the moment he put you both down. You’ve been asleep for hours, how are you feeling?”

“Hungry,” RJ says.

“I can imagine,” Dr. Iplier replies, walking in to check on each ego’s IVs, “You’ve been missing for a few days. Wilford and Bim said they found you at the bottom of a ravine.”

“We fell,” Eric admits, “We had supplies, but they got crushed.”

“We tried drinking river water,” RJ adds, “But it, um, didn’t work out that well.”

“I can imagine that, too,” Dr. Iplier sighs, “But at least you’re both alive. And you should both heal up fine.”

“What about CJ?” RJ murmurs like he’s afraid to ask. Eric looks up at Dr. Iplier anxiously, waiting for a response. Fortunately, Dr. Iplier smiles again.

“He made it through surgery,” he says, “He’s in his own room. He was badly hurt, that head injury caused significant swelling in his brain. He’s still asleep, and I’ll be keeping him asleep for a day or two to make sure he heals well. I know that sounds scary,” he adds in response to the horrified looks on Eric and RJ’s faces, “But it’s necessary. And between you and me…” He leans down between them like he’s telling a secret, and Eric and RJ lean in to listen. “…His time looks good. I’m confident he’ll pull through. If he were a human...” Dr. Iplier shakes his head. “Well, if he were a human, he wouldn’t have been alive for me to perform brain surgery on in the first place. But if he’d lived that long, he’d be looking at a week or more in a coma, and even then, he’d have a lot of brain damage upon waking. But CJ’s a figment, so when he wakes up in a couple days, you can expect him to act like normal - though he might not remember a lot of the last few days.”

Eric and RJ look at each other. Eric figures they’re both thinking the same thing: It’s probably good that CJ won’t remember that harrowing experience. For his part, Eric hopes he’ll eventually be able to forget.

[rayne-storm]

AUgust 5 - Science Fiction

Cooking With Crewmates - Hannigram & Among Us

This is some violent self-indulgent garbage, and also by far the longest thing I've written for AUgust so far, and I've had to edit this intro to fit the Tumbl's block limit. Contains violence and gore inherent in the fandoms. Possibly extraordinarily ooc. No beta, we die like men.

William Graham had not always wanted to do space things. In fact, if you had asked him ten years earlier if he would ever want to do anything on a space station, he would have flipped you off and run the other direction. He hated being cramped up. He hated not having control of his immediate situation. He would never describe himself as "works well with others" in any capacity.

Yet there he was.

In a fucking tin can in space. With a horrible murderer loose.

Fuck.

And all he could do was grumble as he went about his day, desperately trying to repair a rapidly failing piece of garbage, trying to avoid air vents and being followed anywhere.

His antisocial tendencies had never come so in handy.

There was one member of the team, however, that seemed determined to undermine his self-imposed Exile. The ship's cook and doctor (everyone tried to do double-duty where they could) Hannibal Lecter seemed hellbent on following him everywhere, and it would have been cute if it weren't so frustrating.

The other man wore bright red, with (of all damn things) a chef's hat on top of his helmet. He stood out, in every way possible. Admittedly, Will's little clip-on dog ears weren't the most subtle of accessories, but at least he was a solid color and could blend into shadows if he so wished. Like a ninja. Not like a fire engine.

But it was sweet, kind of, how insistent the older man was that he be with Will so often. He seemed to get his tasks done quickly, and his cooking really was delicious. It was enough, almost, to make Will forget there was a gruesome murderer on the loose.

Almost.

The first time he saw a dead body was back on Earth. He had, for a time, worked with the FBI's Behavior Analysis Unit. He had a sort of "superpower" to be able to get into people's heads, hyper-empathy they called it. He could still remember that first case. It didn't haunt him like it used to, but it was there, the first in a file-folder in his mind that he kept locked tight until he had space to process the things inside.

The things he had seen on this ship were leagues beyond the worst cases on Earth. These bodies weren't just dismembered, they were ripped apart, like they had encountered some kind of… well, creature. Whatever had done the things he was seeing wasn't human. It simply wasn't possible.

He had to reevaluate a lot of personal beliefs very quickly.

The crew eventually came to the conclusion that whatever was doing this to their members was hiding Among Them. They decided on the moniker of "imposter" for the thing.

Now to figure out who it was.

Will had his suspicions. Of everyone, unfortunately. But suspicion kept him alive on Earth, it would work alright here too. Especially as there were fewer and fewer people left.

Will imagined how it would go, if he were face to face with whatever had been destroying their Crewmates. He never came out alive. Best-case was he would airlock it and shoot it into space. Like they had done to several people already (he had refused to participate).

Curiously, Hannibal had also refused to vote, or participate in the discussion. Will wondered if it had anything to do with the Hippocratic Oath, or just personal morals. The strange thing was that the doctor didn't get nearly as much protest against his refusal to participate in these death sentences as Will did. Something about the man radiated this calm, cool authority that Will guessed people just accepted.

Whatever the case, he supposed it didn't hurt that the man was seemingly always on his side.

"They condemn you because they do not understand," Doctor Lecter had murmured to him one evening as another crewmate was launched into the cold void of space.

"Don't understand what?"

"You feel their pain as if you were the one out there, freezing and choking."

Will looked down, shaking his head. He knew that in the empty vacuum of space, ship walls between them, he couldn't really hear the screams, but he felt his ears ring all the same.

"Who are we to play God?"

"I think God must be laughing at this. He kills all the time, and are we not created in His image?"

Will felt a shudder ripple through him. Whether fear or something else entirely he wasn't certain.

He knew he was in trouble, falling way too hard for this mysterious doctor chef. It was ridiculous, frankly, to have even remotely romantic feelings for a fire-hydrant in a chef's hat, but here he was. He wondered numbly if Hannibal had any sort of reciprocity, feeling something for the little edgelord wolf boy Will was dressed up as.

He didn't have to wonder long.

He was in his private quarters after a long day of doing medical scans and fixing wires (reminding him so much of his former hobby of tying his own fly-fishing lures), and was halfway out of his suit when there was a knock at the door.

He debated putting the bulky gear back on, but chose against it, instead walking to the door and opening the little peephole.

It was… an extremely handsome man, in a tweed suit of all things. Will realized immediately who it was when he saw the gorgeous dish of food the man was carrying.

"Doctor Lecter?"

"Please, just Hannibal. We are friends, are we not?"

Will couldn't help but smile. Yes, somehow, despite everything, they were friends. Possibly more?

Will opened the door, stepping back, and he realized that they had never actually seen each other before, without the privacy afforded to them by their suits.

Hannibal was so much more than a red space man with (again) a comical hat. He was slender, and older than Will had initially anticipated. His hair was combed back neatly, and his gorgeous cheekbones looked like they could cut glass. His eyes were just as lovely, and Will realized he was staring only as he became aware Hannibal was as well.

Will wondered what the other man thought of him beneath the wolf ears. He knew he was scruffy and unkempt, far more so now in front of this immaculately groomed man. But Hannibal was looking at him like he was something… beautiful. He felt himself blushing.

Hannibal caught himself and smiled, glancing down as he stepped inside the room. He set the food down on the little table in the room, and Will shut the door behind him.

Hannibal took some cutlery from an inside jacket pocket, setting it down on either side of the dish.

"I didn't see you at dinner tonight, and I thought it might be kind to bring you some food myself."

Will smiled sheepishly and nodded. "Thank you. That is very considerate. It looks and smells amazing."

He sat carefully, wary that he still had his suspenders that attached his suit bottoms to him. He was rather mismatched. But Hannibal didn't seem to care.

He sniffed the meal experimentally, it was some type of meats and noodles in a thick dark sauce.

"What culinary delight have you served me tonight, doc- Hannibal?"

Will caught the little grin that the other man tried to stifle at the mention of his name.

"Teriyaki udon. With blackened chicken."

Will nodded.

"Will you partake as well, or..?"

"Oh, no, I ate earlier. Please, feel free."

Will nodded again, taking a cautious bite.

It was amazing, like everything the man cooked.

He couldn't suppress a small groan of delight, and he didn't mess the slight shiver that seemed to run down Hannibal's body. Interesting…

He devoured the meal, though he did try to at least remember his table manners. He felt embarrassed, honestly, but Hannibal looked so damn happy.

"I am so glad you like it," Hannibal murmured with a smile, packing the container and cutlery away.

"And, I must say, you are… exquisite. If we survive this ordeal, would… could…" he paused, glancing down, and Will felt jitters.

"I would, yes," he answered.

Hannibal blushed - blushed! - and smiled.

"That… makes me extraordinarily happy. Thank you, Will, I… I am so glad I have met you."

Will smiled and nodded. "I am too."

Hannibal ducked his head and waved as he stepped back out into the ship.

Will couldn't help smiling as he watched the man walk away.

--

This became their routine. A break from the monotony of every day, both the anxiety and the boredom. Will felt himself growing ever more attached to his companion, and found that he no longer disliked the doctor's seeming constant desire to be nearby as Will worked. In fact, Will would sometimes speed through his other tasks just to be able to meet Hannibal in Medbay as Hannibal finished his work.

Their evenings were spent together usually with Will eating something amazing Hannibal prepared, the other abstaining due to having eaten already. That was fine. They were together, talking about everything and nothing, confiding secrets. Will told Hannibal about his panic attacks, about how he couldn't work on Earth at the BAU because he felt himself becoming some kind of monster.

Hannibal in turn revealed his own tragic childhood, and confided that the Imposter (and subsequent hunts and ejection) made him uneasy enough to keep a knife on his personal at all times. His left rear pocket, he said, "in case something happens."

They tried to avoid that sort of talk, though. It just led to somber silences.

Mostly, Will enjoyed talking about folklore and food. Two universals of humanity. Hannibal had rich tapestries of experience in both, and Will was content to listen to his companion speak for hours on end, well into the night.

Will wondered, sometimes, when Hannibal walked back to his own quarters, what would happen if Will asked him to stay. To just… be with him, through the night. Nothing more. Nothing less.

He wondered what would happen if they survived this. What would happen if it came down to just themselves and the monster hiding in the ship.

Will knew, without a doubt now, he would die for Hannibal.

It didn't matter if that wasn't reciprocal.

--

One evening, they were down to six, and Will and Hannibal were having dinner (Will was eating, Hannibal talking). There was a knock at the door and Hannibal frowned as he stood to see who it was. He didn't make it to the door when it was forced open and their three remaining Crewmates were there, running in and seizing Will.

"It's you!" Pink screamed.

Will looked around, confused and terrified as hands grabbed at him, dragging him literally kicking and screaming from his own room.

"What?! What's- hey! Stop-!"

The crew didn't pause as they dragged him out, one staying by to keep Hannibal from following.

"We always knew you were a creepy little freak, but damn, Graham, I can't believe we've been so blind."

"It's not me! What the fuck?!"

"It has to be you. You and the Doc were the only two missing when we found the body, and we all know it's not him."

Will tried to process everything happening. He counted, there were only three people surrounding him and Hannibal, who was still shouting (he had never seen the man so upset, so animated), and it clicked.

It was Hannibal.

All this time, the man he was falling for was the monster he was afraid of.

He felt like the realization should have hit harder, should have hurt more, but…

Well it didn't really change much, now.

Hannibal was still the only one who had shown him a shred of decency. Hannibal listened to him, consoled him, cooked for him… cared for him.

Will felt everything move in slow motion. He met Hannibal's eyes. He saw the fear there, of what he couldn't be certain.

He felt a wave of calm come over him. All of this proof, and the crew still had not put it together (he, at least, had been blinded by affection and antisocial tendencies). Hannibal would almost certainly win this morbid game.

He didn't expect Hannibal to go full monster.

His jaw unhinged like a snake's, and his nails became claws, and there was just a pile of meat where the crewman holding him back once had been.

Everything stopped. The pair holding him let go and Will fell to the floor with a sharp cry, the air leaving his lungs all at once. He tried to catch his breath as Hannibal turned to the Crewmates. Will saw how terribly inhuman he seemed, even without the snake-jaw and claws, in the cold light in his eyes, the hard line of his mouth, the fury that Will could tell was bubbling just beneath the surface.

"You!!"

Will wheezed a chuckle. It was so obvious now to him. How Hannibal had almost always just "eaten," how he had so much knowledge about so many things, how he seemed to finish his tasks so quickly. He had attached himself to Will, who protested the ejections, who never noticed whether Hannibal could complete their tasks or not…

Will had to wonder if any of it was real. If he fell in love with a monster incapable of returning his feelings. It had felt real, had felt mutual, he knew he had seen affection in the man's eyes as they talked.

Maybe Hannibal could fake it. But it had been real enough for Will, realer than the simpering cowards who were rapidly backing away, cowering behind Will. As he got to his feet, one shoved him back down, towards Hannibal. Hannibal glanced down at him, worry briefly passing through his gaze as he continued to walk towards the pair of fools.

Will panted, slowly working his way back up to his feet, leaning against a wall. Hannibal stalked towards his prey, and Will was surprised at his own feelings of vicious satisfaction.

They deserved this. They deserved to suffer for all the lives they'd taken in their squabbling.

Hannibal reached towards the pair, a thick black… something… stretching from his hand and wrapping it around the pink crewmate. It squeezed, and with a sickening crunch, that crewmate was no more.

Will staggered towards the action, and saw the remaining figure pulling their gun up, aiming at Hannibal, still busy mutilating the pink body.

Time slowed down for Will. He ran, as fast as he could, reaching for Hannibal.

Back right pocket.

He felt the knife in Hannibal's pocket, gripping it as he felt himself fall, then what his brain could only describe as a chair leg punching through his chest. He gripped the knife as he lay on the ground, and while Hannibal had his attention torn between the crewmate and himself, Will threw the knife.

He hoped that his sense of aim was at least passible and as he felt himself starting to black out, all he could think was that he had been right.

He would die for Hannibal.

--

He hadn't expected to wake up, later. He gasped and sat up, hands reaching blindly, frantically, into nothing. A burst of pain in his chest forced him back down, and he nearly blacked out again.

He looked around, body slick with sweat as he panicked, looking around to figure out where he was, mind trying to figure out what had happened.

He felt a gentle pressure by his feet, and a warm hand pressed to his forehead.

"Welcome back, Will."

That was Hannibal's voice. Quiet, sure. Perhaps it was his own confusion, but Will could have sworn there was something… different. Perhaps a bit of a warble that inferred something beyond the man's usual brand of steady confidence.

It didn't matter.

"I… you… you're okay?"

Hannibal came into view, the same composed man in the tweed suit.

"I am. You very nearly weren't, my silly, foolish, brace Will…" he murmured, sitting down by Will's side.

Will looked down, his chest was covered in bandages, a couple little tubes running from them. So he really had been shot.

"Why did you do that? Why did you put yourself in the way?" Hannibal sounded nearly… angry.

"Because I couldn't lose you," Will croaked.

Hannibal's hand stroked Will's hair, soothing, tender, nothing one might expect from a creature that had done so much damage.

"Even though you knew what I was?"

"You were the lesser evil in my eyes."

"And what now? Will you try to flee as soon as you are well? Will you kill me yourself?"

Will chuckled softly, leaning into the warm hand.

"Seems a bit pointless. I'd starve to death without your cooking."

Hannibal managed a smile, though it was very nearly a grimace, and Will realized with some amusement (and some sadness) that there were tears in the man's eyes.

"Hey now, I'm the one with a hole in my body, no crying," Will chided gently, his own hand reaching out to wipe the tears away.

"I am sorry. I never intended to… get so attached."

Will hummed in agreement. He hadn't either. But that's what they got for being lonely fools, he supposed.

"Just to clarify," Will started, carefully adjusting, "did you feed me my Crewmates?"

That would be… problematic, to say the least, but he would understand.

"I… yes."

"To get rid of evidence?"

"Partially. Partially to… initiate you."

Into what? Was there some kind of monster cult? Hannibal saw his confusion and continued.

"I… wondered, perhaps, if you would… ever consider becoming… more. Than you are. Becoming the purest form of yourself."

"Becoming like you, you mean," Will interpreted, and Hannibal nodded.

"I confess, it gave me great excitement to think about."

Will could imagine. Hannibal must have been even more alone than Will felt, with no one truly understanding anything about him.

"Why not finish it?"

"I would need your consent. I could, in theory, turn you, but…"

Hannibal looked down.

"I would rather you kill me than resent me for turning you against your will. I knew you would likely starve yourself in protest. I… I could not watch you do that."

It was the most vulnerable Will thought he had ever seen Hannibal. There was something deeply endearing about it.

"Well, now what, then? Will you turn me now? If I consent?"

Hannibal looked up at him, tears even greater than they had been.

"You would want to become such a thing?"

"I think I would. If it means I can be with you. If you'll have me."

Will scarcely had time to blink when Hannibal's lips were on his own, and those tender arms were cradling him to the monstrous man's chest.

For such a powerful creature, Hannibal seemed so delicate and fragile now. Will carefully returned the embrace, mewling into the kiss.

He'd never felt like this before. He felt… known. Perceived, all that he was. He loved it.

"Are there many like us?" He murmured as Hannibal pulled away to rest their foreheads together.

"No, there is no one like us."

Will chuckled softly.

"You know what I mean."

"No, I can't say I do, please enlighten me."

"Now you're teasing me."

"I would never," Hannibal purred softly.

"Right, right. I mean, are there more, I guess, imposters? What are we called?"

"Probably. I never cared to know any before. All I need, all I desire, is here, with you."

Will laughed, shaking his head.

"You're lucky you're so charming."

"I am. I'm lucky you appreciate my special brand of charm."

Will hummed in agreement, leaning up for another kiss. He could easily see himself getting addicted to this. It seemed Hannibal could to, because the man was straddling his hips.

"Easy, now, I'm grievously injured, remember? You have to play nice with me," Will teased.

"Of course, of course. Just getting comfortable" Hannibal retorted.

"That so? Well alright, I suppose I can't be mad at that, then."

Hannibal smiled, genuinely, pressing gentle kisses to Will's forehead.

"Don't worry. I'm a patient man. I've waited this long for you, I can manage a few more weeks. Just be patient with me as well. This… is all new."

Will nodded, yawning and adjusting himself again. He felt exhaustion tug at his mind, and though he tried, he couldn't resist just resting his eyes.

"It's alright, my Will. Sleep. You have time to Become something amazing."

[sugarfreecapsicle]

binding

royal!au bucky barnes x reader

word count: 1800+

A/N: I’m rusty, but I hope this is something you can enjoy! I had originally planned for this to be much longer (including smut) but I got bored of the detail I’d put in and didn’t want a reader to tire of it. Feedback is always appreciated - please forgive small errors as I use google docs and it doesn’t quite catch everything. Big thanks to @moonstruckbucky & @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan for beta-ing the very rough draft!

Within the hour, you’d become a wife, and the week, a queen.

None of your previous years of schooling and training prepared you for this. The dressmaker interrupts her last minute stitching and hemming with a hand on your leg to steady your balance. As a young girl, imagining this occasion comprised of so much more than political arrangements. Love, adoration, joy. Instead, you are shuffled from one room, one person to another, and the world blurs.

No one outside the castle, not even the court, had seen your betrothed since the war - many spread rumors that he’d already died and the king couldn’t bear the thought of losing his country, that the young soldier and prince had run away to a neighboring land out of fear while defending his own people. 

A duty to your family keeps you planted, flexible only to instruction from your new assistants. Your sister, young and frail, would be on the market as a working girl. Your mother would be devastated - her hard work in the quiet night voided should anyone of power discover her educating the poorer children. Father...well, he’s the mastermind of your marriage. Debts forgiven, as it were. But at what benefit to the throne?

Wavering at the thought, the dressmaker supports your legs with some poorly hidden irritation. You were the only woman of title who could bear children for miles, and with tensions remaining in the aftermath of war the king found no solace in the potential of his neighbors.

There’s no time to waste once your dress is done. You’re escorted to the door of the hall where music bellowed off the walls and murmurings of court carried over the banisters. Your father says nothing but threads your arm with his, a hand over your clammy one. 

A maid enters from a small door across the foyer, and by order of the dressmaker fusses over every detail one last time. The words leave you before you think better of it. “Is he kind?”

She blushes. “Immensely, Your Highness.”

The music begins to swell, large oak doors creak open, and the room stands. Your heart pounds with every step nearer, the knot in your throat bobbing and scratching. Could you sound smooth, deliberate in promising your vows? Could he be full of dread?

The prince, your betrothed, stands poised - the perfect soldier. Broad shoulders, dark velvet blue accentuates the chocolate brown hair pulled together neatly at his neck. A prominent dark metal hand inlaid with gold clutches one of flesh behind his back. The exchange of your hand between your father and prince moves slow, deliberate. The new sensation of cool metal pricks against your clammy hand, and a silent prayer asks that the hardness in his slate blue eyes is a result of ceremony rather than the prospect of marrying you specifically.

The priests words run together in baritone, the vows hardly more than white noise behind the pounding of blood in your ears. Something  in your chest stretches tightly. Vision darkens at the edges. Breaths shallow.

And then, the prince’s voice reverberates through your touch.

“I swear upon my life and my kingdom.”

You’re next to swear your vows before the gods and the court, and sweat begins to bead on your hairline at the priest’s silence.

“I swear upon my life and my kingdom.”

Rings are exchanged, (could his hands be trembling the same as yours?) your arms link, and you turn as one, the room bowing deeply followed by cheering applause. You’re both escorted onto a carriage and paraded, waving, tossing candied fruits to those around the streets.

Once paraded, you return to the castle and the pair of you are directed to a set of bedchambers, men standing guard outside. Part of you wants to believe in a higher power when there are no guards or attendees inside to...observe.

He’s staring, eyes roaming over your finery in some kind of assessment. Jaw still clenched, eyes cold. 

“If you disapprove-“

“I don’t.” Short. Effective. “You’ll make a fine queen for my people.”

Not at all a romantic.

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

He bows and doesn’t give a reason for his dismissal from the room. A sob crowds the knot still trapped in your throat. The rest of your days would be spent trying to tolerate a frigid man with no love for you while trying to do what’s best for the people. 

Weeks pass with no affection. James, your new husband, is busy with matters elsewhere that keep him occupied. Not that you have too much time of your own to notice - your new role commands attention to multiple details across the grounds, interior, even some event coordinating. Most nights it’s all you can to do fall into bed and snore before your head hits the pillow. Your husband rarely finds bed before you and is always out of bed before you wake.

Some of the maids and help around the grounds provide a little solace, most with stories of his quiet action to their aid. James - reserved, a man of action, subtle, caring, kind. Give him time, they’d said. He has his reasons.

Once ready for the day, you smooth your skirts and expect to plan the first of many holiday celebrations but your train of thought is stopped. James stands nervously at your door and smiles. 

“Good morning.”

The smile broadens. “Good morning. Would you...walk with me? If you have the time.” James offers his arm and without breaking eye contact, you accept.

A sharp breeze dances in the sunset leaves, and the day new enough to glimmer of morning dew on the shrubbery. Orchids in bloom fill the air with pleasant sweetness. The two of you have hardly spoken as you walk together, guards’ eyes following.

“The gardens are beautiful.” It’s a start, you suppose. He’s trying.

“Thank you.” You grin over at one of the fountains collecting fall leaves in a pool of water. “Shall we sit? I need the sun more than I thought.”

A true gentleman, he waits for you to arrange your skirts and move to sit before taking his place next to you by the fountain. Somewhere in the trees birds chirp and sing, chattering along.

“My mother always loved the birds,” James murmurs with eyes darting in the treeline. “She insists on the feeders hidden throughout.”

“I’m sure you gave your mother some reason to hide them,” you smirk, tucking an errant waft of hair behind his ear. His cheeks flush, even his ears turn a shade of red. 

“Plenty of reason. And often.”

You breathe out a laugh and notice a page rushing over with a sealed letter in hand. So much for an easy morning.

Although you can’t get the thought of his smile, the way he grins more on the left side of his mouth than the right, out of your head all day. Plenty of your advisers noticed your distraction but said nothing. Finally, just before dinner, you settled back into your own right mind: You won’t bed him without love. You’d rather claim a mistress’ child as your own than compromise yourself. According to other ladies of the court, it happens all the time.

A visit to a nearby village is announced at dinner, and James’ parents decide the opportunity for the two of you to make an appearance as the future rulers of the country. Notorious for his solitude, you fully anticipated an excuse of important meetings from James - but once again, he surprises you with an agreement.

The scheduled visits happen semiannually, and traveling to the further reaches necessitates a week or more. By the third day, you’re not sure how you’ll remember all the names of lords, ladies and other important members of the court. Sunset warms you through the window of the carriage, rolling green hills and farmland passes by. Your accompaniment including your husband keeps quiet - the adviser sleeping, your husband keeping a watchful eye on the countryside. 

His head lifts from his hand, the dark metallic one reaching at his hip for his blade. Blue eyes meet yours in an instant.

“Stay here. Don’t leave this carriage no matter what you hear. Do you understand?” 

You nod once and remember the knife you’d stashed in a garter beneath your skirts. The noise of battle cries and swords clashing interrupts the rhythmic clip of horse hooves and wooden wheels. An ambush - assassins, spies from Hydra coming for you, or the future king, or both. 

A blink, and he’s out of the carriage with a slam of the small door. The chaos of yelling and metal on metal has you scrambling for the knife, shaking hands grasping the opalescent handle. 

James grunts, shrill iron against his arm sparking with anger, and shoves the assailant backward. Thuds of fists landing punches, knives ripping fabric all overwhelm your senses. Coppery blood even scents the air around you.

As quickly as the fight began, all became silent once again aside from crunching pieces of road and rock beneath heavy boots. A set ends just outside the carriage door - your adviser cowering in the floor.

“Princess?” James pants and knocks three times. “If I open the door, you swear not to impale me?”

“Only if you speak for yourself and not in surrender.”

Hesitantly, the small door opens, and James peers and you with a tired smile. “To you only, I would surrender.”

Once the men are settled and wounds triaged, you’re able to inspect the prince. James is scratched and bruised, a bit bloody and finery torn. Without thinking, your hands are wiping at his busted lip with a handkerchief and worry twists your expression. Most of his lip is clean when you notice a tenderness you hadn’t seen before - something in the way his eyes settle on you, in the set of his mouth, the way his flesh hand lets his fingers brush your free hand.

“I know I can’t stop you from it, but I wish you would consider the kingdom before rushing at murderers.”

“You are my kingdom,” he says a bit breathless. “If my wife commands it, I will make it so.”

His hand doesn’t leave yours the remainder of the ride home. 

That night, you’re twisting a thread on your nightgown wondering if perhaps there was more to your prince than your first impression. Meetings and duties keep him away from you for most of the day, and over dinner you catch up on what you’re not involved in directly. He keeps certain things from you - direct threats, certain uglier parts of his duty as heir to the throne. 

It’s in the quiet of night, few candles crackling, when you ask the tired man next to you, “Do you love me?”

He turns from his back onto his side and holds your cheek, “I would lay down my life for you and everyone in this country without hesitation. Do not think for one moment that I don’t love you as a king. And as your husband.”

You haven’t kissed since the wedding but his lips on yours work gently to ask permission and light kindling in your chest. He pulls away too soon for your liking, unadulterated want dancing behind the glittering yellow flame over blue. 

“My kingdom, my home, my land benefits from your thoughtful consideration. You refuse to demand more than what our staff can provide, and you have a kindness I’ve never seen from title. I cannot find nor will I look for any reason not to love you.”

[skywillsometimeswrite]

Pieces of Glass Ch. 1

Read it on AO3

The Angry-Comforting Mother

Scar knew his "magic crystals" were absolutely worthless, just shards of glass he spent way too much time making look good so he could really sell the wizard vibe he was going for this season. The whole thing annoyed Grian, too, so that was an added bonus. It was fun, and Scar didn't really care if Grian didn't play along with his magic bit as easily as some of the other hermits. What Scar wasn't prepared for, though, was finding out that Grian was a huge hypocrite, and the wings that appeared on his back are a dead giveaway. 

Grian: you ready dude?

The beep from his communicator made him jump, causing him to drop the diamond helmet he had been enchanting. He flinched at the loud clang it made against the floor before picking it up again, looking closer at the small glowing runes etched into it. His Galactic was getting better, he figured, since he was able to recognize when the useful enchants were placed on his gear. None of which were on this helmet. He shrugged and fitted it on top of his wizard hat before pulling out his communicator to reply.

GoodTimeWithScar: You bet! Let’s go get ourselves some wings!

iskall85: you two are going into the end? alone? you guys are so going to die.

Grian: no way. not until i have an elytra in my enderchest

Grian: then i can die

GoodTimeWithScar: I’d rather avoid dying as much as possible.

ZombieCleo: can’t wait to see how that goes for you scar

Grian: im outside larry

Sure enough he heard a rock land on the ground next to him, thrown in from his doorway -- that was missing his door, for some reason -- and when he looked over the edge of the ladder he saw the iconic red sweater underneath the diamond armor. He didn’t understand how Grian could wear that in the jungle, when it was always so hot and humid. Scar was uncomfortable as it was, and he wasn’t even wearing pants! At least, he didn’t, most of the time. The armor was not making him sweat any less over his robe, though.

He quickly scurried down the ladder, jumping the rest of the way onto the slime blocks below to greet Grian with a smile. “Hello!”

“Hey Scar. You ready for this?”’

“Yes! Dude, I miss my wings so much.” Grian chuckled in agreeance and pulled out his communicator, presumably to look up the coordinates for the Stronghold. Then Scar remembered: “Oh, before we go, I prepared these for us.”

He handed Grian three small crystals: one green, one red, and one a pale orange. Grian held them in his unoccupied hand, staring at them with a confused glint in his eyes. He looked at them closer, testing how the light reflected off them, then looked at Scar unimpressed. “Bits of glass?”

“What? No! They’re magic crystals!”

“Dude, these are just shards of glass you sanded down. Great craftsmanship, but, like, these are totally worthless.”

“No they’re not. They’re- they’re magic! See, the red one gives you a health boost, the green one gives a little extra luck, and then the orange one-”

“Just sits uselessly in my inventory taking up valuable end-loot space? Yeah, thanks, but no thanks, dude.” He tossed the crystals back to Scar who scrambled to catch them midair before starting to walk away.

“W-Wait! They’ll be helpful!” He caught up to walk side by side with his friend, holding out the shards to him again. “Come on, Grian, trust your friendly neighborhood wizard, huh? The End’s a dangerous place and we can’t fly to get around yet so we could use all the help we can get, right?”

Grian gave one last look at the “crystals,” then to the man trying to scam him out of inventory space. Scar was giving him that look. That “I can do no wrong and I will win everyone over in the end” look that Scar had realized worked just as well on Grian as it had on Cub and Doc in the past. With a long sigh and an overdramatic groan he took the glass shards from the wizard. “Fine. But if I run out of room these are the first things getting tossed into the void.”

Grian led them to the stronghold, having gotten the coordinates from Xisuma after he had ventured in with Tango a few days ago. They made idle chat, Scar pointing out little observations, but their trek was mostly silent as Grian was focused on making sure they didn’t get turned around in an extraordinarily unremarkable section of the jungle with no orienting landmarks other than trees, trees, and more trees.

After guiding them through the greenery, a boat ride, and getting only a little turned around in the Stronghold, they stood above the end portal. Scar did one last check through his inventory, making sure he had his water bucket, a pumpkin, some food, and, of course, his magical crystals. Satisfied with his preparedness he looked over at Grian, opening his mouth to ask if he was ready to go, but he stopped when he saw the other man’s glare that looked like he was trying to rip the portal into atoms with his mind.

“Uh, if you stare into it for too long you’ll get dizzy.” Scar offered, noticing how Grian’s glare only faltered when he blinked, morphing into one of poorly hidden concern. “Everything alright?”

“Uh, yeah. Of course it is.” The smile Grian gave was strained and he didn’t look Scar in the eyes as he spoke, glancing between the spot behind him and the portal. “Are we certain that the dragon’s already been killed?”

“I don’t see any reason it wouldn’t be. Usually if the portal’s activated it means one of the hermits have already gone in.” He paused for a second, but when Grian’s concern didn’t fade he followed up: “That means the dragon’s been defeated, yes.”

“That’s good.” Silence dragged on between them for a few awkward moments before Grian decided to elaborate on that. “W-We don’t have to deal with that, I mean. It’s good we don’t have to deal with that.”

Scar rested a hand on Grian��s armorer shoulder, looking down at him with what he hoped was a gentle, comforting look. “It’s okay to be scared of the End, Grian. It’s a scary place! But that’s why none of us ever go in alone. We watch each other’s backs. And I’ll watch yours with all of my magical ability.” He placed his other hand on his own chest, standing proudly and attempting to fill the other man with his own confidence.

Grian’s eyes grew distant at Scar’s words, their dark color glassing over in a way Scar had never seen before, but it was gone almost as quickly as it appeared. Grian gave Scar a small smile, it much less forced than his previous one. “Yeah, you guys are cool like that. Come on, let’s not waste any more time. We have wings to find and flying to be done.”  The small hermit’s grin was wide as he gripped Scar’s arm with a firm hand and pulled them both into the starry, inky blackness awaiting them.

Scar wasn’t foreign to the feeling of being transported to the End, the strange tingling, numbing feeling that came with travelling beyond the overworld. It wasn’t like transporting to the Nether, which felt like weights were dropped onto your shoulders and took some time to get used to again if you hadn’t experienced it for longer than a week.  The End didn’t feel kinder than the Nether, per se, but it was calmer, at least until you saw the endless void below you that would swallow you and your items up if you made one misstep.

This time, though, as Scar materialized into the dimension he almost believed he stepped into the wrong portal, as an unfamiliar feeling covered him. It pulled at his hair and flowed underneath his armor and circled around his arms. He wasn’t alarmed by it, entranced more than anything, and he felt whatever it was slip down his arms and off the tips of his fingers, leaving him almost reaching for it, as soon as Grian appeared at his side.

Scar stood there, staring dangerously towards the main island from the platform they were on, and tried to wrap his mind around what had just happened. A hand waving in front of his face snapped him out of his trance, his eyes blinking furiously to return the moisture they desperately lacked. He rubbed at them with his hands for a moment but then looked at them and tried to imagine the feeling wrapping itself around his fingers again.

“Scar? Dude? You good?”

Grian’s higher pitched voice was like a needle popping the balloon of dense fog that had surrounded Scar’s thoughts. He blinked a few more times, shaking his head, and looking down at his friend whose hand was still lingering in the air.

“Yeah. I’m fine. Guess it's been longer than I thought since I was in the End. Caught me off guard, that’s all.” Scar rubbed the back of his neck, patting the hairs down that were still raised.

Grian narrowed his eyes at Scar for a brief moment, as if to deduce if he was lying, before letting out what he hoped was a sigh of relief. Grian turned to face the main island, shoving a pumpkin over his head, and made his way across the rickety path that Tango and Xisuma had made. Scar wordlessly followed behind and paid special attention to where his feet landed.

Hours passed by them, friendly banter was shared, but they were getting tired. Grian all but pushed Scar into building the next bridge, and he carefully placed cobblestone slab one after the other. The mindless task he had done several times in the span of the last few hours left his mind to wander. And it wandered right back to the feeling he had when he entered the dimension. He wanted to know what it was. He had experience with stuff like the Vex in the past, but it had felt nothing like the overwhelming surge of power that he had come to know with that magic.

This had felt gentle, yet purposeful. Powerful, but cradling. It was like a mother’s hug when comforting a guilty child for breaking her favorite vase because they had played baseball inside when she had told them not to. It was unwarranted, unexpected, yet it was comforting, but foreboding because you didn’t know how long it would last or when it would change, if it would change. Scar knew, deep down, he should be terrified, but he could only find intrigue in it all.

“Scar.” Grian’s quiet voice once again grounded him, Scar was noticing this trend, and he looked up only to feel his heart stop in his chest. He was standing on a lone slab that was disconnected from the rest of his bridge. Grian stood on the rest of the bridge, pickaxe in hand and mischievous grin on his face.

“Oh geez! No, no!” Scar yelped, placing down some more blocks in his white-knuckled grasp. The devilish snickers from the other made a smile creep on his face, and when he looked up he saw the path repaired. “Y’know, I’m a magic man, but I’m not that magic.”

They returned to silence again, it comfortably hanging over them. Scar stood up from his hunched position to stretch his back, and felt his stomach twist at the drop that awaited them without the bridge. He glanced over at Grian, the other man lazily staring at the cobblestone beneath him.

“Do you have your lucky crystal on you?” Grian’s eyes shot up to meet Scar’s and his hand rummaged in his pocket until he pulled out the shards of glass that he had given him earlier. Scar smiled and went back to his bridging. “Thank god, I was worried that-” A green glint of color sped past the corner of his vision and his eyes followed it as it fell into the void below, face contorting in what he could only assume was comical fear by the way Grian laughed at him. “No! Dude! That was magic, man! You just brought bad luck upon us!”

“No, no, no. We’ll be fine. What could possibly go wrong?”

Scar’s grips on his blocks tightened at that, something itching at the back of his mind and making his nose wiggle. “At least- At least hold the health one.” He told him, exasperated, as he shook off his uncertainty.

“Okay,” was the simple response he got, and before he could utter a thanks he spotted a red dash fly near him.

He knew it was just glass. He knew that, realistically, they didn’t actually do anything. It was all a bit. A little bit of fun annoying Grian by insisting that these shards of glass actually had magical properties. 

And yet he still reached out to grab it.

Something told him to.

Something told him not to let it fall into the void below him.

That something left him as soon as his hand wrapped around the red shard, and his feet slipped from the platform.

“Scar-!” was the last thing he heard before the rushing wind invaded his senses and whatever had come over Scar was ripped away as he felt nothing beneath him. He managed to spin and look up at the quickly retracting bridge he had just spent the last few minutes building so this very thing wouldn’t happen.

“Grian! Help!” He didn’t even hear his own useless, panic laced cries as he quickly fell away from the sound towards his painful death. He knew Grian couldn’t do anything. They hadn’t found an elytra yet. Grian was just as helpless as he was in this situation.

Scar gripped the crystal to his chest, wishing it had been the green one instead, and shut his eyes, bracing himself for the suffocating feeling of dying in the void. Why did Grian have to throw away the glass? Why did he have to try and catch it? Why couldn’t he have let it fall? They were useless, anyways. They wouldn’t save him now.

Against the encroaching darkness that was consuming him, a bright yellow light managed to make it’s way past his eyelids. He cracked one eye open but opened both as he saw something shining a bright golden color right behind his now faraway bridge. He distantly felt the feeling of the calm-angry mother tugging at the crystal in his hands.

Something was falling off the bridge now, towards him. It was falling incredibly fast and was incredibly big, and it took Scar way too long to realize that it was his fellow Hermit. Panic spread through his body tenfold at this realization. No! He thought. Both of us don’t need to die! As Grian got closer and closer to Scar at speeds that didn’t make sense, Scar noticed that the other’s back was… glowing?

Before he could make any sense of this observation, the faux wizard felt the breath in his lungs ripped from him, leaving him gasping painfully. He shut his tearing eyes against the pain that blossomed in his chest, and attempted to curl in on himself. His mind was overwhelmed with his own near death, that he completely forgot about Grian’s impending one.

It would be painful, much more than it was now, and long, but at least he would have an excuse to lay in bed for a few days while his internal wounds healed. That was the worst part of dying to the void, how it killed you from the inside out. That and that there was no way to retrieve what you lost. He would have to get all his good gear back, but he was used to that. He distantly realized he would have to come back, unfortunately, and most likely soon if he was going to get an elytra.

It felt like he was being stabbed through the throat, chest, and stomach all at once with a barbed, poison-tipped blade. Part of him wondered if his health boost crystal was actually working and prolonging his pain by healing him. It didn’t really matter, he didn’t think he could get his hands to let go of it at this point if he wanted to.

Next thing he knew, what little breath he had left was knocked out of him and a firm warmth surrounded him. Huh, well that’s new. The weightlessness that he had been experiencing had disappeared and a nauseating feeling flipped his stomach as he coughed up his lung trying to breath again. Have I already respawned?

Scar slowly opened his eyes only to be greeted with red, not the comforting purple and brown of his bed in Larry’s shell. He figured that the air was still as thin as it was in the End, because he couldn’t seem to catch his breath. He was pressed up against the soft, red whatever, and the hand not holding the crystal gripped it weakly. 

As soon as it felt as if he was finally breathing comfortably again, the air was knocked from him for the third time in what he could only assume was the last ten seconds. He rolled away from whatever he had been by, his armor no doubt denting at the way he bounced along the hard endstone. When he came to a stop he simply stared up at the void-sky and decided to focus on the chorus flowers instead. It took yet more coughing and shaky breaths before he was breathing easily and Scar finally processed what had just happened. Or rather the fact that he had absolutely no idea what had just happened. 

He had just been falling, hadn’t he? He had just been falling, with no elytra, into the void after he basically jumped in after a useless piece of stained glass that his end busting partner, who also had no elytra, had thrown. He had felt himself dying in the void. He knew he had. And yet here he was, lying on the uncomfortable, uneven endstone.

He groaned and slowly propped himself up on his elbows, making a note that he was indeed still holding the red glass in his hand so at least that venture hadn’t been in vain. His head spun at the new orientation but it didn’t last long and he was scanning his surroundings. He spotted the narrow cobble bridge he had built but felt his heart stop when he saw no red-sweater clad, crystal throwing Hermit standing on it. “Grian?” He rasped, his throat raw, as panic started to seep into him.

A groan from his left caught his attention and his head snapped over to look at the culprit and gaped. Propped up on his hands a few blocks away was the familiar, unmistakable features of Grian: red sweater, blonde hair, short stature. Scar wasn’t occupied with the fact that his friend was there completely fine, no that was normal, what wasn’t normal was the giant golden feathered wings that sprouted from the small hermit’s back.

Scar’s near death experience was completely forgotten, and he felt what was becoming a familiar sensation tug at the back of his collar when he began connecting pieces without fully understanding how they fit together. Grian was the only other hermit here, and he was clearly the one in front of him. It was undeniable and yet completely unbelievable. Scar had been presumably carried by something red and warm back up to the island he was laying on now from at least 100 meters below it. Grian had a red sweater, was definitely strong enough to carry the twig that was Scar, and had gigantic wings that looked more than capable of making the treacherous journey from death.

The other pushed himself up to sit on his knees and his eyes slowly opened. Scar made a strangled noise as he noticed the white glow that faded from them and returned them to their usual dark brown.

Grian’s head snapped over to him. “Scar! Oh my god, Scar are you okay?” His voice was echoing with worry. Literally. There was a reverb to it that garbled his words. Grian must have noticed this since he slapped a hand over his mouth.

“I…” Scar didn’t have words, his mouth dry and mind too blank to think of closing it. He blinked. “Yeah.” He said lamely, his voice pitched three octaves to high.

Silence covered them as Grian seemed hesitant to speak and Scar was still wrapping his mind around everything. Why did Grian have wings? Why had Grian’s eyes been glowing? Why did his voice sound like that? Was all of this actually normal? Did Scar just not see Grian nearly enough during last season to know this about him?

“Uh,” Grian mumbled behind his hand, shoulders falling from his ears when it didn’t come out like a bad feedback loop.

“So,” Scar tacked on, finally closing his mouth. He tried to think of a proper way to go about this but his brain was apparently still fried since all he managed was: “What just happened?”

“I don’t know!” Grian quickly responded, throwing his arms up in the air above him.

“You have wings?”

“I just saw you falling and-”

“Is this normal for you?”

“No! Well, I mean, I guess I panicked and-”

“Why were your eyes glowing?”

“My eyes were what?” Grian’s voice matched Scar’s in a panicked pitch. He sat up on his knees, patting the sides of his head.

“They were glowing. They aren’t anymore though.” Scar quickly reassured him, sitting cross legged and facing him. They shared a staring contest of sorts, Scar searching for answers and Grian’s expression providing none. “So, wings, huh?”

Grian sat up straighter, head swiveling to look behind him at the appendages that were attached to his back. Scar couldn’t see his face from the angle, but the way he hesitated when reaching back to touch them and how he flinched back when he barely grazed the feathers made him wonder if they hurt. Grian had gotten as close as Scar had been to the void, after all. Scar flipped the red glass in his hand, almost offering it to the other as a way to lighten the mood, but stopped when he remembered it was these stupid things that caused this whole ordeal in the first place. Grian turned away from his wings, hands curled up in his lap. He stared at the endstone and Scar glanced between it and Grian, trying to find whatever it was the other was looking for. He didn’t find it, though, because Grian stood up and offered a hand to help Scar up.

They both seemed shaky as Scar stood, and Grian made sure he didn’t fall as soon as he was on his own two feet again. Looking down at Grian, his wings didn’t look nearly as big. He wondered if they had shrunk or if it had been perspective the entire time. He also noted that the golden color they had been had dulled significantly to a pale yellow.

“Do you think you can make it back home without falling off another bridge?” Grian asked quietly, a steadying hand still on Scar’s arm as he looked up at him with concern.

“Uh,” Now that Scar was standing, and attention had been dragged away from Grian’s sudden transformation, the weight of what had nearly happened hit him like a falling anvil. His chest and throat still burned, his head pounded with a headache right behind his eyes, and his stomach felt like it was sloshing around inside of him. The hand that held the “crystal” was beginning to cramp and he wiggled the glass into a pocket on his robe under his armor. He took a deep breath in from his nose and let any remaining tension in his body fade and gave Grian as reassuring of a smile as he could manage. “Yeah, I think I’ll be fine.”

Grian looked relieved, giving him a nod. “Good, then you head back.”

“What about you?”

Grian walked back out onto the bridge that Scar had built what felt like hours ago and looked down at it, pulling out some blocks from his inventory. “I’m gonna keep going and see if I can find anything.”

“What? Alone? Grian, there’s a reason we use the buddy system. Heck, you just proved why-”

“Scar, it’s fine. I’ll be fine. You go rest, okay?” Scar opened his mouth to protest but Grian didn’t let him. “I need some time to think, anyways. May as well try and get something out of it in the process.” Scar still wasn’t convinced. He gave Grian a hard stare and watched as the younger man sank in on himself under the scrutiny. He looked down and then back up at Scar, a pleading look in his eyes, and spoke with a quiet voice. “Please, Scar. I’ll be fine.”

Scar gave him the same look he had given Cub and Doc countless times last season when they were working too hard, but gave up when the effort made his headache pound and he brought a hand up to rub his temples. He sighed. “Alright, okay, I’ll go home. But you better come see me the second you get back, okay?”

Grian stood up a little straighter, seeming surprised that Scar had agreed. “Okay, Scar, I will.”

Scar turned around the way they came and found the bridge that they had made to get to the current island. He carefully made his way across it and many others as he trekked back to the portal home. He tried putting a pumpkin over his head as an extra safety measure but decided he would risk the angry endermen instead when squinting through the face of the halloween decoration made his headache worse. He kept his tired eyes on the ground for the most part anyways. Who knew that nearly dying in the void was just as tiring as actually dying in the void?

Before long his feet splashed in water and he risked looking up, smiling happily as he spotted the bedrock circle that would drop him right back into his comfy bed in Larry’s shell. He let himself fall into the portal, embracing the numbness that came with it until he was on top of the purple blanket that he so desperately wanted to curl up in. He had enough of a conscience left to shrug his armor off and even take his robe off, haphazardly throwing it somewhere on the floor. Not waiting a second longer, Scar snuggled up into the soft wool of his bed and drifted to sleep.

[eugenesmorphine]

Shot // Chuck Grant Imagine

Taglist: @alienoresimagines​

   I never wanted to fall in love during this war. Especially with another Paratrooper. I knew this was no time for falling in love. And I knew the Army didn't exactly like relationships within it. I just don't know what happened. I don't know why one day it was fine, and then one day I switch flipped within me, and I had fallen for my best friend.

 When I met Chuck Grant in Camp Toccoa, him and I didn't exactly get along. We constantly butted heads and him and Joe Leibgott would constantly make comments about me being a woman. And one day, after months of just dealing with the taunts, I turned right around and flattened them out. I yelled at them for a solid twenty minutes, setting them straight. I remember the looks they had on their faces. Shock and fear as I just tore into them. And then after that, the three of us kind of got along. And over time we got closer and closer. And soon the three of us became best friends. Especially me and Chuck.

 I remember the first time Chuck and I really had alone time in a way. We were walking around outside at a bar, just talking about what was yet to come. We stayed up so late, just walking around the town and enjoying ourselves. Cracking jokes, getting into deep topics. I think that was the day, after about two years, I had fallen head over heels for Chuck Grant. How he looked at me that night and made me laugh. Something in my mind and heart changed that night. And I wish it could have been undone, more than anything. But all this time later, it hasn't changed. Chuck Grant will be the death of me.

///

 Now here we are, from England to freezing all of our asses off in Bastogne Forest. From building surrounding us, to trees that were exploding from Kraut artillery all around us. I snuggled up in a foxhole with Joe and Chuck. We all stuck close together, trying to grasp for warmth. A blanket draped over our laps. It wasn't much, but right now, anything helped. The night made any extra warmth that the sun go away like blowing out a flame. The forest turned into an endless void. Maybe it would be a bad time now to admit my fear of the dark. Though, right here in my foxhole, I was happy. I had my two best friends, and the guy who doesn't know I am madly in love with snuggled up with me. What else good I ask for right now?

 I didn't sleep that night. I didn't really know why. Joe and Chuck fell asleep quickly. Their soft snores being the only thing being heard in the silence of everyone. I had the weird feeling in my stomach that something was going to go wrong in the morning. We had to go on a patrol in the morning with Martin and a few replacements. And for some reason, I had a bad feeling about the entire thing. The entire night I just stared at the endless line of trees. Thinking about everything and anything. Not getting an ounce of sleep.

///

  When the morning came we almost immediately went out on the patrol. Walking straight through our enemy lines. I clutched my rifle tightly in my fingers, scanning my surroundings closely. It was too quiet where we were. Grant was a few feet in front of me and Joe was about five feet to the right of me. I looked at them both, then returning my focus back to the snowy forest around me. The snow made a thick fog that was difficult to see through. I squinted my eyes, trying to get a better view of whatever was to come into view.

 That's when I saw it. The first Kraut in view. I could see the top of his helmet and the one eye closed as he aimed down his sights. The gun pointed right at Chuck. That is when the slow motion set in. I watched as the others looked around, not at all noticing the Kraut. Fear set into my eyes as I looked at Chuck. I dropped my rifle and ran to him. I don't know why I was doing it, though the only thing my mind and body was telling me was to just run to him. Do what ever it takes. Don't let him die.

 "Chuck!" I screamed, hearing the shot ring off of the Kraut's weapon. I grabbed onto the Paratrooper, spinning him and shoving him so he was out of the way. That was when I felt a large amount of pressure build up in my stomach. I looked up around me, the men's faces filled with worry and fear as their eyes landed on me.

 "Oh fuck!" I heard Martin yell. I looked down at my stomach. A dark pool began to soak my utilities on my stomach. A small confused, sob like sound left my lips as I felt my legs turn to jello. I fell and  cried out in pain. My hands shakily went down to my abdomen. I heard gun shots begin to shoot from both sides of the lines. I cried out slightly, the pain shot through my body every time I tried to move. My name was being called, I couldn't tell by who, it sounded like there were cotton balls in my ears.

 When the gunshots stopped, I felt myself being scooped up into the bridal style carry. I cried out once more. My eyes opened to see who was holding me. My eyes traveled to see Chuck. His eyes filled with fear and worry. "Hey Chuck," I said weakly, a small smile ghosting over my face. He glanced down at me.

 "Shhh, save your breath. I'm getting you to Doc. You're going to be just fine Y/N," he reassured. His words worried me even more, though I did what I was asked and stayed quiet. I felt Chuck's walk turn more into a run. I could feel myself growing tired, so fucking tired. "Come on Y/N, stay awake for us," he whispered to me. His voice laced with worry. I tried my best to keep my eyes open as I heard him yell out for a medic. Not too long after, I felt myself being laid down on the cold snow. My eyes meeting with Doc Roe's.

 "You're going to be okay darlin' I promise," Roe spoke as he quickly began to work. The immense pressure he pressed on the wound in order to stop the bleeding. I cried out loudly. "I'm going to give you some morphine," I only nodded in response. Not being able to produce any words. Tears slipped out of my eyes and down my face. The cold air now sticking to my face.

 When the morphine shot went into my thigh, I felt most of the pain melt away. I let out a breath as my head fell back in relief. I struggled to keep my eyes open. I felt Chuck start tapping my face. "Come on doll, stay awake. You gotta! I don't know what I'd do with you. Please Y/N," Chuck pleaded loudly and grabbed out my hand. I squeezed his hand and glanced up at him. Alright, I had to live. I looked back at Roe, who had tweezers in his pale and cracked hands.

 "I have to get the bullet out. This is going to hurt," he spoke, glancing between both me and Chuck, his eyes filled with remorse. I gulped and held on tightly to Chuck's hand. The tweezers dove deep into my wound and I screamed out. No matter how much morphine that they could've given me, the pain wouldn't leave. Chuck stroked my hair, trying to shush me. I know he was trying his best, but it wasn't doing much.

 The pain quickly soothed as Eugene pulled out the bullet with tweezers. I began to breathe heavily, my chest rising and falling quickly. I closed my eyes relieved that the most painful part was over. I looked up at Chuck and smiled weakly. His eyes and face now not as worried and a smile came to his lips. I heard a jeep pull up, probably going to take me into town to get fixed up and brought to hospital. I looked at Chuck, my face sad.

 The feeling of his hands on my cheeks and the quick and swift action of planting his lips onto mine happened. My eyes widened, but I quickly melted into the kiss. I had been waiting for this moment for forever. When he he stood up as I got carried to the jeep, wincing as I was placed down. He held my hand once more. "Promise you'll come back to me," he pleaded, holding his pinkie out to me. I smiled an laughed softly at the childish action. I wrapped my pinkie around his and smiled up at him.

 "I promise Mr. Grant," I responded, releasing my finger and kissing his cheek. And like that, the Jeep was off. Bringing me some hospital in god knows where. I could see Chuck just standing there, watching the Jeep carry me away. While I just sat there, thinking about how crazy of a day it had been.