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togetherwearerapture · 3 years

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Absolution (Ethan x MC)

Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x MC (Elle Valentine)

Descripton: After the funeral, Ethan and Elle both struggle to process the aftermath of the attack. They talk about death, life, things that came so close to being unsaid forever, and the elephant in the room. Ethan realises there is something that Elle really needs to hear.

Warnings: Mentions of sex, angst, some dark humour, death and illness, but a big dose of hope and fluff. Characters and some dialogue belong to Pixelberry.

Word Count: 5.2K

P.s did I proof read this? Absolutely not

*****

The December drizzle has half-turned to sleet, and Ethan keeps his head low and his strides long as he hurries down the street. Delicate, twinkling lights and gilded evergreen arrangements fill every shop window. But even the warm displays aren’t enough to lessen the bite of the bitter wind against his cheeks; or quell the gnawing anxiety in his chest.

It is an unpleasant feeling- one that he is trying not to acknowledge. It’s irrational- unwarranted; but as much as he tries to convince himself otherwise, the miserable weather is not the only reason he hastens to return home.

The echoes of his confession from a few days prior ring in his ears.

‘I keep worrying that if I lose track of you…if I leave you alone…it could happen again. That I won’t have the power to stop it this time…to save you.’

The alarm bells have started to ring.

……………

Finally entering the threshold of his apartment building, Ethan retrieves his keys from his pocket and repositions the bag of groceries under his arm. As he steps into the elevator, he muses over the last few days.

Since the funeral, Elle had been staying with him in his apartment. She had been signed off from work, but she found the prospect of sitting at her place, alone with her grief, unbearable. Of course, her roommates had tried to support her, but they couldn’t give her the comfort she needed.

“It makes me feel like I’m a bomb, and everyone thinks I’m about blow,” she had told Ethan a few days ago. “No one knows how to talk to me, touch me, even look at me without that look in their eyes. It’s like a mixture of pity and fear. It just makes me feel worse.”

Ethan, concerned for her wellbeing and extremely reluctant to leave her alone while she was still recovering mentally and physically, had spoken with Naveen. He had insisted Ethan also take some time off. Baz and June, also unsettled from the attack, and their inability to save Danny in time, were both more than happy to stop taking on cases for a while. After Naveen made a few phone calls to a surprisingly understanding Tobias Carrick, it was agreed that any of Edenbrook’s potential diagnostics cases would be redirected to Mass Kenmore for the remainder of the week.

And so, that left Elle and Ethan alone together. For the past few days, his apartment had served as their paradisiacal bubble. Protected from the outside world, and all of its judgements and morals and pain. Ethan knew it wasn’t a long-term solution, that they couldn’t hide away forever, but in their perfect little limbo, he couldn’t bring himself to care about what came next.

They had been having a lot of sex. Since the night of the funeral when they finally, finally gave into their desires in his car, neither of them had wanted to stop making love. Morning sex, lazy afternoon sex, sex all through the night. Sex on every surface; the sofa, the kitchen counter, the floor, the wall, his bed. Many, many times in his bed. The sex was just so good, for both of them, so why would either want to stop?

He just couldn’t get enough of her. He didn’t think he ever would. The more of her he drank, consumed, he thirstier for her he become. Like a goddess, she had risen from near death and he was in awe of her. She was so perfect, he wanted to worship every fibre of her being.

Her body was a shimmering map of paradise, every co-ordinate bringing the promise of precious treasure to be unearthed with kisses and caresses. She never disappointed; each time he brought his lips to her skin, they came away dripping with sweet, molten gold.

Ethan would leave no stone unturned in his exploration. He would roam the sharp contours and ridges of her body, he would ascend all of her soft hills and mountains, he would wade through the currents of all her rivers. In his fervent, desperate conquest of the map of Elle, no inch of her body would remain unmarked by his X’s.

A few times, he had wondered if they were self-medicating with sex. But after months and months of excruciating restraint from both of them, he told himself that they were simply making up for lost time. Making love provided them both with a much-needed comfort, and with it, he was more than happy to fulfil her every need.

But their purgatory had been infiltrated with signs of darkness. Since the attack, Elle had lost her appetite, and had hardly eaten. Ethan, growing increasingly concerned- she was already so slight- had given her his laptop with a recipe website on it. He had told her to pick a dish, any dish, and he would make it for them both tonight. She had eventually settled on ramen, in a shiitake miso and tofu broth.

“Noodles are the ultimate comfort food,” she had told him.

Though somewhat unaccustomed to vegan recipes, Ethan had risen to the challenge, dutifully heading to the local oriental supermarket to pick up the necessary ingredients. Her wish was his command, he realised, though she didn’t know it.

He would do anything for her. And he needs to be with her, have her back in his sights.

The elevator doors slide open, breaking Ethan from his thoughts. He hurries to the door of his apartment, and jostling with his keys, steps over the threshold.

‘Elle, I’m back,’ he calls.

Silence.

The kitchen, and living room where he had left her twenty minutes ago on the couch, are empty.

‘Elle?’

There is no reply.

Groceries and keys thrown haphazardly on the kitchen counter, he hurtles through the apartment, throwing open the bedroom door.

The tangled sheets are empty.

Unwillingly, he feels his heartbeat begin to rise in his throat.

‘Elle!’

A faint voice comes from another room.

‘Ethan? I’m in here.’

It’s coming from the bathroom. The panic rises, and before he knows what he’s doing, he bursts through the unlocked door.

Elle is sitting in the bath, hugging her knees. She looks up at him, eyes wide.

Relief washes over him, and he lets out a sigh.

‘Ethan, what’s wrong?’

It then occurs to him how utterly ridiculous and strange his behaviour must appear to her, and he tries to play it down.

‘I just…uh…wondered where you were.’

For a few moments, Elle seems perplexed, eyebrows raised. Then suddenly, an unspoken understanding seems to dawn on her features. Ethan wonders if she is remembering what he said to her the other night, about being afraid something might happen to her if she loses track of her.

Of course she is.

She knows. She always knows.

‘Are you okay, Ethan?’ she asks tenderly. She outstretches a hand to him, willing him closer.

Even now, she thinks of him. She always puts others before herself.

He remembers when she stayed up all night with him to watch over little Ethan. When she gave Mrs Martinez the drug that allowed her to live her life and see the world. When her ethics hearing was two days away, and she showed up to his apartment to ask how he was doing.

Selflessness will be the death of her, he remembers he once thought. Now, the phrase and its mention of her mortality makes his blood curdle.

He can’t bring himself to answer her question, but instead, with the pulse in his ears subsiding to a steady rhythm, he steps forward and takes her outstretched hand, squeezing her small fingers.

‘We showered together before I left,’ he states.

‘Yeah, we did.’

Ethan thinks back to a few hours ago; their joint shower had culminated in him holding her up, driving into her, her legs wrapped around his waist and her nails clawing into his back; the air hot and thick with steam and both of their moans.

The question falls from his lips before he can help it.

‘So…why are you having a bath?’

He didn’t mean to sound accusatory, or scornful; not in the slightest. But the silence that hangs in the air after his question is heavier than lead, and he suddenly wishes he hadn’t asked.

Elle opens her mouth to respond, then closes it, smiling as though embarrassed. She lets go of his hand and looks away, training her gaze instead at her fingers, which are now swirling through the bath water.

‘It’s…it’s the maitotoxin,’ she mutters. ‘Ever since the attack, there’s been times when I’ve felt it’s still on me. All over me. It’s been days, but sometimes I swear I can still smell it. And I just want to get it off. No matter how much I wash, no matter how much I scrub at my skin, I never feel…clean.’

At the final word, her voice breaks a little, and Ethan’s heart breaks a little too.

He suddenly remembers the other night, where he had stirred in in the early hours to find her side of his bed empty. The sound of running water from the ensuite had quelled his panic at her whereabouts before it had a chance to rouse him completely, and, assuming she was just using the bathroom, had let himself drift back into sleep. The moment was forgotten.

It now occurs to him that the sound may not have been from the sink, but the shower.

Ethan considers his response. He could reassure her that it’s all in her head, that it’s a natural psychological response to being exposed to trauma. He could emphasise that the maitotoxin is long gone, with no trace in her bloodstream or on her skin. He could tell her not to worry, to get out the bath and dry herself off, because she’s perfectly safe, perfectly clean, and she’s worrying for nothing.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he discards his jacket, and repositions himself on the edge of the bath.

‘Ok. Let me help.’

His fingertips lean down and touch the bathwater, which is slightly tepid.

‘Would you like it hotter?’ he asks

Elle nods wordlessly, now hugging her knees again.

He turns on the hot faucet, hand rowing back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, to distribute the heat. As if hoping it will melt away her pain.

They sit in silence for a few moments, his hands continuing their rhythmic movements. His mind drifts back to the day that everything changed.

***

The second their eyes met through the glass, he knew something was terribly wrong.

Instinctively, his hand had travelled towards the handle of the door. Methodical assessment of whatever was going on inside the diagnostics room could wait until he was inside; all he could focus on was the terror in her eyes, and his need to go to her.

‘Elle…’

But, anticipating his movements, and needing to protect him and everyone else from harm, her hand had clasped like a vice around the handle from the other side.

‘What’s going on, Elle?’

‘Travis just tried to kill Senator Ed with whatever was in that canister. Ed got out, but we have no idea what was in there,’ she told him breathlessly. This close, he could see the oily sheen on her perfect features.

‘Bobby took a full blast of it to this face, and Danny and Raf were both right there when Travis deployed it. And I breathed some in. Whatever it is, it’s clearly dangerous. We can’t risk it getting out into the rest of the hospital.’

At that, he had cast his eyes around the room, taking in the scene before him.

He had seen Bobby the security guard, sprawled lifeless on the floor. Danny the nurse was slumped against the wall, coughing heavily. He saw Travis vomiting into a trashcan, then Rafael Aveiro slamming him into the wall, demanding to know what was inside.

That’s when it became real.

He could barely take his eyes off her as he pulled out his phone to make frantic calls, to Naveen and 911. His blood ran cold as he saw Elle and Rafael frantically searching supply cupboards for plastic sheeting, then him lifting her on his shoulder to tape up the air ducts.

Aveiro set her down to the floor, and once again, their eyes met through the glass. Her green irises, so always full of optimism and warmth and life, were bloodshot and wild, filled with a horror he had never seen before, and never wanted to see again.

Shit.

Right now, he can’t bring himself to think beyond that point. To Bobby and Danny dying, to wheeling Rafael’s almost lifeless body out of the room.

To her, lying in the hospital bed, being unable to hold, her, touch her without the bulkiness of the hazmat suit in the way.

The dread of thinking he’d never touch her, kiss her, feel her, skin to skin again.

Abruptly, as if thinking it will also stop his torrent train of thought, his hand flicks off the hot faucet.

At the cessation of the gushing water, the silence echoes in the bathroom once again.

‘I keep thinking it’s in my hair,’ Elle whispers.

Ethan reaches towards her bottle of coconut shampoo. Since she’d been staying with him, her belongings and toiletries had found a temporary home in his place. It had felt like they had always been there. And always should be there.

‘Allow me?’ he asks gently, and she nods.

He squeezes a dollop of the creamy liquid into his palm, then deposits it onto her roots. With firm but gentle fingers, he begins to massage her scalp.

Elle closes her eyes and sighs, leaning back into his touch.

‘That feels amazing,’ she breathes.

He makes sure he works his fingers into every spot. Her scalp, the crown of her head, the soft skin behind her ears, the nape of her neck.

His fingers now working from muscle memory, Ethan allows his own eyes to close too. He inhales deeply, feeling the warm water vapour in the air, his nostrils filling deliciously with the scent of Elle’s shampoo- the smell of her.

His touch descends to the slender column of her neck, gently pressing and releasing on the soft, warm skin. He is almost incredulous to the fact she is here- really here, alive; real flesh and blood and life beneath his fingertips. With the anatomical mapping that only a doctor of his prowess could know, he can’t help but blindly trace his fingers to the pulse points behind her ears, the arteries in her little neck.

He lets himself feel it.

She’s here. Alive.

His eyes snap open again; he has to look at her.

She has turned to look at him too, a slight smile on her lips. Perhaps it’s just the swirling steam from the bath, but she looks almost ethereal. Ethan wonders briefly whether he’s dreaming this moment.

His massaging touch seems to have loosened some tension within her, because she finally speaks.

‘Sam called me while you were out.’

‘Your brother?’ he asks.

Elle nods.

Ethan had called Elle’s father and brother, her two closest relatives, while she had laid fighting for her life in the isolation room. The pair had been making panicked plans to drive over to Boston in the middle of the night, until Ethan had called them again to tell them that they had found an antidote, and Elle was going to be ok.

The relief and gratitude in Sam and Thomas Valentine’s voices when Ethan told them the good news, had filled Ethan with an inexplicable rush of familial affection, and made him keen to meet the two men were closest to Elle’s heart.

‘He said he and dad want to see me. They said they’d come down to Boston, but I’d quite like to go back to Vermont to see them for a few days. I might book my tickets tonight.’

‘Don’t,’ Ethan says, and Elle turns to look at him again, frowning.

‘Book tickets,’ he adds. ‘I’ll drive you up there. It sounds like a lovely idea, for you to see them. I know how worried they’ve been about you.’

Elle’s face floods with warmth and gratitude.

‘You’d do that for me?’ she asks, incredulous. ‘You don’t have to, it’s a long drive, I can-’

‘I want to. And I’ll pick you up.’

He presses his lips to the top of her head, and can feel her relax beneath him.

‘Thank you, Ethan.’

He continues massaging the shampoo into her hair, now reaching the lengths of her golden locks. The silence is comfortable this time.

‘Naveen text me to say he’s sending me a card, and flowers too, bless him.’ Elle says after a while. ‘He somehow knew I’d be at yours.’

‘Trust Naveen,’ he smiles. Of course he knew.

Elle sighs contentedly, relaxing between Ethan’s arms.

‘I love Naveen,’ she says. ‘He’s so pure, so wholesome. I can see why you look up to him as much as you do.’

‘Wholesome…you clearly haven’t seen him at enough Christmas parties yet,’ Ethan snorts. ‘A few drinks down him, and his humour’s dark enough even to make me cringe.’

Elle laughs at that; her soft lilt is music to Ethan’s ears.

‘Oh trust me, I’ve heard my fair share of Naveen’s jokes. I still remember the first time we sat down for lunch and he started showing me, in his words, “doctor me-mes.”’

Ethan blinks.

‘Pardon?’

‘Memes, Ethan.’

‘Such as?’

‘The first one was: Doctor: I’m afraid you’re dying and you don’t have much time.

The patient says: Oh no, that’s awful, how long have I got?

Doctor: 10.

Patient: 10? 10 what? Months, weeks, what?

Doctor: 10…9…8…7…’

Ethan rolls his eyes.

‘Seriously?’

‘Seriously,’ says Elle. ‘He was absolutely wheezing at himself. I think I stared at him for a few seconds in disbelief after me said it, wondering if he was serious. But the more he told me, I couldn’t help but laugh at just how awful it was.’ Elle chuckles at the memory. ‘He always says to me, you’ve got to laugh or you cry.’

The smile on Ethan’s lips gives way to curiosity.

‘Since when have you and Naveen started bonding over questionably dark memes?’ he asks.

Elle pauses.

‘He was telling me about his sister. And I was telling him about mom,’ she says quietly.

The sudden and unexpected loss of Naveen’s sister, Kirti, was something that Ethan remembered all too well. And all too more, the effect her passing had on Naveen, and ultimately, on him.

That was a memory he wasn’t ready to recall.

The passing of Elle’s mother, however, was a topic that they had touched on a few times. Ethan remembers Elle first mentioned her at the night in the NICU, where she confided that she had passed away when she was 11 years old. Since then, Elle had shared with him in quiet moments, personal, precious pieces about her life and her mother.

She had told Ethan that after Elizabeth Valentine had passed away from late-presenting cancer, her father, had to up his hours at the garage as a mechanic to pay the bills. Elle helped raise her younger brother Sam and essentially ran the house; cooking meals, doing laundry, and taking on weekend jobs from thirteen to help keep the Valentines afloat.

He sees now, several parallels between Elle’s adolescence and his own.

‘I’ve been thinking about her a lot more, since the attack’ says Elle quietly. ‘About mom. I’ve felt closer to her…closer than I ever have before, since she died.’ She takes a deep breath before continuing, as if her next sentence is painful and heavy to unload.

‘Which is comforting, of course. But it also makes me feel like part of me is with her. Like I’m only half here, and the other half is…with her…wherever she is.’

Ethan feels his blood chill at this; a combination of being stirred by the depth of her words, and haunted by the fact that Elle feels like part of her has passed from this world.

Instinctively, he leads forward and wraps his arms tightly around her. Bath water soaks his shirt, but he doesn’t care.

‘You’re here Elle. You’re here, fully here. It’s good you feel your mom, but that means she’s come to you. She wants to be close to you here. It doesn’t mean you’re any less here.’

The words escape from him before he can rationalise them. All his opinions of the spiritual and supernatural, and above everything else, science, don’t matter. Right now the words he speaks are the only truth, because they bring comfort to Elle, and he believes them.

Elle reaches up from the bath and touches his arm.

‘I’m glad I’m here,’ she murmurs. ‘I’m glad I’m here with you.’

With his free hand, Ethan strokes her cheek, pressing his lips to the top of her head once again.

‘I said to Sam that I wanted to visit her grave when I’m back home, with him and dad,’ she continues. And then, tentatively, she adds, ‘And maybe, when you pick me up…I..’ she hesitates, but Ethan doesn’t prompt her, letting her continue in her own time.

‘I’d like if we went together to see her too. Just me and you.’

He’s deeply moved. That she would allow him, want him even, to join her in an intensely personal moment. It stirs something in him, something that has been there for a long time.

‘Of course, sweetheart,’ he murmurs.

‘Thank you.’

They drift back into a comfortable silence. Still weaving his fingers through her hair, he casts his mind back to earlier in their conversation.

‘I didn’t realise you and Naveen had become so close.’

‘We meet for lunch every Wednesday afternoon, when we’re both on admin time,’ Elle explains happily. ‘We have done for the last few months, ever since…’

She falters then.

‘Since you went to Brazil.’

Ethan’s fingers freeze at that, and he swallows.

‘When you were…gone,’ Elle continues, ‘Over the summer after my ethics hearing. I didn’t really let anyone know, or want anyone to know. But I, um, was in a pretty bad place,’ she says quietly, head bowed. ‘But Naveen could tell. He could see straight through me. He invited me to his office one afternoon for lunch, and, well, it’s one of the things that kept me going. Still does actually.’

Ethan feels a rush of pride and affection for his mentor, but mostly, a sinking feeling of guilt, eating at his core like rot to wood.

It’s odd, he thinks. She had just shared something deeply intimate with him, and undoubtedly, many barriers between them had been broken. But there is so much about her he doesn’t know. This gaping, unmistakable fact- her pain- was a black hole in his soul. But it’s all his own doing. He only has himself to blame for his ignorance.

This is the elephant in the room. He swallows hard.

Now is the time to face it.

‘Elle.’

She cranes her neck to look at him, caught off guard.

‘I’m so sorry that I left you, Elle.’

Her eyes widen a little in surprise.

‘And I’m sorry that so much of the pain you carry,’ he takes a deep breath. His next words tear up his throat like glass as he speaks them, but they need to be said. ‘Has probably been from me.’

She falls silent at his words, brow furrowed with a mix of concern, affection, and wonder.

‘You’ve done so much for me…when you followed me to check on me in that construction wing, before you even knew about Naveen. And then when I told you about him, you were by my side every step of the way, never giving up on him, never giving up on me.’

He feels a lump in his throat, but he presses on.

‘When I kept telling myself that I’d given up on Naveen…you taught me to forgive myself. You’ve helped so much with my dad when he came to visit, with my mom. I pushed you away. All I’ve done is push you away, and slammed doors in your face.’

His eyes fill with tears, and his jaw clenches. With guilt, sadness, with anger at himself.

‘And Elle, I’m so, so sorry. I left you to go to Brazil when you needed me the most. When you were hurting, suffering, so much too. All I wanted to do is run away from my own pain, and it made me blind to yours. I should’ve been there. I left because I-’

He stops himself, but he knows.

Since she’d joined the diagnostics team, he’d tried so hard to repress his feelings. But her tenderness had slipped through his steely defences effortlessly, somehow without eithern of them even being aware of it. It had crept in through hand holds and thumb strokes in the diagnostics office, and in Derry Roasters after she’d brought his dad to see him. It had been laced in the voices full of concern, the tender cheek caresses, their easy banter and chemistry, and the quiet domestic intimacy when they stayed to research Gwyneth Monroe on his laptop, side by side on the sofa.

Her eyes begin to water, and he reaches up to brush a lingering tear. She clossed her eyes at his touch, and Ethan wonders if, like him, she was remembering the first time he had done that while they watched the opera together.

‘I want to be there for you. Wholly, fully. From now, until always.’

‘Ethan…’ she breathes, her eyes beginning to spill over.

‘You’ve been so strong,’ he says as he wipes another of her tears away. ‘And you’re incredible. But I don’t want you to have to be strong, if you don’t want to. Or to put on a brave face, I want you to be you, however you’re feeling. I want to be whatever you need.’

‘Thank you,’ says Elle.

There is such a weight and sincerity to her words, and it strikes him then, that for the past few days, she had opened her body for him, but now she had opened her soul.

Ethan is moved to the core at being lucky enough to explore both.

It is as if the world had tilted on its axis somewhat. Something has changed in the universe, or at least, in their little world, though to Ethan it is the same thing.

He can’t place his finger on what it is, but it makes an unmistakable feeling of hope blossom on his chest.

Detaching the showerhead, he rinses her hair, thoroughly, carefully, from root to tip. After applying her favourite leave-in conditioner, he asks if she feels better now.

‘Yeah. I feel clean. I don’t feel like it’s on me anymore.’

Leaving only briefly to retrieve a warm towel from the rail and lay it on the bed, Ethan returns, and scoops her from the bath into his arms. Tenderly he carries her into the bedroom, and lays her down on the soft white cotton.

‘You warm yourself up. I’m going to start on dinner,’ he murmurs, gently caressing her cheek.

***

A short while later, Ethan has finished chopping the vegetables. The ramen is boiling, the broth bubbling merrily on the hob, filling the kitchen with gorgeous umami flavours.

The bedroom door creaks open, and Elle wanders into the kitchen. Ethan looks up and smiles, and his heart melts at the sight of her wearing nothing but his blue sweater, adorably engulfing her small frame.

‘That smells good,’ she says, padding over to his side.

Instinctively, he wraps an arm around her shoulders, and she circles herself around his waist, clinging to him.

‘It’s nearly done,’ he says, giving her a squeeze. ‘Ready to have something to eat?’

She nods earnestly, and Ethan’s chest feels a little lighter.

He continues stirring the broth for a few moments before he speaks again.

‘I know you mentioned starting therapy before, and I was having a look earlier. I found one with a with a private clinic just round the corner from the hospital. She’s a female therapist, specialising in trauma. I thought it might be good, for you.’

‘I’ve seen her too,’ says Elle quietly. ‘Marie Lavorne, right?’

He nods.

‘She seems really good, doesn’t she? But long term…I’m not sure I could afford her. You know the residents have had to take a pay cut,’ she mutters awkwardly.

‘Book her in. Don’t even think of the money, I’ll take care of it,’ he says firmly. Elle turns to look at him, and he adds, ‘if you think she’s the right one for you of course, we can keep looking.’

‘Oh Ethan, are you sure?’

‘I’ve never been surer of anything,’ he says, and he means it.

Her happiness, her peace of mind, is priceless to him.

‘That means so much to me…thank you,’ says Elle, burying herself even closer to his chest.

He could stay like this forever, he thinks. Making them dinner, holding her close, her arms wrapped around him, clad in his old sweater.

‘I feel so safe with you Ethan,’ she whispers.

He loves her. The thought is loud and clear in his head. He has loved her for a long, long time.

He has realised that he’s in love with her before, but in this moment, the realisation dawns on him just as breathtakingly, just as the same sunrise for many millennia never gets less beautiful.

He can’t recall a time when he has known her and not loved her.

Ethan’s heart swells with affection and emotion. With Elle’s head resting against his chest, he is certain she can feel it; feel the love radiating from it like the beautiful sun. How he longs to say it- shout it, scream it; to her, and to the world. She knows, she must do.

But in their little oasis, and her delicate state, he can’t bear to throw their perfect harmony out of balance with the weight of his confession.

Now is not the time for impassioned declarations and burdening her with his own feelings, not again. Even if they’re the most joyous feelings he’s ever known. The right time will come. Recent days have been dark, and he knows they are not out of them yet. Soon, they must face the outside world, and the pain that easing back into reality from their bubble will inevitably bring. But she is here, and, as she has always been to him, is a beacon of light.

So instead of saying it, he presses his lips to her forehead. He is certain she can feel the smile on them.

He turns off the hob, ready to serve up.

The broth is the perfect consistency.

Elle lets out a hum of appreciation at its aroma.

For the first time in a long time, he knows everything will be alright.

Notes: Thanks for reading this rollercoaster with me! Grief can be a whirwhind and I think this fic reflects that. It’s always bothered me that Ethan never fully acknowledged the impact he had on MC by leaving for the Amazon for 2 months, and never apologised for the hurt it caused. In my mind, Ethan stopped shutting her out from this point on, ignoring the clown shit of OH3

#ethan ramsey #ethan ramsey x mc #ethan x mc

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s4ijoh · 4 years

Text

meet me halfway (across the globe). suna rintarou

SUNA RINTAROU X GN! READER

GENRE: slice of life; facetime call; fluff

WORD COUNT: 1.4k+

WARNINGS: established relationship; mentions of stress

in which suna is somewhere far away…

[10:22] rin: “you up?”

[10:23] rin: “big game tomorrow morning.”

[10:23] rin: “cant’ sleep. need to see u.”

the phone buzzing on the bedside table startles you out of your morning somnolence. the empty spot in bed next to you feels a weird type of unfamiliar. you drowsily stretch your arms out, reaching for the ringing device while dragging out a loud yawn.

you are taken aback by surprise once you take a look at the numbers displayed on your phones lock screen: 10:25am. its already past midnight in his timezone. he shouldn’t be up this late.

swiping through your phone's screen, you waste no time in dialling his number once you come across the green facetime icon and luckily, it is only a brief moment until he is picking up and oh boy are you met with a sight to behold. if it werent for your concern, you could’ve just stayed there, marvelling in awe at your boyfriend, sitting shirtless against the headboard in all his glory. his pale skin is gleaming a beautiful shade of orange under the dim light of the table lamp thus reminiscing a statue made of gold; his tousled, black feathery hair sticking in all different directions yet with just a few loose strands cascading down the sides of his temple and framing his face in such way that made him look effortlessly handsome.

he looked as beautiful as ever. however, despite the apparent picture perfect scenario, you would be a fool not to notice the clear signs of restlessness showcased on his features nonetheless.

“sorry, did i wake you?” suna apologizes tenderly with a doting frown on his face once he notices your lids still heavy with vestiges of somnolence just barely peeking from the bottom of the screen. your phone is propped up on your chest, the lower half of your face hidden away from him as you refuse to get up from your comfortable position laying under the warm blankets.

“dont worry about it, baby.” you hurriedly push his apologies aside whilst rubbing the sleep off your eyes to try and not make him feel too bad about it “you know you can call me anytime. im always waiting for you on the other end whenever you need me”

he offers you a subtle smile, although its odd — its weak, not sincere. it is not the usual signature smirk with a teasing remark on the side you earn whenever you say something cheesy. it is also hard to miss the darkening spots growing under his tired eyes, his usual sparkly green orbs now nearing dull, heavy with underlying frustration. it made it all crystal clear.

rintarou is not an outwardly emotional person and definitely not one to voice his concerns. his pleas for help were often left unspoken and it takes a sharp eye to see through his unwavering surface. for the most part, the blank expression he's seen wearing most of the time did a pretty good job at shielding his feelings yet his eyes often betrayed him.

he had taken off a couple days ago to somewhere foreign for an important match. you know how sometimes, before a decisive match takes place, he lets pressure get to that pretty head of his and relies on you to keep him grounded and soothe his racing mind. for the longest time, he had been capable of keeping his emotions at bay and deal with his troubles on his own but ever since you came around, rintarou found himself growing selfish and craving your comfort, finding solace in your reassuring words and warm embrace.

you miss the old days when your lover was just at an arm's length and all it took was for him to say the word for you to drop everything and come running to his house, to hold him in your arms and make it all feel better. you remember people in highschool claiming suna was bound to fade into the background given his lazy tendencies and lack of enthusiasm. (what a waste of potential, they would say) suna would shrug. he never payed any mind to it — you praised him on his unshakable nature. it should be a major ego boost for rintarou to know that, not that many years later and against the spiteful tongues of some of your classmates, he made a name for himself as a first division professional volleyball player, thus proving them wrong.

however, he still has quite a few demons to tame inside his head. one of which was self-doubt.

you let your eyes roam his tired features for a moment. “you need to get out of your head, rin”

suna knew you could read him like an open book. you made him feel vulnerable under your scrutinizing gaze. he felt exposed. to have you stare directly into his naked soul was intimidating, more so than to have you stare at his nude body, like you have done dozens of times before. but just like you did with his body, you had taken your time to get to know every corner of his soul. you knew him like the palm of your hand — both mind and body.

“i know.” he tears his gaze away from yours, looking down while running a hand through his disheveled hair and down to scratch his neck in frustration. “tell me how have your days been?”

the silence of his hotel room was eating him whole and he needed you to distract him. most of the time, suna was fond of the silence. after a rough day he found comfort in laying down in his bed and basking in the quiet. he found peace in it. sometimes it was in the quietness of his own little world that he found the solution to his problems. but upon your arrival to that mysterious world of his, your voice soon became his favorite sound. he craved you to fill in the silence that he once treasured.

and so he listens. suna listens as you talk throughout the night (who would’ve guessed you had just woken up), rambling on about your days as other trivial things — namely how you could never get used to starting the day without his morning cuddles. he found it endearing how you seemed to speak enough for the two of you. he was a man of few words so he was lucky to have found someone to fill in the silence for him. and so he listens until his eyes start progressively feeling heavy, your voice lulling him to sleep.

“hey, baby” he calls in a barely audible raspy voice. suna lays down on his side under the cold unwelcoming bed sheets, holding his phone next to his face on the pillow “put your pretty face on the phone”

a soft smile crawls its way up to your flushed face at his sugar coated words, his voice although drowsy sounding sweeter than saccharin. you were so lost in the lovely image of him that you failed to notice that your face was barely on the frame, just your eyes peeking shyly from the bottom of the screen.

you shuffle in bed, turning on your side to mirror his position. its almost as if you’re not a hundred miles apart and he's lying right next to you, if you squint hard enough.

“there you are” he mumbles weakly under his breath, a loving smile on his pillowy rosy lips that you miss dearly.

his eyes appear weary through the screen yet he never fails to look at you with the utmost love. dumbfounded, you wordlessly stare at each other as you fall into a comfortable silence that is however, filled with a hundred unspoken words.

his love is quiet, hesitant at times but never shallow. he felt deeply and feared he wasn't the best to put it into words so sometimes, his love, it hides beyond lingering stares and shy touches. it remained unuttered most of the time but words are futile when he has shown his devotion to you countless times before.

“hey rin. you think you can go to sleep, now?” you notice him fighting the urge to let his eyes close shut, battling to stay awake for a little longer to try and memorize your face for later so he can dream of you tonight.

he simply nods with his eyes shut, too sleepy to pronounce a single word.

“call me tomorrow after the game, alright?” he nods yet again, noticeably starting to drift away at last but not before muttering a quiet i love you before the last hint of consciousness leaves his body, eliciting a tender smile from you.

“i love you, rin. ill meet you in your dreams tonight.”

[a/n]: so! writing this fic made me realize that im undeniably in love with suna and he now owns a 51% share of my heart. (oikawa. ill never forget you. its not you its me (suna) maybe its time i move on. 🤒 jk jk ill have both pls and ty 🥰)

anyways ye i guess im back from my mini hiatus (as a full suna whore) :))

this is honestly a word dump, initially this was supposed to be like... what.. 500 words long? i just thought of the prompt “put your pretty face on the phone” and the rest is just me pouring my love for him into words ah-ha. (you probably noticed how it is unnecessarily cheesy 🙄)

just for the record!! i havent finished season 4 just yet 🐸 lmao. i took inspiration off of nooras (@/inarzki) characterization of suna because she was the one who made me fall in love with him in the first place.

#suna rintaro x reader #suna rintarou #suna x reader #suna fluff #suna rintarou x reader #suna rintarou fluff #haikyuu x reader

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hold-my-hand-kuroo · 4 years

Text

ushijima learning love

it’s here! i wrote it! it’s messy and rushed, but i’m on ushiwaka lockdown right now-

pairing: ushijima x reader

The first time Ushijima thinks he experiences ‘love’ is in high school when the two of you become seat mates. He doesn’t know that it’s love quite yet, and to be fully honest, he thinks he’s just ill.

“You’re a lefty?” he hears you say from beside him. Turning his head toward his right to face you, he only makes a grunt in affirmation. “That’s so cool! We can write without bumping elbows sitting like this. It’s perfect!”

Being left-handed wasn’t something Ushijima thought was special. Sure, people did say that it made his spikes “tricky” to receive, but he likes to think that it’s mostly due to his strength and technique rather than his handedness. He doesn’t remember his mother liking it much either, telling him that it was strange and pleading with him to somehow “fix” it.

To put it shortly, he doesn’t exactly love being left-handed, but he tries not to let it distract him too much. That is, not until he meets you for the first time. There’s something about an unwarranted compliment over such a trivial aspect of his being that makes it seem more genuine. He likes your attention to detail, but even likes it more that for the first time in his life, someone has seen his left hand as something more than a gimmick or a curse.

The idea of his left hand being “perfect” keeps ringing in his mind from then on. Whenever he’s at a match and hears someone blaming their poor receives on the unnaturalness of his left hand or whenever he gets a particularly dreadful call from him mother, he just keeps reminding himself that his left hand can be perfect. He finds the idea of coexisting peacefully with someone else an intriguing prospect, even if it was just taking notes and writing with ease on a desk.

His first taste of love is unclear, and he’s not sure why your words cling on to him. It’s not an unpleasant feeling, and he finds himself wanting to hear you more.

II.

Ushijima’s second taste of love is just as brief as the first. It’s when he’s on his run, miles ahead from the rest of his teammates. If he went for it again, he thinks that he could probably lap some of them, but chooses to save the rest of his stamina for the practice match. Nearing the entrance of the gym, he almost enters the doors before he spots you walking nearby. He’s not the type to greet anybody; rather, he gives his attention when he’s called, and to be fair, not getting attention he wanted was a rare instance.

He doesn’t know why, but he finds himself fixated on your figure, walking off to the dorms. Judging by the setting sun, he figures that most club activities have already finished and reasons that you’re probably free. He has the weirdest compulsion to call out your name, to talk to you, to have you just spend a little bit more time with him, but he finds this want strange. It’d bother you, he concludes, so he stays silent.

“Ushijima!” he hears, and snaps his head up back to were you were. He notices that you’re noticeably closer. In fact, you’re walking toward him, as if you read his mind. “Still practicing.”

“Yes.” He’s usually not a man of many words, and it hasn’t really been a problem, until now. He’s not the most socially adept, but he knows that conversations can’t carry with one-word answers, and he wants a conversation with you. He thinks this feeling is desperation or longing, but again, he’s not sure.

“Always hard at work,” you laugh, much to his surprise. He didn’t expect you to keep talking. “Don’t you ever get tired?”

“Yes, but with proper rest, I can keep training,” he answers bluntly, hoping that he’s adding more for you to talk off of. He feels warmer than usual, and it’s not because he came back from a run.

“What do you do when you rest then?” you prompt curiously. “Things that aren’t related to volleyball, I mean.”

This makes him stop to think. Whenever people asked him questions, it was usually in form of interview. Things like how he trains or what he hopes to achieve are things he has responded to over and over again, to the point where his answers are practically automatic. His life was defined by the sport, and of course, he never hated it. He liked training hard and playing challenging opponents; however, he also liked the prospect of someone being interested in his behavior outside of volleyball. It was refreshing.

“I like reading ads,” he finally decides to say after hard contemplation, but nearly winces when he hears his own words. He’s not qualified to decide what things were considered “lame” and what weren’t, but he thinks his answer definitely falls into the former category.

“Really?” he’s surprised to hear you say and sees you rustling in your bag. Pulling out a magazine, you offer it to him with a smile. “Then do you want this? I’m the art club, so I cut out some pictures for a collage, but most of the ads are still intact.”

Taking the small, slightly cut up booklet from your hands, he feels rather dumb that he doesn’t have a reply. A good enough reply.

“Thanks,” is all he can come up with, but he feels the urge to say more. He wants to tell you that he appreciates your sentiment to a great amount and that he definitely will enjoy reading all the ads when he feels like he needs a break. He wishes that he could say more.

“No problem!” He’s genuinely impressed that you’re still managing to hold a conversation with him. He finds himself rather bland. “I’ll remember to give you more in the future! I have a lot of magazines that I don’t really read.”

And like that, you bid your farewells and turn around. Ushijima feels a strong yearn to ask you to stay for practice, but he knows that you’re probably busy with schoolwork. Even though you can’t see it with your back turned away, he holds up a hand to wave goodbye.

III.

By now, Ushijima knows that the pleasantly tingly, heart-skipping, and warm feeling that he has felt many times before in the past is called love. He likes how it has multiple layers, and while he likes to be able to predict things, to understand something to its fullest, he’s perfectly content in not knowing everything that love can offer. He likes the surprise, and he likes discovering more things about you.

“Toshi?” you murmur, fresh out of sleep. Five years ago, he’d never imagine waking up with you in his arms. Sure, maybe he thought about it from time time, but to experience it in its reality is something euphoric. “What about your morning jog?”

“I’m taking a break,” he replies, voice rumbling, and you laugh. He doesn’t understand why, but whenever he hears that sound, he’s tempted to shower you with affection to the best of his ability. He wants to kiss you all over and keep you in a tight embrace and tell you how you’re the most beautiful thing he has ever laid eyes on. So he does.

“I was going to, but you looked so nice just sleeping, so I didn’t,” he murmurs before peppering you with soft and gentle kisses. Giggles seep out of your mouth, so he continues because he loves it when you do that. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah,” you grin, returning the kisses. “It’s a lot warmer with you hugging me. I like it.”

“Too bad I’m usually at practice,” he groans. It sounds like his usual monotonous tone, but you know that it’s filled with regret. “I like it like this too.”

“Then let’s stay like this for a while.” He likes that idea and pulls you closer, holding onto you like a lifeline. When you nuzzle into his neck, he feels his heartbeat speed up, but in the good way that he has learned to love. It’s different from running and being exhausted, and it’s different from being worried that his serve would go out of bounds. It’s pleasantly exciting. Giddy.

He knows that he’s lucky that he’s free on Sundays and that he can have you stay overnight a few days a week, but he finds himself getting greedy. It’s been a similar pattern over the years with him wanting to see more of you, and he blames it all on love even if he can’t properly describe it with merely words. He wants you to come home and lay with you in bed every night and to wake up with you next to him every morning. He wants to eat breakfast and dinner with you, and he longs for you to talk to him right by his side.

“Why don’t you move in?” is the solution his brain comes up with, and he strongly believes that it’s the best thought he has had in his entire lifetime.

He can’t describe love in words, but he thinks that the feelings he gets by spending his life with you is exactly what it is. He hopes it’s the same for you too.

#haikyuu #haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader #ushijima wakatoshi #wakatoshi ushijima #ushijima #ushiwaka #ushijima x reader #ushijima wakatoshi x reader #wakatoshi ushijima x reader

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kootiepatra · 2 years

Text

#FFxivWrite - Day 14 Prompt: "Attrition"

I couldn't decide which of these angles to take, so I didn't decide.

======================================

Part 1

The emperor sat in his imposing throne, staring into the cold, echoing interior of his palace. He gazed right past his attending guard like they weren’t even there. They may as well not have been, truth be told, as they stood motionless at attention, silent on pain of punishment, expressions completely hidden beneath full-faced helms.

How much longer? The emperor wondered. He felt mostly assured that nothing could seriously threaten his plan now. He was old—yet again. He was tired—as always. Perhaps he could at last take his leave of this cruel place, wrought by his own hands to its near-perfect brutality.

Time felt so much slower in these miserably deformed vessels. The aches and pains did not help, to be sure. Nor did his relentless obligation to maintain his charade, surrounded as he was night and day by witnesses—staff and servants, yes, but also the offspring who so disappointed him. Even more, there was something about the smallness. The limits. The way everything in this broken reality must strike so—so—personally. In his aetherial form, his heart was far less likely to feel divided, less likely to question his chosen course. Zodiark hasten the day when this would be all set right again.

He sighed a deep, heavy sigh, which the attendants all ascribed to his being an ill and cantankerous old man. But no, it was a sigh of steeling himself under this burden. If it take a thousand, thousand of their lifetimes, he thought. The enormity of our loss demands it. The vows of my office before our people demand it.

He would likely need to depart this body soon enough, regardless of how confident he was that it was time. But he, himself—he must live on. As long as was required of him. He would not shrink from his duty.

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

Part 2

The scholar collapsed to his knees as he surveyed the landscape before him. It had worked. After all of that labor, all of that planning, all the literal blood, sweat and tears. His path was paved by the selfless sacrifices of his companions. He was here. This was where he intended to go.

But he was early.

A hundred years too early.

He was yet a young man, but no amount of optimism could convince him that he had so much life ahead of him. Were his fellows here, he would seek their counsel as to what they should do now. But he was alone. Alone, with this tower that did not belong here, a relic of an empire not of this world. Had he misspent the wishes of his ancestors? Had he let down his contemporaries?

It took some time for the tears to stop and the sense of despair to lessen. But lessen it did. Through the clouds in his mind pierced a bolt of resolve. He could not give up now, not after having come so far. There must be a solution. Surely it lay somewhere in this labyrinthine collection of tomes.

On the bright side, he had the literal rest of his life to find it.

It took much time. But find it he did. The cost would be great, but the cost of failure loomed yet greater. It was hardly a choice at all. He would do it.

The hope of a dying world—of two dying worlds now, he supposed—hinged on him seeing his task through to the end. The weave of history must be mended from the corrupting touch of the Paragons. And at the front of his mind, he held the memory of the hero long past—and also yet future—her life hung in the balance. And he would do all in his power that she may succeed.

He set his face as resolutely as the crystal that had crackled its way up his arm. His reckless zeal had hardened into conviction, just as metal is tempered from red-hot and molten into cool unbending steel, just as the color of his hair had blended from its fiery red into the very ice-blue of the tower.

He had spent enough tears already. No more. He pulled up his cowl and resigned the man he once was to a distant corner of his heart, like tucking an old book away in the dusty sections of a library. He must rise to the occasion and be who the worlds now needed him to be.

He labored against the writings of history. He labored against unseen adversaries whose lives spanned eons, who could outwait anyone. If they had worked for millennia to forge this calamity, then he could endure but a single century to stop it.

He set back to his studies as a man possessed. He had work to do. And only a hundred years to do it.

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

Part 3

The heart and will of the star stirred in the depths of the aetherial sea, where she called out, ceaselessly, as she had for ages long forgotten. She would not take power from the land or its people—she and her comrades had sworn as much before committing themselves to what she was now. But she was waning. She knew it. And her embittered, misguided brethren were striving towards yet another massacre.

She knew not if she could stop them. Zodiark would not even require his full strength before becoming too powerful for her to impede. And then they would be right back to where they started, thousands of years ago—if not even worse.

But a now-ancient memory played at her mind. There was a part of this story she could be reasonably sure of. A concrete hope of what was possible, even before the future fanned out into infinite unknowable directions.

This hope had come to her as a stranger in the guise of a friend’s familiar. Her aether was thin and her story was painful, but she yet spoke of beauty and goodness. She was fighting. She was seeking answers. She and her people had not given up on the world—and perhaps more importantly still, not given up on one another.

So the will of the star would wait for her.

Full many people had heeded her call, through one age or another. They were quite small in number compared to all those living, of course—but even a small number can tip the scales. Some had fought resolutely. Some had gone astray. Many had fallen. Her heart yearned for all of them as dear children, and she gave to them all the power she could.

But though it broke her heart, she must needs be careful. She only had so much to give. And she would only have one chance to give it to the person who would need it the most.

Until mankind had the strength to walk unto the end, she must continue on.

#FFxivWrite2022 #FFxivWrite #ffxiv #Endwalker spoilers #Shadowbringers spoilers #ffxiv spoilers #my writing #attrition

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thesaltyoncologist · 4 years

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Trigger warning: suicide

This NEJM Perspective piece addresses an incredibly important problem during medical training. If you’re in medicine, take a minute to read this. And if you’re struggling yourself with mental health, especially during training, PLEASE feel free to reach out to me personally. We want to help. You are not alone in this. Click the keep reading link to view the article in its entirety.

My Intern - R.E. Leiter

Bobby hasn’t come in yet today,” one of my chief residents told me. “He isn’t picking up his phone or answering his pager. Could you go and check on him?”

I was in my final year of my internal medicine residency and was on a 6-week rotation as the assistant chief resident. In this role, I organized educational sessions for the residents and medical students and helped with administrative tasks. Most important, I learned how to support other residents and respond to their needs, which is what much of my job as chief resident would entail the next year.

Bobby was an intern in our program, and he and I had worked on a team together in early July. Bobby became my intern, and I was his senior resident. It was a role I cherished, and I tried to teach him all I could about caring for multiple sick patients simultaneously and navigating the systems, personalities, and politics of a large Manhattan hospital. We stayed late as we struggled to place an ultrasound-guided IV into the arm of a patient whose veins were shot from years of dialysis. Perched side by side on a windowsill, we nearly missed morning rounds as we listened to a dying patient recount his journey from India to the United States. By the end of our long, busy month together, I was proud of the doctor Bobby had already become.

Bobby lived in a building across the street from the hospital. New York prices being what they are, most teaching hospitals provide their residents with subsidized housing in the neighborhood. It’s a strange, almost dormlike environment, with residents working and living together in close quarters.

It was a cloudless yet cool August day when one of the other chief residents and I stepped out the side door of the hospital. When Bobby didn’t answer our knock, we explained the situation to the building’s staff and they sent a maintenance worker back up with us. We soon discovered the incomprehensible reality: Bobby had jumped out his window. The usual din of the Manhattan street below was eerily quiet. Cecil’s Internal Medicine lay open on his tiny kitchen table, the pages gently flapping in the breeze from the open window.

Somehow, we ended up in the emergency department and witnessed a compassionate but ultimately hopeless resuscitation attempt. While our program director broke the news to the other residents, we returned to the apartment and gave our statements to the police.

The sudden death of a colleague would shake any workplace; in a medical training program where the boundary between the personal and the professional blurred into near nonexistence, its effect was seismic. When Bobby died, we asked the same questions of ourselves that others do when a close friend dies by suicide: What could we have done to prevent it? What had we missed? But we also had a different set of questions: Had something happened to our colleague in the hospital the night before he died? We knew he had been on a particularly brutal rotation. Had he made a mistake? Our uncertainty precipitated the fear that we could be next.

A few days after Bobby died, my program director, one of the chiefs, and I flew to his small, Midwestern hometown to represent the residency program at his visitation. As I gave my condolences to Bobby’s sister, she enveloped me in an unexpected hug. “Bobby told me you were the perfect resident; he wanted to be just like you.” Though she meant it as high praise, her comment left me rattled. I couldn’t escape thoughts that my expectations were too high or that I should have picked up on something wrong while I was working so closely with him.

Residency leaves little time for self-reflection, though, and even less time for personal grief. The wards were as full as ever, and our patients and their families needed care. Because there was no one to replace us, we went back to work and processed the loss as well as we could. In the days and weeks that followed Bobby’s death, the program directors, chief residents, and I worked to rearrange staffing, but the hospital’s needs limited the changes we could make. Even when we did have flexibility, we nonetheless made scheduling mistakes as we tried to triage which residents and teams required the most support. We could all adapt to one or two residents taking time off for family, health, or personal reasons, but managing our collective trauma was entirely different, and our blind spots added to everyone’s emotional and physical exhaustion.

I threw myself deeper and deeper into my job, hoping that working to heal my patients’ suffering would shield me from my own. I kept my head down on my way into the hospital each morning, lest I catch a glimpse of Bobby’s window. Predictably, this strategy was unsustainable. Evaluating a new patient in the ED, I found myself in the same corner where I had watched my colleagues work on Bobby. I couldn’t muster the wherewithal to inhabit my role as a physician while also containing my terrifying memories. After rounds, I sobbed in my chief resident’s office. I saw Bobby’s death as a sign of my failure. I had failed as a resident. I had failed as a teacher. Bobby was my intern and I had failed him. I was terrified of working with another intern, let alone of serving as a chief to nearly 150 of them, many of whom would struggle with their own mental illness.

Each year, approximately 300 physicians in the United States die by suicide.1 Medical students and residents are particularly at risk, facing new professional responsibilities with the highest possible stakes, deep uncertainty about their own abilities, constant sleep deprivation, and isolation from family and friends. When I had a few seconds in residency to scroll through my social media feeds, I would see pictures of a world from which I felt completely removed. On Saturday nights, other people my age discovered new bands and ate at trendy new restaurants; I fought with the electronic medical record to input orders for laxatives and stood in line to perform chest compressions on a dying mother of two young children. These stressors form a dangerous and potentially toxic mix, particularly for trainees with preexisting or emerging mental illness.

Thankfully, I received the psychiatric services I so desperately needed. I still have a scar, but it’s well healed. I wonder, though, how many residents in our program remained isolated in their suffering. Bobby wasn’t only my intern; he was our colleague and friend. In the aftermath of his death, how many of us should have been working at all?

Six years after he died, I no longer worry about having failed Bobby. But I do think the system of medical training failed him and continues to fail every trainee it puts in harm’s way. Although there will be no easy solutions to this crisis, we cannot accept the status quo. We are losing too many young physicians to suicide for the current system to remain morally defensible. Seeking to improve the lives of others shouldn’t cost our trainees their own.

If you or someone you know is having thoughts of suicide, a prevention hotline can help. The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is available 24 hours per day at 800-273-8255. During a crisis, people who are hard of hearing can call 800-799-4889.

Disclosure forms provided by the author are available at NEJM.org.

The intern’s name has been changed to protect the family’s privacy.

This article was published on March 13, 2021, at NEJM.org.

#medblr #nursblr #medical school #fellowship #residency #life outside the hospital #please let me know if this is behind a paywall and I’ll find a way to post it #mental health #suicide

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itsclydebitches · 4 years

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Um one thing i wanna ask is why do you want penny to stay a robot? She would have been hacked again as it wouldn’t make sense for someone not to try it again... ignoring the pinnochio allusion thing cause of course RWBY shouldn’t follow fairytales like a script, but just thinking about practicality as the problem would just occur again.

Also, people complaining about how its a problem they cured her illness (having the virus)... why would you want her too keep the virus when its literally about to kill her and the cure is right there???? I dunno some of the complaints have me a bit confused and i need clarity on them.

Like, If they didn’t grab the relic for themselves, they would have been hunted by ironwood for penny, she would have been killed for the powers to open the vault etc... if they went to the vault with penny without their plan, she would have died... its all a lose lose for penny to me at least

Questions are genuine and I’m not trying to be rude or anything :)

Happy to explain, anon! :D

I’m going to break this up into three parts: The claim that people are upset about Penny’s virus going away, the idea that she’s in more danger as a robot, and the assumption that she had to be made human to fix this problem.

The first is the easiest to tackle simply because I haven’t seen any of this myself. I don’t know why someone would “want her to keep the virus when it’s literally about to kill her.” My guess would be that there’s been some miscommunication at play. I’m not saying just because I haven’t seen these takes doesn’t mean they don’t exist, but rather that I have seen a lot of critical takes since Saturday and they all boil down to the fans being upset that Penny’s android identity was removed, not that the virus was removed along with it. Of course we’re happy about that additional outcome, we just believe it would have been possible — even easy — to achieve that same outcome without taking a core part of Penny’s identity along with it (more on that below).

Secondly, if one of the main arguments for Penny getting a human body is “It’s less dangerous” then I personally don’t find that persuasive. Yes, it means no one can try to hack her again... but it also means Penny can die all the horrible, messy human deaths that she was previously immune from (within the boundary of how long Pietro can give her aura, anyway). We saw it happen on screen. Penny was able to go from this

to this

purely because she was an android. Penny, due to her synthetic body, was able to be torn apart and then — pretty casually it seems, based on Pietro’s comments — be put back together, given more aura, and booted up with absolutely no downsides. Penny shrugged off death with a smile! No human body can do that. So yes, she’s vulnerable to hacking as an android, but she’s vulnerable to everything else as a human, things like Nora’s scars and Yang’s lost arm, things that android!Penny would have shrugged off. Each body has its benefits and its downsides, with my personal belief being that, from a combat standpoint, a synthetic body has far fewer downsides and far greater benefits. But that opinion aside, objectively I don’t think a human body is intrinsically safer for Penny in the long run, especially not after her biggest moment in the series was coming back from the dead. She can’t do that anymore.

Which then touches on our third topic with the question: Why couldn’t the show have fixed android!Penny in a way that ensures she can never be hacked again? See, we have to remember that RWBY is a constructed, fictional story. Nothing “has” to happen. Or rather, nothing has to happen until the writers impose limitations on the text that the viewer expects them to adhere to. For example, if you impose the implied rules of 1. “Our four main characters will make it to the end of the series” and 2. “A character, without aura, will die from a spear through the gut,” then RWBY has to find a way for Weiss to survive Cinder’s attack (rule #1), but that solution can’t be, “Weiss is just randomly okay after a deadly injury, I guess” (rule #2). Hence, we get the solution of “Jaune unlocks his semblance and heals Weiss for her” and it works! It’s a solution that viewers like because it obeys all the rules, both overt and implied. Meanwhile, the problem with Penny’s solution is two-fold. The first is that it contradicts the entire journey she’s been on of “Android girl learns that she’s real and human just the way she is,” which I’ve already spoken about extensively (there are other posts on that), but the second problem is that the show ignores other possibilities and makes up new rules solely to reach this ending.

Why is Penny made human? Because of Ambrosius’ rules. Why do those rules exist? Because the writers said they do in this episode. It’s not that they introduced these rules episodes or even whole volumes ago, thereby requiring that they adhere to them once Penny’s life is suddenly caught up in them (like with the Jaune example). Rather, the viewer only learned these were limitations while Penny was being fixed. So the writers could have just... not included those. There’s no reason why, in developing Ambrosius’ abilities right then and there, the show couldn’t have made them into something a little different. Have Ruby go, “We want you to magic up an anti-virus program that will heal Penny completely, with no chance of the virus returning. Thus, when you create something new, it doesn’t matter if that program disappears. The virus is already gone!” If the response to that is, “But Clyde, Ambrosius can’t create something he doesn’t understand” that’s a rule that the writers just made up. No one forced them to suddenly impose that limitation. It was a choice. Or even if we have to have it for some reason, you’re telling that the group gets to have the schematics for their escape route — essentially inventing a teleportation system because Whitley looked at airship flight paths for a few minutes — but they can’t have Penny or Pietro draw up an anti-virus program? There’s no reason why these rules couldn’t have been tweaked to cure android!Penny.

There’s also no reason why Ambrosius needed to be involved at all. As just mentioned, Pietro exists and many fans (myself included) thought he would be the solution. Imagine for a moment we had a slightly different version of these events. Penny’s virus is briefly halted by Jaune and, finally given a moment to breathe, she asks where her father is. Last she saw, he was floating in a dead Amity after Cinder’s attack. This reminds Ruby that hey, Pietro made Penny! He’s just as smart as Watts and is far more knowledgeable of her systems. Maybe he can help? So the group heads to Amity and, due to the same techno mumbo jumbo that launched Amity in the first place, or had Klein heal Penny after her crash, Pietro says yes, he can get rid of the virus. Better yet, he can slightly redesign Penny so that she’s made un-hackable in the future, using (again, mumbo jumbo) parts from the now useless Amity. But it will take time. It’s then that the group receives Ironwood’s message and learns that they don’t have time. The reality that Penny will not be cured before the hour time limit necessitates that they come up with a creative way of dealing with Ironwood. Enter Emerald. Her semblance can make it seem like Penny is there, despite her being fixed by her dad miles away. We get an extended fight with Ironwood and, at episode’s end, the new and improved Penny catches up, ready to open the vault for them, this time of her own free will.

Now, obviously I just made this up off the top of my head — far from perfect — but a scenario like this:

Remembers that Pietro exists and lets him/Maria as an assistant do something for the plot

Re-uses Amity now that it’s just a floating pile of junk metal

Creates a scenario where we get to see Penny and Pietro confront the fact that she was created to be a tool (sorry I originally made you so easily hackable/put a self-destruct in your brain)

Maintains all the main story beats like Penny’s near escape, Ironwood’s message, and using Emerald’s semblance

Makes space to tackle other issues like the complaint that Ironwood was taken down too quickly

Achieves the desired result of healing Penny without taking away her android identity

Proves that, because we can easily come up with another solution, the idea that she “had” to become human is inaccurate. There were always other options

Hell, we can even ask why the story bothered with a self-destruct threat in the first place. Seriously, why did Watts do that? I have my own headcanons, but the show never says. This act is the entire BASIS for Penny’s conflict and the show didn’t bother to a) say why he’d do this or b) explain why he’d do this when Salem would presumably like having a Maiden to control. It’s counterintuitive and the show never grapples with that. We have no canonical answer here. More importantly, what else changes if Penny’s self-destruct order is taken out of the narrative? Absolutely nothing. She’s still hacked and struggles to keep Amity afloat, still flies to Ruby, still wakes up and needs to be calmed down by Nora, still tells Whitley her order, still fights the Hound, still tries to escape, still tells Ruby to kill her so she doesn’t open the vault, and Ruby still realizes that opening the vault might be the answer. They could have taken Penny to the door and nullified the virus by letting her do what the virus ordered. Penny is fine now, they snag the Relic, and the group proceeds to save all of Mantle and Atlas. The only thing this self-destruct sequence brings to the narrative is a reason to give Penny a human body. That plot-point was introduced solely as an excuse to give Penny a human body. That never had to happen. It’s not that the writers had a story where, by the rules already in place, they truly had to change Penny to ensure they didn’t lose her, it’s that the writers carefully crafted a story that existed to justify their desire to change Penny. That was always the end goal. They decided they wanted this to happen and that’s the problem here. That they took a character who has spent her entire, fictional existence learning to love herself as she is and crafted a bunch of unpersuasive, needless, and contradictory scenarios specifically to get Penny to a place where they could erase all that.

There’s no version of Penny that exists who truly had to get a human body to survive because Penny is a fictional character. Everything she does and experiences is thought up by our writers. Thus, at some point they thought up the idea to erase her android identity for a completely human one instead — the part a lot of people are upset by — and then made some messy attempts to write a story to justify getting that ending.

#rwby #rwby spoilers #rwby volume 8 #mymetas #Anonymous

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hanideyumeron · 4 years

Note

Hi! Love your writing, it's really good! If it doesn't bother you, could you do a yugi amane (when it was alive) x a sick reader. Thank you!

forgive me friend for not doing this ;-; i hope you understand since this year has been so hectic. i don’t think this is my most best work but hey i tried hhh i still feel really confused when on tumblr so forgive me for that as well

Amane Yugi x sick reader

It was a normal day for everyone, that is, everyone except for Yugi Amane. His honey coloured eyes didn’t have that playful twinkle it always had and instead was narrowed in what seemed like concern. They darted over to the door of the classroom too much for his comfort, wondering if your bubbly figure would come any moment now. No one noticed it since it was only reg and most students were talking to each other. Yes, it was only reg, it would be fine, you’d come in at any time now. his thoughts were a mirage of worry and what-ifs that made his head swirl. However, the sounds of his reg class laughing and talking started to drown out those thoughts. He folded his arms and laid his head flat against the desk. With his swirling thoughts, the noise only worsened his mood and slowly turned into a headache. People could be so annoying sometimes.

In the end, you didn’t come.

Amane was at first worried since you believed in perfect attendance, wondering out loud where you were to his brother at break. He had looked at him and blinked with a smile, pointing out one big detail that Amane seemed to have missed “Amane, it was raining really hard yesterday, remember? She might have just got sick! Don’t worry too much,’kay?” Amane looked at his brother with a face of realisation, mouth-blown out like an ‘o’ while his eyes regained its twinkle. That was right, the huge droplets of water had refused to let go of their reign of the land when it was time to go home, and so through critical deduction of solutions, you and Tsukasa had a race to see who could run home the fastest.

Amane had voiced his concerns for the idea, but since you and his brother had already shot out into the rain, he sighed and followed the two of you but more slowly and of course with an umbrella. He didn’t know how Tsukasa wasn’t worried for you since it wasn’t like you to be off at all. You had once come into school when you had a tummy bug and made a scene when you ran to the nearest bathroom. If you went to school with an upset stomach, this must be even more serious. Amane was also confused about how Tsukasa didn’t get sick himself but didn’t bother to ask since it would have been a stupid question.

Even if Tsukasa said not to worry, of course, Amane started to worry more. It was like him after all, even if he rarely showed it. So when it was time to go home, he told Tsukasa to go home without him while he checked up on you. Tsukasa just smiled and nodded, not even asking if he could join him. Amane walked up to your house and opened the gate, walking in without forgetting to close it again. With three long strides to the front door, he knocked on the door loudly.

...No one came to the door.

He was expecting this. At least kind of. Your parents worked a lot and would leave you to your own devices. If you didn’t come and get the door then…

Amane frowned. Now he knew that you definitely weren’t okay. It didn’t sit right with him to just leave you alone to suffer from your illness. He’d feel like a bad friend since he knew of your sickness and didn’t try to help you. He looked around and settled on lifting a gardening pot that was laid on the ground near the front door to see if anything was under it and was relieved to see that a spare key was hidden there. Using it, he opened the door and walked in.

He felt a bit weird intruding into your house without notifying you first. It’s not as if he was breaking in, so why did it feel like it? Shaking the feeling off, he closed the door and took off his shoes peering through the main hallway of the house. “...Hello? [Y/n]?” Amane called out softly into the house. Silence echoed back and Amane’s eyes only narrowed in response. He left this bag slumped near the door of the house and slowly made his ascent to your room. The room was the nearest to him and was marked with your name etched into it to claim the room as yours.

Slowly, he opened the door, and instantly saw the darkness that enveloped it. The only light he saw was the small, dim beams of sunlight that peeked through from the curtains and to your bed. From what he could see, he could see your normally energetic self curled into a small ball, almost motionless if it weren’t for the slow breaths that you took. You looked wrecked, your normally soft hair now wet with sweat and stuck onto your forehead. Your eyes were shut closed in pain it seemed and your laboured breaths sounded wheezy and sore.

Amane frowned at this, the sight of you that sick made his heart writhe in pain. So with a quick smile, he set to work.

———-

Today had to be one of your worst days.

When you woke up, you woke up sticky and sore at nearly five in the morning. Your eyes felt like they had been staring into the sun for at least a day which left you with the rest of your senses to fend for you, but one problem, the rest of your senses weren’t even working. Your sense of smell was almost null since your nose kept on being blocked and the feeling of sneezing never left. Anything you touched felt warm to you and made you want to creep away from it from how warm you already felt. Your hearing was affected by your sense of smell, leaving you partly deaf as well.

Your mother had scolded you, saying how it was silly what you had done the day before. And through the whole lecture, your head and everything else got worse so you couldn’t concentrate on what she was saying. In the end, she had left you alone in the house to go to work since it was too late to ask to be off today. Your dad was on a business trip that day and wouldn’t be home until late that week, so now you had no one to help you. But that was alright because all you wanted to do was to sleep.

When you opened your eyes for the first time since that morning, the first thing you comprehended was a wet and cold sensation on the top of your forehead. The next thing you noticed was a quiet hum of a song beside you. It sounded like a lullaby, coaxing you to sleep once more. It had made you smile, and before you knew it, you opened your eyes. The stinging hadn’t left, but at least you didn’t feel like opening them was a chore. The ceiling of your room was blurry, colours swirling in and out of view before a face appeared along with a smile. “Am I...dead?” You blurted out which made the owner of the face laugh a bit, sounding relieved to hear your voice. Then, hands reached out to your forehead and took off the cold that caressed your face. You groaned at the lack of comfort that brought, but as soon as you did, the face brought the cold back but only this time it was even colder and slightly wetter. You sighed in relief, the rush of oxygen actually feeling nice.

“No, you’re not dead,” the figure teased, and it was when you heard that familiar teasing and playful voice that you realised that the figure that was taking care of you was none other than Amane. Your eyes shot open as your mouth drew agape, panic and disbelief flooding your system when you realised that your best friend was the one taking care of you and not an angelic being from the clouds above. As soon as your head moved off the pillow, a rush of pain shot up your spine and into your head, making it apparent that you were also dehydrated. Amane, surprised at the sudden movement, slowly pushed you back down into the bed and placed the fallen wet cloth back on your forehead.

“Why are you here? You should be at your house!” You whined pathetically, glaring at him with as much annoyance as you could muster in that time. But seeing Amane’s worried lopsided smile made you sigh and look away, letting Amane continue with what he was doing.

The look made it very obvious to you that he wasn’t going anywhere. At least, not in a long time. He was the type of person that didn’t have a lot of friends and the friends that he did have he cherished like gold. Pushing him away would be futile and you knew it even if you were only a young teenager. But knowing that Amane too was a young teenager looking after you didn’t sit well with you either, so you opened your mouth to- “Don’t try, you’re too sick to move,” you turned back to Amane with a dumbfounded look. What? How did he know? With a smile he giggled at your confused expression “I live with a brother who gets sick like this sometimes. I’m used to it so don’t worry,” you pouted at that. It didn’t make you feel any less bad, but since he knew what he was doing put you at ease, you were at least a bit more compliant.

Amane babied you, helping you to sit up so you could read books on your shelf or just to keep you company. He brought you some soup your mother had quickly made for you and spoon-fed you despite your flustered attempts to make him stop. This only made him tease you more as he pretended it was an aeroplane like you would do for a toddler. Soon, the afternoon turned to evening, and Amane watched as your slightly more energetic self turned more and more tired until opening your eyes seemed like a chore. He had deemed it late enough and coaxed you into lying down, tucking you into bed. After keeping you company and also looking after you for the day he realised he too was tired. Now he just wanted to sleep.

“Goodbye [Y/n],” he said softly, seeing the way your eyes barely stayed open. You were fighting sleep, and for someone as sick as you, sleep would be very important for you “Get well soon, I’ll check up on you tomorrow,” he turned to leave, but before he could, you had grasped his hand to make him stay.

“It’s too late now, isn’t it? Don’t go now. I’ll feel worried for you,”

Amane looked out the window and noticed that it indeed was late. The street lamps were on, headlights of cars zoomed past leaving streaks of white in their wake and the sound of the crickets had finally made its way to his ears. Looking back to you, he saw the way that you were sitting up a bit since you reached out to grab his hand. Your eyes were pleading, of course, something you would muster to make Amane stay since he couldn’t say no to any puppy eyes, especially yours or Tsukasa’s. The reasonable answer was to stay with you since at night it was much more dangerous. So as Amane weighed his options, he let out a sigh and nodded, slipping under the covers with you. In your tired state, you had wrapped your arms around him, burying your face into his shoulder. Amane was almost sure that with this close proximity that he was going to get sick as well, but for him it was worth it since he was able to hug you for a night.

“Mmm love you Amane,”

Amane felt his cheeks light up. Was that an accident? It must be. Maybe you just meant it platonically. Why was he even thinking about that? Of course, you meant it platonically. Was he getting sick already? Yeah, that had to be it. Smiling he closed his eyes, already feeling more tired than he was a second ago.

“...love you too,”

Amane was definitely sick. But his sickness was an entirely different sickness than the one that you had.

#yugi amane x reader #hanako x reader #tbhk x reader #tbhk #jshk x reader

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seokiloquy · 4 years

Text

Coffee Diet - Kozume Kenma

AU: Tokyo Ghoul

Requested

Tags/Warnings: GN! Reader, Gore, some angst (Though both aren’t too heavy or graphic I think), probably a poor representation of the manga/anime cause I haven’t actually read/watched it all the way through despite wanting to

Word Count: 3.3k+

Kozume grunted. His kagune, the source of his inhuman power, made strikes at his cannibal attacker, forming a bone-like needle that stabbed down at the unknown ghoul. The concrete shattered like thick glass upon impact as the ghoul continued to dodge.

Tokyo (especially its many outskirt neighbourhoods) had a ghoul problem.

“You’re in the wrong territory if you think you can get away with that.”

The other ghoul only laughed, continuing his fast steps. The laugh itself was painful, scratchy and high pitched. It made Kozume wince.

The people of Kozume’s neighbourhood knew of the danger that lay waiting outside their doors, and thus an unspoken rule had been made among them. Don’t be outside past sunset. Those that did take a nightly venture typically were found mangled and half-eaten by morning. Broken bones peaking through bloodstained flesh, large bites taken out of their thighs, and torsos ripped open; delectable looking meal for a ghoul gone rouge. Kenma wouldn’t agree.

The dark alley that the ghoul had run into was walled off.

His opponent's black greasy hair hung over most of his face like a curtain, only letting a single black and red eye, and a sharp-toothed smirk poke through the strands. His hair swayed as he spun around.

“What does territory matter if there’s food to be had?” The ghoul screeched before his powered ghoul organ seeped out of his body and shot toward Kozume. It scratched his cheekbone, barely missing his eye, thankfully, but would take time to heal unlike any normal would.

Kozume hissed at the cut, willing his own kagune to slash at the ghoul who began climbing up the sides of the brick walls. The sharpened bone just missed the man’s food as he scurried over the ledge.

“See you later!”

The false blond stood there, yawning and rubbing his black and red eyes that were pinned to the building’s top. Heat from the rising sun began to warm his back. With the new light and extra heat, the tired ghoul raised his arms, stretching, as he took in his familiar surroundings. The port, or at least near it. Kozume stepped out of the alley to see the broken concrete that was left in his chase.

Another yawn escaped him before he tucked his hand in his red sweater’s pockets and walked the other way. He needed coffee.

Kuroo’s shop, as lovely of an atmosphere as it created, was in the middle of a garbage dump. It didn’t help that some of that outside aesthetic carried into the cafe itself. The bell pierced into Kozume’s ear canal as he opened the front door to the dingy sight. Stained counters, chipped porcelain, yellow lights that were so off-putting that they stayed off all the time. It’s always been dark and gloomy, until today.

“Welcome! Take a seat, I’ll be right with you.”

That’s new.

Kozume stood in the doorway, watching your form dance and sway behind the bar. He noticed the music playing, soft and completely unnatural for the cafe. Your uniform, definitely not assigned by Kuroo, was crisp and clean, black shirt sitting on your form nicely. It was modest and professional. Maybe not assigned, but definitely Kuroo’s style.

He watched as you placed a small cake at another regular’s table, patting the old man’s signature plaid jacket on the shoulder. Whatever you said made the man laugh and twirl his fork happily.

His golden eyes, now settled after his too-early walk from the destroyed park, were trained on you as he sidestepped over to his usual seat in the corner next to the window. He sat, and took his eyes off your bobbing head as you turned around. His brow furrowed. The table was clean. Kozume looked around the cafe, noticing the lack of dust and stains.

He didn’t see you drop off a cup of coffee at a table, or walk his way until you were right in front of him.

“Hi, what can I get you?”

He jumped in his seat, causing his bobbed hair to billow out for a moment. Oh no, the look in your eyes immediately told him that you could see his rosy cheeks. He coughed. “Black coffee, please.”

Your smile was perfect.

“Hey, Kenma!” An unlikely saviour with black spikey hair appeared from the doorway. Kuroo strode over and waved you down as he slid into the seat across from Kozume. “Ah you got a scratch,” he hissed, immediately putting pieces together in his head. His head turned your way. “Do you mind getting me a coffee too, (L/N)?”

Kozume’s eyes followed you as you placed your pen and notepad back into your pocket and walked toward the counter.

“(L/N)’s new, just started yesterday and all the regulars love the new energy already. So tell me, what happened?”

Kozume sighed, looking down at his hands. “More keep coming. One disappears and another shows up. I’m too tired for this.”

Despite his vague tone, Kuroo knew what Kozume was talking about and sighed immediately. He leaned back in his chair. “I’ll be able to help you out soon enough, (L/N) has gotten a good hand on things, but I don’t want to leave them alone in the shop too suddenly. You understand.”

Kozume did understand. You, the human behind the counter, were a breath of fresh air in the musty town. You didn’t know, you couldn’t have. The demeanour of someone in the know in this neighbourhood wasn’t that positive. He knew that he wouldn’t get any help until you knew of the cafe’s main purpose.

“Take your time, I can handle it for how.” Kozume yawned and gestured to his marred cheek. “This guy might be a pain to deal with though.”

Just as he finished speaking the TV that hung above his head began to rattle on about destruction occurring at their neighbourhood’s port.

Kuroo winced. “That’s a pain, all right.”

Two white cups of black coffee hit the table's surface. Kuroo thanked you as you stood straight and reached into your apron’s pocket. Next to Kozume’s mug, you placed a large band-aid as you ripped open a disinfectant wipe. “May I?”

He nodded and let your fingers gently turn his chin in your direction. The wipe glided smoothly over his cheek but stung. He hissed and pulled his head back.

“Sorry, it’ll be over in a second, I’ll be quick. Can I finish?”

Kuroo stayed silent as he watched Kozume get cared for by his employee, only speaking when the barista left the younger ghoul’s side with a kind smile. “You’re blushing.”

“I will kick your ass,” Kozume sneered before lifting his mug up to his lips for a quick sip. “Why’d you hire a human anyway?”

Kuroo mirrored his friend’s actions and drank some of his well-brewed coffee. “They don’t hold any ill will toward Ghouls if that’s what you’re wondering, maybe a bit scared. But (L/N) is very kind.”

Kosume continued to yawn through their conversation, occasionally looking your way, only to immediately turn his head as soon as there was a chance of you catching his stare. He didn’t realize how long it went on until he heard your footsteps heading for the exit.

Kuroo twisted, resting his arm over the back of the chair to face you putting on your coat. “Walk home safe!”

“Will do!” Your smile glittered before you pushed the door open and walked through.

Kozume’s eyes continued to follow you through the glass until you turned out of sight.

“Do they live far from here?” he asked Kuroo, questioning his warning.

Kuroo slapped his hand on the table twice, gathering the energy to rise to his feet. He grabbed the long since empty mugs, whose stray coffee had begun to dry on the sides. “Only a 5-minute walk. But (L/N) has to walk through alleyways to save time, and well, even during the day, you can’t be too concerned for one’s safety.”

“Ah, Kozume! Black coffee again? Would you like some food with that?”

Kozume’s stomach churned at the thought of putting something other than coffee into his system. “I’m alright, just the coffee is fine. Thanks.” Hands stuffed in his pockets, he walked to his corner. “And Kenma is fine.”

“Then, please, call me (Y/N).”

The cafe smelled cleaner than the weeks prior. Cleaning solution seems to sit right under Kozume’s nose and punch him every time he breathed. Taking his seat, he immediately noticed the lack of smudges on the window.

Kozume tried to give you a kind smile as you set his cup of coffee on the freshly cleaned table. He could feel heat crawl up his neck and settle underneath the skin of his cheeks. He gulped, readying himself to separate his lips and speak.

“You seem drained, has work been alright?” You beat him to the punch.

“Ah ya, work.” He didn’t have a job. “It’s been alright, just a bit draining because of the night shift. How has school been?”

Kuroo was quick to get you both well acquainted after your first meeting. He carried conversations until Kozume was willing enough to speak for himself. The blond was thankful for that, knowing that if he had been left alone by your side no familiarity would have been built.

“Oh, the usual. I have a few assignments to finish but nothing too overbearing. I did read an interesting article about social relations and hierarchy of ghouls in society. It was a bit depressing but educational.”

Kozume choked on his coffee, hunching over the table as he lifted a fist to his mouth. Just as the ragged coughs began to subside he felt your hand gently rub his back, sending him into another fit of coughs.

“What’s the assignment about?” he asked, settling down.

He noticed the concerned look on your face as you pulled napkins out of your pocket and set them on the table. “Ah well, I’m studying public health and humanities, and my prof told us to choose a disadvantaged group to write about. Yada yada, so on so forth. I chose ghouls.”

He gestured for you to sit with one hand, waving at Kuroo with the other as he wiped down the main counter. You smiled and took the seat across from him.

“You believe ghouls are disadvantaged?”

Your brow furrowed, pondering. “Well ya, in some ways. Maybe not in strength and power, but ghouls are rather hated in society don’t you think?”

Once again, while preparing to speak, he was cut off by the overhead TV switching audio. Listening to the graphic words coming out of the reporter's mouth, Kozume sighed and raised a hand to push against his temple.

The distressed look on your face made him pause. A pit grew in his stomach as your concerned face turned to Kuroo, who was calling you back to your station. You were quick to bring back your smile. “Enjoy the coffee, and rest when you can.”

Kozume returned your smile meekly but was focused on the grotesque details the reporter listed, unable to stop himself from imagining you, defenceless, in that sort of danger. He couldn’t stomach the coffee.

“(Y/N), I really don’t think I should leave you here alone after dark.”

You sighed, looking to your boss with an unimpressed smirk. Kuroo squinted, lips pursing as he watched your knowing smirk turn humorous.

“Testu, don’t you have work to do at night? My walk home may be a lot safer, if you get to that, no?”

Kuroo cursed, punching the wooden counter with a dull bumping sound. He groaned. “How did you know?”

You laughed, shifting the position of your hands on the wooden poll and continuing to sweep the floor of the empty cafe. “I study! It may not be so obvious but don’t you think I’d pick up on you being a ghoul after a few weeks?”

“I mean maybe, but I was hoping you didn’t know!”

A light scoff shot off your tongue and through your teeth. “I would think you’d be relieved, now you don’t have to be so cautious around me.”

Kuroo picked up the washcloth he had been holding earlier off the counter and began to wipe the wooden surface down again. “No harm in caution. Even if you do know.”

“Ya, ya, just don’t show me a severed limb. I can’t do gore.”

Kuroo laughed and tossed the damp towel onto the edge of the metal sink. His arms shifted to his back to aunty the black apron around his waist. “Are you sure you’re okay here alone?”

The TV’s sound changed to the news’ intro tune as you grabbed the remote and turned it off. You gave the ghoul a warm smile. “I can handle it. Go go.”

The sun was already over the horizon by the time you were ready to leave. You stood on the inside of the door, punching in the pin code to the security lock. It beeped, giving you the warning to leave and lock the door. Once done, you pulled your sweater a little tighter on your shoulders and shoved your hands in the pockets.

You focused on the sound of your rubber souls stepping on the concrete and the occasional tick of a pebble getting kicked. Street lights flickered, or at least the ones that were working did. Walking upon a burnt out light, you took the marker to turn down the neighbouring alleyway.

Two steps in was all it took before you lifted the collar of your weather over your nose. The putrid smell wafted your way from the dumpster. “Ugh, it’s not garbage day tomorrow is it?” Setting closer towards the opposite wall, you help your breath and face forward. Until the burnt-out light flickered on.

You halted, head frozen forward as you looked out of the corner of your eye. Immediately your stomach churned and your throat began to pulse uncomfortably.

First, you noticed the pool of dark red blood that was slowly growing, nearing your shoes. Then it was pieces of loose skin and grey hair, stained as they floated in their puddle. Your heart seized at the sight of a ragged plaid jacket that was recklessly torn. You searched higher.

A single red iris surrounded by a black gloss stared at your profile. The rest was obscured by pin-straight greasy hair except for a large, inhuman smirk that showed off shark-like teeth covered in blood.

You cautiously removed your hands from your pockets, watching the poorly dressed skeletal like figure’s hunch move up and down as he breathed.

One beat.

You saw his claw-like fingers hold the wrinkly hand of the severed arm like a possessed lover. Your foot shifted.

Two beats.

The ghoul’s head tilted, revealing a tube-like pound of pink flesh hanging from his fangs. You gulped.

Three beats.

You ran.

Pulse already off the hertz, you sprinted with all your might to the flickering light at the other end of the alley. A stupid move, but taking the time to turn around wasn’t an option. Each step sent a jolt into your stomach. Your footsteps were much louder than before, but your blood was drowning it out. The lamp was so much slower now.

You froze suddenly. Stopped by a tug on your arm. Vertigo suddenly hit and the lamp was pulled further away. Then you recalled the tug, and noticed the increased pulsing in your arm, then felt your sweater become sticky and heavy. You looked to the side and down.

Were bones supposed to stick out like that?

You hardly registered it’s presence before the spike-like bone was torn from your limb, sending you into another fit of screams.

The light at the end of the alley flickered again, before going completely dark.

His heart raced, blood pumping through his ears like crazy.

“Calm down Kenma! You can’t go crazy like this!”

“I have every right! You heard that scream, didn’t you? It was (Y/N)!”

The blonde’s kagune went wild, thrashing about and nearly knocking Kuroo over in the process. Said ghoul didn’t flinch, only brushing away the agitated organ with a push of his own.

“I know, but you have to—”

He was off, launching into the air and onto the rooftops, following the smell of your spilt blood before Kuroo could finish his sentence. The black-haired man swore, quickly following suit.

The sight was expected, horrifying, but not surprising.

Whoever’s intestines were falling out of the ghoul’s mouth, Kozume couldn’t tell, but he wasn’t gonna let the ghoul he had been hunting get another chance to make a meal out of your body if he could help it.

“GET OFF!”

Something cracked as the long-haired ghoul’s body flew off yours, smashing against the brick wall of the alley. Kozumes sharp-pointed kagune pinned him through the stomach to the cracking brick.

He only gave you a glance. The sight made his stomach churn as if he were trying to eat a regular meal. Torn skin, visible bone, and blood everywhere. He wanted to vomit.

Behind him he could hear Kuroo’s feet land in the massive pool of blood, making it splash slightly. Their clothes would have to be trashed later.

Kozume gritted his teeth. Despite his boiling rage at you being injured, he managed to hold off his brutal assault against the bloodied ghoul until he heard Kuroo zip away with you in his arms.

Even in your current state, you’d be safer away from the scene.

“I don’t think (Y/N) is going to be able to work for a while.”

“Some of the regulars are spooked, but relieved.”

Whatever was holding your arm like a boa constrictor was making sleep really hard. You groaned. Why did your stomach hurt?

“Ah, look who’s up.” Kuroo’s voice was as teasing as always.

Your sight was blurry when you finally came to. The first thing you noticed was the aggressive pulsing in your arm and stomach followed by a warm hand on your shoulder. You tried to shift.

“Ah stupid, don’t do that.” Kozume’s voice, despite a slight rasp, was as gentle as ever.

You sighed and squinted towards Kuroo who stood at the end of — what you were quick to realize— was your hospital bed. His arms were crossed and the smirk he wore was humorous. “Kuroo, if you say a single word, I will gladly risk further injury to fight you.”

Kenma shut his eyes and rubbed your shoulder before reaching for a hot mug from your bedside table. Kuroo walked around to the opposite side to help you sit up. You watch a thick red sweater fall off your shoulders and onto your lap, in front of your bandaged stomach.

Kenma spoke quietly, “Your sweater was torn to pieces.”

“Like my body?” you joked, only to get a sour look from the man in return. “Sorry.”

He sighed again and handed you the steaming mug. “Here, drink this. You need food.”

Kuroo walked back to the end of the bed, letting Kozume take care of you from then on.

“Coffee is considered a food now?”

Kuroo let out a short chuckle, making you tilt your brow in his direction. Kozume coughed, placing the mug down quickly to lift his red sweater off of your lap. He draped it back onto your chest, tucking it between your shoulders and pillow, then slowly guiding your arms through the sleeves.

You rubbed your hands together for warmth as Kozume offered you the hot mug again. You took it, thanking him with a shining smile. You once again failed to notice the rosiness of his cheeks, even if Kuroo didn’t.

“You won’t be able to stomach anything else, sorry.”

Why did this take me so long to write…. Oh well. -Bacon

Posted: 14/02/2021

#kenma x reader #Kenma Kozume #Kozume Kenma #kenma kozume x reader #Haikyuu x reader #haikyuu #x reader #oneshot #oneshots #haikyuu oneshots #haikyuu reader insert #reader insert #aus #haikyuu aus #fluff #haikyu #haikyu x reader #anime x reader #anime

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thenightlymartini · 3 years

Text

Special Headcannon Week! (#66) APHRarePairWeek2021

@aphrarepairweek2021

Day 2: Royalty

Headcannon #66

Kimchiburger: I almost wanna go Cardverse AU! with this. Like America is the King of Spades, and technically England is the Queen of Spades, but like they are similar to co-rulers rather than married? So, that leaves America as like, the most popular bachelor in the Spades Kingdom. And SK is just some musician that America finds while touring one of the towns near the border of Hearts and is just absolutely smitten with him. Like, he makes SK the court musician because he fell in love with the other’s soothing voice and wanted him around more. He basically fell in love on first meeting while SK is just flabbergasted that the King of Spades likes his singing so much that he got a job in the palace and is completely oblivious to America’s attempts at courting or hidden agenda when he specially requests love songs.

Everyone else in the court is both amused and aghast that the King took interest in some commoner just because he has a good voice. England is just more annoyed at America beating around the bush because even he realizes nothing will happen between the two if one of them doesn’t gain another brain cell soon.

RusNK: NK was the prince in a royal family that got overthrown when he was young, like maybe 10 or so, became the only survivor of said family (sorry, SK dead in this AU) and had been in hiding in another country plotting for revenge. Except, when he finally decides to act on it, he finds out that the rebels who overthrew and killed his family got overthrown themselves and a whole new royal family has taken its place, this being where Russia is the crowned prince of said new royal family. So he decides to infiltrate the new royal family and become the crown prince’s bodyguard, ‘cause he is technically the rightful heir and should be ruling, not this family.

Except, as he gets closer to Russia, develops feelings, and really examines the situation, he can’t help but to begin to question everything. Like, should he really fight for his right as heir? If he does, it means giving up on his feelings for Russia and eventually kill or fight him. Plus, he has to think of the people. They’ve been through too many uprisings and have finally found stability with this royal family. Should they go through more violence and instability just because of his ego and his personal belief in what is rightfully his? Not only that, but he would eventually learn that his family wasn’t entirely blameless and the rebels had a point in overthrowing them (there was rampant corruption and general neglect, but did that mean they had to kill even the children who had nothing to do with the politics and were mostly innocent?). It begins to dawn on him that perhaps he is fighting for something so antiquated that it has no purpose in the current situation, or even in the future for that matter.

He could give up on the idea of regaining the throne, but then where would he be? Who would he be? All those years of training, plotting, scheming, for what? Wasted? What would his identity be then? What purpose would he serve?

He could then just serve the new royal family, maybe, if he got lucky, he might even marry Russia, thus technically regaining the throne without displacing the stability. But what if he was found out? Russia wouldn’t take it lightly, since the whole reason the two would get close in the beginning was because Russia trusted him as one of the only people that wanted to be close to him without ulterior motives or planed on using him. He could easily see it as being used. Not only that, but the new royal family doesn’t particularly care for the old royals at all, having sided with the rebels in the beginning due to shared views. He would be a dead man if caught. So does he live even more of a lie? Always on the knife’s edge while aiming for the perfect solution? While aiming for potential happiness for himself and Russia?

Commieburger: This was really based off of Atlantis.

NK is the prince of a long lost civilization, and America is an archaeologist or anthropologist with a dig team and some mercenaries who just so happens to have the book that will lead them to the lost city. But instead of the whole team finding the city, America is the only survivor of a cave in, and the only reason why he is saved by NK is because NK (who had been following the group for a while) saw him as one of the only decent humans out of that group. Like the whole group was willing to use explosives on ancient pillars and trample their way through holy ground, and the only one to care about it was America.

So NK rescues an unconscious America and brings him back to the lost city, where America wakes up and is super confused and stupefied and generally amazed at what he sees. Come to find out, NK’s father, the emperor, is dying of some sort of illness and NK is poised to become the next emperor. The current emperor wants to get rid of America, preferably kill him so that their location and the people remained protected from the outside world, as that world played a part in their downfall and subsequent hiding. However, America proves himself useful by actively trying to help them recover a lot of their old culture and history that they themselves have forgotten about, from delving into dangerous ruins to retrieve old documents or artifacts to even teaching NK how to read his long forgotten written language thanks to his book that he had since the expedition.

Through all of these adventures the two’s relationship grows from strangers to a tentative friendship to even a romance. Like these two realize that their feelings are mutual without ever having to state it, they’ll hold hands or have more skin contact than normal, but will never kiss (get pretty close, but one or the other always holds back) or fully commit to a relationship due to understanding the circumstances and situation they find themselves in. Like, America understands that NK’s people are in a precarious situation where their culture is dying off and having contact with the outside world again could either save them or doom them. He wants them, by way of convincing NK, that the outside world isn’t what it used to be and that they could still be independent. But NK has to worry about his people, he is both fascinated and fearful of the outside world, and knows he has to be very careful with how he could be leading his people. He knows his father would keep them secluded, even at the cost of them dying off, because at least they will retain what little independence and cultural identity they have left. But with him dying, it’s up to NK to decide what to do. He almost wants to just keep America with them and forget about the outside world, but knows that really isn’t the best idea. Like, same sex relations are actually a normal thing in his culture, heck, even some past royals were involved in same sex relations or had same sex partners. It’s the fact that everyone sees America as the outsider to an extent even with his help in re-obtaining their culture and history; it would be too far out there. Not only that, but he understands that it wouldn’t be morally right to force America to stay, and America, in a way, doesn’t really belong in that world. Both of them fully know they don’t want to lose the other, but reality isn’t going to make it that easy for them.

#aphrarepairweek2021 #aph america #hws america #aph russia #hws russia #aph south korea #hws south korea #aph north korea #hws north korea #kimchiburger #rusnk #commieburger #im sang kyu #hetalia #day 2: royalty

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herstarburststories · 4 years

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Treacherous

Pairing: Demon!Dean x Reader

Summary: You finally fall for Demon!Dean's charm and give yourself to him.

Warnings: oral sex (male receiving), language, smasgt.

You grimaced when your feet touched the cold ground of your bedroom, although it was still strange to think about that place as such. After all, it had been years sleeping and not sleeping in a room shared with Dean. To glare at the walls and not to find any rock bands posters or accidentally trip on one of his adult magazines was at the bare minimum. But then, there was nothing you could do about that. Accepting a demon version of your boyfriend’s invitation to stay in your and Dean’s old room was completely out of limits.

Dean, or his demon self, as you needed to remind yourself more than you’d like to admit, was living in the bunker again after an unsuccessful attempt of curing him. Castiel had said that maybe the cure didn’t work out as all of you intended, but it could’ve somehow reminded him of humanly emotions in a deeper sense.

Cas had been resting in the bunker more than usual just to make sure that you and Sam were safe. When he wasn’t there, the angel would be busy looking for another way to cure the eldest Winchester. You and Sam had been searching as much as possible, outside of Dean’s protests against it.

‘’Personally, I like the disease. Come on, guys. I’m still me, just better,” he had said right before he started looking for a new case.

Shaking your head, you rose up from the bed. The clock appointed two in the AM, reporting your obvious insomnia. A sigh escaped from your lips as you walked out the door, silently pacing towards the kitchen. Perhaps a cup of water would help. If you were lucky, the chocolate bar you had left in the fridge would be there still.

The frosty breeze from the refrigerator on your face was near to a midnight relief, which caused you to smile softly. Its light was your only company while you looked for the forgotten chocolate bar, until a deep voice spoke: ‘’You have been avoiding me, sweetheart.’’

You turned around with a swift move, mildly surprised by his sudden presence. Dean smirked at you, half of his face concealed by the darkness that the refrigerator light couldn’t reach.

You huffed. ‘’It’s two in the morning, and I just came to get some water, Dean. Let’s not start it.’’

‘’But I wanna start it, (Y/N). Come on, it’s been days.’’ Out of nowhere, he grabbed your waist and pulled you closer, the blackish shadows enveloping both of you. You gasped, placing your hands on his chest to separate you two.

‘’Let me go!’’ You groaned at Dean, pushing him away, but it didn’t have any effect. If anything, he only pulled you closer. You couldn't see anything in the dark. Yet, it wasn’t quite necessary. His breath hitting your cheek was warning enough of how close he was.

‘’I get it, (Y/N). You miss the good ol’ Dean, but he is gone for good, sweetheart. I’m all that’s left. Don’t you miss me enough to want me like this?’’

Before your answer, he held you. Pressing his body to yours, you felt his semi erect cock against you. You pursed your lips together in an attempt to keep the clear pleasure of feeling his body to yourself. You didn’t need to give him such satisfaction. Besides, he wasn’t your Dean.

He wasn’t your Dean, you had to remind yourself. What was pretty complicated considering how close you were, and how many wonderful memories were attached to similar situations.

‘’What? Cat got your tongue?’’ Dean smirked, moving his hips against yours. A weak moan left your lips. He grinned, leaning him to lick your neck with no scruples. ‘’Or demon did?’’ Although his voice remained harsh and deadly sexy, even his tune had changed. The way he laughed was treacherous, like everything about a demon was supposed to be. You should be scared. You should be mad. You should be anything but attracted to what once was your loving Dean. People didn’t see a demon and fantasize about getting in bed with them. They ran away and started searching for a religious solution to protect them. Right now, it seemed like you were praying to stay with the devil.

Deep down, it was him. There was a fragile, tiny voice in your mind that insisted for you to believe that. He was still your Dean, damaged as fuck, but the man you had loved for years. All your rationality told you to run away, to push him, scream at him until Sam woke up, just so you wouldn’t have a way near Dean again. You had been doing it with ease for three days, but it was only getting harder.

And this Dean made sure that your self control wasn’t the only thing getting harder. His clothed boner was still pressed against you. It grew more excited as he bit your neck, right on the sweet spot where most of his marks were left behind before.

You sniffled softly, which could be easily misunderstood by a low moan. He felt like your Dean. He looked like your Dean. He had your Dean’s memories. But he didn’t laugh like your Dean. He didn’t touch you like him, either. He was more assertive, certainly rougher. Even his mouth on your neck right now showed that. Still, he was too close. After months. He was here. Not quite the Dean you cried endless tears for, but it was enough for tonight.

You needed it. You needed Dean Winchester in whatever shape he would come. No one could point fingers at you for that; they didn’t know what it was like. He could not be your Dean, but he could love you like he did. And if that wasn't possible, he could fuck you like Dean used to.

Unseen tears rolled on your cheeks as you pushed him to the wall. You didn’t dare to make any further noise. It took Dean a second to understand what was going on, but an ill-natured smirk conquered his features when he did. He surely as hell had a good amount of memories on how you enjoyed sucking him off back then, as much as he loved eating you out for records. Your knees met your ground like a prayer’s would, but you weren’t looking for forgiveness. Pretty the opposite, you jumped right in the sin. There was no one, not even a higher power that could stop or help you now. You had crossed the line as you unzipped his pants and got rid of his jeans as fast as possible.

‘’You have no idea how much I missed your mouth, sweetheart.’’

When your lips touched the tip of his hardness, you didn’t feel any relief. It wasn’t a matter of just wanting to have sex with him. It was a necessity. Much like an addict getting another dose of the drug, there was no heavenly, rose-colored feeling. It was just a fulfilment of a need. You needed him, and who could blame you for that? After all you had been through, after fighting every instinct in your body to keep a safe distance, after seeing him die and come back only to lose him again. Maybe the Winchester was your perdition, like many people had told you before in a futile attempt to give friendly advice. Maybe you had achieved the limit or love had ultimately made you crazy.

Your body was shaking in abstinence as you finally put his trembling cock inside your mouth, not taking time to lick the drop of precum like you usually did to tease Dean before doing what he wished. His eyes were closed, head resting against the wall as he bit his lower lip. His precum was being cleaned up by your experienced tongue moving around his length. Your hand grabbed what wasn’t in your mouth yet, moving it up and down to make him more excited.

‘’Fuck, (Y/N). Do it, get all of me in that pretty little mouth of yours. You always loved it, didn’t you?’’ Dean’s groans were an evident desire for you to give him more, but, on your knees, it seemed like you were the one begging. Begging him to stay, to love you, to give you anything to hold on to. And if sex in the kitchen while Sam was sleeping and Castiel was doing an angelic version of rest was it, then so fucking be it.

You coughed a bit as you got more of his dick in your mouth, until your hand was completely replaced. You moaned against his cock when it hit the back of your throat. It only incentivized him even more. Dean’s hand finally found your hair, his fingers running through the (Y/H/C) sea as he asserted the rhythm. As you expected, he was fast, rough. Just what you needed.

After everything that happened to him, since the mark of Cain to his resurrection into a demon, you had been broken. And all your tiny, little pieces together were looking for him. Now, your mind was long gone, and all you knew was Dean Winchester. He was there. He was alive. He was with you again.

You sucked his cock, trying to follow his lead as much as you could without choking. Your tongue swirling around, up, and down his length. The grip on your hair tighter as he increased the pace, searching for his climax. Your pussy was a wet mess since you got on the ground for him, but you allowed your hand to slip into your panties and rub your clit as your mouth was fucked by Dean.

‘’Fuck, (Y/N). I’m coming. Will you be my good girl and swallow all of it?’’ Dean continued moving your head and his hips violently, your fingers caressing yourself as his cock bumped your throat carelessly. He was almost there, and so were you.

Your name left his lips in the form of a loud howl. It almost didn’t sound human. Well, it could always be the demon in him. His semen invaded your mouth as soon as your hands got dirty with your own climax, and all in your head was him, his name, the feeling that always accompanished his touches. You couldn't help but want him to keep close to you, a vivid reminder that he was there. He pulled away from you, and you almost whined, wanting to crawl closer to him. Fortunately, Dean didn’t plan on being apart from you for more than a few seconds, soon leaning forward to grab your jaw. The perfect angle for the refrigerator light to brighten his face. He looked at you through his lashes, indigo eyes dark with desire.

‘’Swallow all of it, (Y/N),” he commanded, as if you weren’t gonna do it anyway. You simply nodded, swallowing every single drop of his cum. That orgasm, though, didn’t feel as much like liberation as it should’ve. It felt like falling from grace. A sweet, tasty fall, but still. ‘’Open your mouth, let me see if you did as I told you. You always loved being my spicy, stubborn girl.’’ Dean pressed your jaw with his fingers. You opened your mouth for him, sticking your tongue out, only to gain a satisfied smile from the currently green-eyed man. ‘’What do we have here?’’ He grabbed your hand and pulled it closer to his lips, vivid eyes glaring at you as if he had caught a little kid doing something wrong. ‘’You were touching yourself, sweetheart? And came just from it and sucking me? How dirty.’’ Dangerously soft laughter echoed from his body but was soon ended when he licked your fingers, enjoying your taste. How he had missed you. ‘’Delicious, as always. You know what’s better? All of it just for me.’’

The refrigerator noises made the anthem for the moment you had sure you had lost your mind. What was done was done. Whatever it took, you couldn't lose him. Not again. You needed him.

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mommymooze · 4 years

Text

Death By Association

Hubert approaches the woman who is bent down at the table, silently pouring through various tomes and books in the library. He coughs into his fist. “You have requested my presence?”

You look up suddenly and stand erect, making a respectful bow. “General Von Vestra, thank you so much for gracing me with a few moments of your valuable time.”

“Yes, my time is quite valuable. Proceed.” Hubert eyes the woman cautiously. He has seen her around for several months but does not recall working with her directly.

“I am a cleric, in General Von Hevring’s battalion. I also work in the medical tents treating the wounded. Sometimes Linhardt will discuss his research with me. This particular subject is one that he has lost interest in, however I believe this is something I must share with you.”

You advise that you have been studying plagues following wars throughout history. Making notes of transmission methods, symptoms, etcetera. You have been studying this subject for several years. Thus far there have been no unknown illnesses or diseases that have affected the masses, however there is something unique you must discuss with him.

You look about the library seeing no others.

“I have seen six victims.” You begin, “the first a few years ago. The other five within the last year. It was quite gruesome. I have recorded the symptoms that I have been able to identify. Most concerning is as the illness comes to its end, the subjects begin to bleed profusely, their blood is hot, appearing to be boiling out of them. It is so hot that their clothing catches fire. Anything that was used to clean their blood begins smoke and catch fire as well. Needless to say it is a horrible death.”

“What interest would I have in this?” Hubert stares intently.

“The two most recent deaths were from your own battalion. The dark magic corps, correct?”

“Yes.” He mutters, still eyeing you suspiciously.

“The last battle at Gronder was horrific.” Your voice trembles, “Only those two were affected. Bleeding from their eyes and hands. Bloody noses that would not stop. We quarantined them. Their symptoms worsened quickly until their blood boiled out and they died. We pursued multiple ways to fight this affliction. Healing merely slows the process. We placed one subject in a deep bath filled with ice water. His temperature continued rising higher and higher. He burst into flames while submerged in the water.” You shudder, crying as you recall the gruesome deaths.

“Could it be…” Hubert abruptly stops.

Within the hour you are in a meeting room with Emperor Edelgard, Hubert, and Linhardt. Hubert provides a succinct summary of your findings.

Linhardt speaks. “It is obvious that it has something to do with the Agarthans.”

“There are quite a few in Hubert’s battalion.” You comment.

“How do you know about them.” Hubert stands, leaning over toward you and glaring.

“I am one of their failed experiments, courtesy of our beloved friend, Cornelia.” You subconsciously hug yourself, looking away.

“How do you recognize them?” Hubert’s eyes still piercing you.

“I can smell them.” You snarl.

The Emperor excuses herself after placing a high priority on obtaining a solution. The remaining three brainstorm on what is known, what is suspected, and what can be done. Tomes and books are brought in from Claude and Lin’s room as well as Abyss. Hubert assigns several of his spies to multiple battalions, other Generals battalions to monitor what occurs in his own unit.

Reviewing the data gathered thus far, it is obvious advanced magic is needed. The green haired cleric suggests Rhea and Seteth’s rooms. You split up, he takes Rheas quarters, while you take the other, agreeing to bring any items of interest back here.

You scour the books on the shelves of his office. There are a few tomes but none contain the desired spells. You search Seteth’s bedroom, moving every object you can. You check the two bookshelves. One is easily pushed to the side, the other will not budge. You resort to removing all books from the shelves until you find a lever behind a book. Once pulled, the bookshelf swings into the room. On the back of the shelf is a recessed area shelving several unique and very old tomes. Snatching them up, you return to the meeting room.

Two books are historical, probably interesting to Hubert. One is written in a language that you cannot understand. Two are filled with clerical procedures and spells. Some you’ve seen in practice as part of church services, some you have never heard referenced before.

Lin returns several hours later. Not that he had found anything particularly interesting, but he did take a nap in Rhea’s bed.

The green haired healer peers at the spell book you wave in front of his face. His eyes widen as he reads through the runes and incantations that are recorded. The spell you have the greatest interest in is “Purifying Light.” The two of you begin to make notes, dissecting the spell into its component parts.

Early the next morning Hubert enters the room bringing coffee, which you graciously accept. You have been so absorbed in the research you had not noticed the sun is just starting to rise over the horizon. You and Linhardt have nearly completed the mapping and logic stream of the spell. Hubert, having very little experience with this type of magic, does not completely follow your cryptic writings, that does not stop him from asking many questions about the effects, the intent.

You explanation the dissection of the spell. “Its purpose is to banish the darkness from a person. A spiritual exorcism. If they are too far gone, it may simply end them, in a peaceful manner hopefully. The texts do not discuss unexpected effects or results. Primarily the intended target is a victim of a high level dark magic spell. If you are banishing the darkness, what will happen to those that have cast nothing but dark magic all of their lives? We still have much more to investigate. The Agarthans live in near total darkness. Surely a spell creating a pure light would have a pronounced effect on them as well as those that they have contaminated.”

The sun traverses the sky and begins to descend in the west when you finally decide your productivity level is too low and you need sleep. Heading to your room you think of Hubert. He has been helpful throughout the research, frequently checking on you, bringing food and coffee and insisting you take breaks, walking with you around the monastery getting exercise.

Several weeks pass, you are prepared to test the spell. Hubert is away on a mission, his battalion with him. You and Lin agree the timing is perfect, keeping the Agarthans unaware of this spell. The pair move to the magical training area, specifically the fireproof area. You cast the spell, the sigils glowing before you as you concentrate on the proper movement and sequence while reciting the verbal components of the spell, at the final words a bright radiance fills a glass sphere that is floating in a basin of holy water, the two physical spell components. The orb rises into the air and glows with a bright whiteness, the intensity of the light increases to the point of needing to shade your eyes. Suddenly the room is in complete darkness as the spell concludes.

Blinking your eyes to readjust to the normal light in the room, both of you inspect the walls and floors of the stone structure to see if anything has changed. Besides feeling physically warm there is no affect to your person. The room smells…clean. You cannot see any traces of mold or mildew on the walls.

The components are reset. Linhardt casts the spell, it does not seem to be as bright as yours, his movements are not as crisp, nor did he care to be as precise as you. Still, you both feel warm. The room is unchanged. You casually wonder if it can remove that permanent funky smell in the laundry room.

Two nights later, Hubert warps into the monastery. He is accompanied by one of his spies hiding within his battalion.

“This man was standing next to an Agarthan when they were killed. As we have seen in the past, many of those that slither crumble to dust when killed, especially in the daylight. We had to wait until my man was separated from the rest of the battalion. I believe he is showing signs of the illness.”

The spy, now patient, is holding a cloth to his nose. Blood runs down his face and hand, pooling under his fingernails. The clerics don thick aprons and gloves, a table is moved to the spellcasting training area. The fireproof area is chosen again. Losing the infirmary to an explosion or fire would be devastating.

The patient is calmed and lying prone on the table. You remove the patient’s shirt, exposing more of his skin to the light that will be created by the spell. Fresh holy water is poured into the basin next to the patient, the glass orb is now floating.

Reviewing the spell a final time, you raise your hands to cast, warning everyone to shade their eyes.The patient uses one hand to hold the cloth under his bleeding nose, the other covering his eyes.

Casting the Purifying Light spell, you manipulate the sigils, then recite the verbal incantation, your voice more powerful than the last time as you have gained confidence having cast the spell before. The orb floats high into the air, the water pulled up into it to fuel the light, then a bright flash occurs, the spell ending with a distinct ‘pop’ and the room goes dark.

Uncovering your eyes, you run over to the patient, fingers to his throat. He still has a pulse! He removes his hand from his eyes, suddenly turning away from you, coughing and hacking viciously, then vomits. Linhardt takes a cloth to wipe the disgusting mess from the table.

Studying the expelled liquid on the cloth, Linhardt comments. “This is very black and fine. Much finer than blood in his system. It resembles a powder.” The green haired scholar surmises. “Like dead Agarthan dust.”

Linhardt checks the patient further. “He is breathing well, no longer bleeding. His fingers now look clear, no blood pooling.“ He asks the man on the table, “How are you feeling?”

“I feel warm. There are other things, but mostly warm.” He says with a smile, happy that he can breathe again.

You turn to Hubert, bolting to where he was standing. He is now lying on the ground. You realize nobody had warned him it would be in his best interest not to remain within the room during the spell casting as you had no idea how it would affect him. You hastily sit him up, sitting on the floor next to him, anxiously checking him out. His pulse is fine. You put your ear on his chest to listen and see if anything is wrong.

“Mmmmm.” Hubert hums. “It is incredibly warm.”

“I’m so sorry, Hubert. Did you hit your head? Are you hurt?” Your hands brushing any dirt from his clothes. He looks to be a bit dazed. You pull his eyelids open checking his pupils, grasping his face to turn his head this way and that.

“No, I recall a bright light and then found myself on the floor. I am not experiencing pain.” Hubert says slowly, as if he has to think twice before speaking any word.

“When you are ready, I will help you to stand. We should take you to your room, as well as inform the Emperor of the current events.”

Hubert takes a moment to situate himself then takes your hand, with your assistance is able to stand.

Hubert looks down at your hand in his. “Your hand is incredibly warm. Not hot, not burning. Just…warm.” He at you. “You also appear to be glowing.” His brows furrow.

Linhardt interrupts without looking up from the patient, “Yes, she was last time she cast this spell too.”

You look at Hubert unsure if he is well. “Let’s get you to your quarters, General.” You turn him around to make certain any dirt from his fall is brushed away.

As you lead him to the door he takes your hand in his again. “Still warm.” He smiles walking toward his quarters holding your hand,

He arrives, opens his door, then waves causing several candles flicker to life. He ushers you inside and closes the door behind you.

“How are you feeling now? Any dizziness?” You cautiously ask, heaven forbid if you did anything to one of Adrestia’s greatest generals. You lead him to sit on the chair next to his desk.

Hubert thinks for a moment, rubbing his hands up and down his thighs. “I do not recall striking my head or falling. I recall the spell, the bright light and the popping noise. Then you were assisting me to stand. My hands feel oddly sensitive.”

You frown, quite concerned. “Hubert, please remove your gloves?”

“This has nothing to do with me or my hands.” Hubert responds curtly.

Well, that sounds more like him. “Humor me. I’ve seen them before.” Your voice stern, sounding more like the cleric you are.

The dark mage reluctantly pulls his gloves off his hands, you grasp his fingers in yours and pull them closer to the light. You notice the fingers are not as dark black as they had been, the purple streaks only going into his palms, no longer covering his wrist. You take your fingernail and scrape it under his pinky finger.

“Why did you do that?” he snaps at you hastily pulling his hand from your grasp.

“Because I could. Look.” You take his hand, showing him his palm.

Hubert stares, first at one hand, then the other. Touching his fingertips together. There is a look upon his face that you have never seen before, a look of awe.

“How…?” The man is mystified, staring as he clenches his fingers into a fist, then uncurls them.

“My apologies, Hubert. Linhardt and I had discussed that prior to performing the spell that we should ask you to remove yourself from range. We were not certain how the spell would affect you. Our error is serendipitous for you. It appears to have reversed some of the scarring.”

Hubert shakes his head. “I have not had this much sensation of feeling in my fingers for years.” His voice softens as he stares at his fingers again.

“We must report to Her Majesty.” You remind him. Definitely distracted.

“Absolutely.” Hubert stands, brushing himself off and then taking your hand in his as quickly guides you to the Emperor’s room and knocks. “Apologies, my Emperor, there is a matter we must discuss.”

He pulls you by the hand into her room, keeping it clasped in his. He explains his rushed return, the performing of the spell and that everything thus far is considered a complete success.

Emperor Edelgard peers at the two of you slightly squinting, spying that he is holding your hand tightly. “Thank you, Hubert. Anything else?”

“No, my lady, you will have your report in the morning.” The general bows and so do you. He shows you to the door, returning to his room’s interior, refusing to release your hand.

He proceeds to sit on the edge of his bed, you stand next to him.

“Hubert, you should rest.” You whisper softly placing the back of your free hand to his forehead to see if he is warm. He’s not.

“I will take your recommendation under consideration.” He says, less curtly than usual.

“I have had a busy day as well.” You say softly, looking down. “If you do not mind…” you look to your hand in his.

“What if I do mind?” Hubert says, looking into your eyes. “I find your presence comfortable.”

You think to yourself, others have said many times of how Hubert’s presence is so frightening, how he gives off a scary aura, however you have never seen him to be that way, never felt cold chills at his approach or terrified should he look at you.

“As I do yours.” You sit on the bed, a bit of space between you.

“I wish to thank you for restoring some sensation to my hands. We have tried many different spells and cures. How can I thank you?” Hubert looks a little overwhelmed.

“I charge you one hug.” You shyly slide your hands between his arms and body, pulling him into a hug, putting your nose into his neck so he cannot see the bright red flush of your cheeks.

Hubert, not the most practiced at hugs, wraps his long arms around you one hand above the other at the center of your back resting his cheek on top of your head.

You hear the most beautiful sigh as you give him a little squeeze.

#fe3h x reader #fe3h #feth #hubert von vestra #FE16 #Fire Emblem Three Houses #linhardt von hevring #myStories

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dropintomanga · 4 years

Text

“My Broken Mariko” Reveals a Broken Real World

“I’m so broken...I don’t know where to start fixing myself anymore.”

As someone who’s experienced thoughts of suicidal ideation, I can say that Waka Hirako’s My Broken Mariko is a title that hits me harder than most media do when it comes to the topic of suicide. The manga, which I think is one of the best manga of 2020, does not hold any hands throughout the story and there’s so much to unpack. Reading this has made me think about my thought process on suicide and my belief that suicide is a very systemic issue that involves everyone.

My Broken Mariko is about a young woman named Tomoyo Shiino, who just found out her best friend since childhood, Mariko Ikagawa, killed herself a week after they hung out. Filled with despair and unable to process Mariko’s death, Tomoyo decides to go to visit the home of Mariko’s parents and steal Mariko’s ashes from them. Mariko had a history of being abused ever since she was little, so Tomoyo felt it was her duty to free Mariko from that burden. After taking Mariko’s ashes, Tomoyo goes on a journey to a place called Marigaoka Cape as she remembers Mariko wanted to go there with her. Tomoyo goes through hell and back to let Mariko’s ashes be free in nature, but she does eventually start to realize that the best way to honor Mariko’s life is to keep living.

I’m not sure where to start with this. I’ve read multiple interviews with Waka Hirako since there was a good amount of promotion for My Broken Mariko. I wasn’t prepared for how absolutely realistic this story was. And I’m glad for that. Mariko’s history of being abused by her parents (and also a boyfriend when was an adult) shows how prevalent victim-blaming is. Mariko tells Tomoyo that her parents blame her for acting in ways that aren’t to their standards. Everything’s her fault, Mariko says. While Tomoyo was there to support her, Mariko didn’t have extra help beyond that. She had no one else, professional and/or peer-wise, who can empathize with her struggles. Mariko felt too defined by her circumstances to the point where she didn’t know who to turn to anymore for the help she truly needed.

In one moment of her journey to Marigaoka Cape, Tomoyo lashes out in anger at Mariko and herself at a bar. The words she says made me think about how suicide is treated by almost everyone.

“My memories of her keep fading away, even as I stand here! I’ll only remember her as perfect...even though - I thought she was such a pain...so many times..!”

The last part where Tomoyo where she said that Mariko was annoying due to her constant troubles says a lot. Almost everyone doesn’t know how to deal with heavy issues. We’re not equipped to talk about darkness because emotions are placed in this dichotomy of being either good or bad. I sometimes thinks no one wants to admit that we might end up in bad situations ourselves compared to anyone we love who’s suffering/has suffered.

I’ve been thinking a lot of suicide prevention lately as suicide rates continue to rise despite more awareness and helplines. There’s a question posed by a mental health professional about where to go with dealing with loss in this Mad in America article about suicide hotlines tracing calls to the harm of disenfranchised people who need help.

“Is it the path where everyone is so terrified to talk about suicide because of consequences, like having the cops called on you even by confidential hotlines? Or is it the path where we know that we’re going to lose people, and we create as much space as we possibly can to be with people in darkness and talk openly about this and support people?”

I wondered if people like Mariko were so afraid to talk about their emotional pain due to fear of consequences. I also wondered if people like Tomoyo are unable to deal with so much darkness. I remember how I was hospitalized back then and how my high school friends all distanced themselves from me slowly but surely. No one wanted to put up with my mental illness back then.

Also, I wanted to kill myself back in 2016. I made an awful mistake of saying that I wanted to die on Twitter. I thought someone wanted me dead. A colleague of mine thankfully called a hotline for help. Police actually came to my door that night after midnight. I calmed myself before then after realizing I couldn’t do it. My interaction with the cops ended up with no consequences.

To be honest, I’m afraid of dealing with cops and hospitals due to my mental illness. I didn’t enjoy my hospital experience because it felt so limiting. I also realized at the time, my mental illness wasn’t as bad as it was initially perceived. I did discuss that I faked hearing voices in my head for attention. It’s tricky for professionals to handle cases like me because you do have to take things seriously when it comes to mental illness.

But I also realize that the mental health system is sometimes too standardized for its own good. A bunch of its solutions do not work well with people (especially minorities) that experience trauma from societal circumstances. A mental health treatment that works well with middle-class white folks may not work at all with a black person stuck in poverty. Yes, Mariko was so broken that she was beyond help. But what if the help she got wasn’t enough or made things worse?

I loved how Tomoyo tells Mariko in her own mind that it was never her fault and that it was the people in her life that projected their insecurities onto her. Tomoyo does wish that Mariko asked her to die alongside her. I can’t blame her for thinking that as there’s so much hyper-individualism ruining what it means to connect with someone in a meaningful way. Tomoyo and Mariko had a genuine friendship that was still maintained despite their evolving lives.

At the end of the story, Tomoyo opens up a final letter from Mariko mailed to her before she died and the contents of the letter are unknown to the reader. All we see is Tomoyo’s response, “Mm-hmm,” while she holds the letter to her face. It’s very open-ended, but I think that’s the point. Human beings are complicated creatures full of entanglements that make and/or break them. We all have kinds of feelings that can’t be easily labeled despite whatever perception is given of us. We’re all open-ended in our own ways.

That’s why I wish more people “open up” and realize that suicide is a people problem. There’s people who say having suicidal thoughts is abnormal. Let me say this - if you are oppressed by all kinds of stressors and impacts that are usually caused by other people and no one truly cared about you, I think it’s normal to feel as if dying is your option. I sometimes feel that we have too many people well off compared to people who aren’t. Maybe that’s one reason why thoughts related to death are so taboo.

I’ll reveal something that most people don’t know - I still think about death sometimes. I just don’t let it overwhelm me. Or maybe I realized that I’m sick of certain injustices in the world. Thinking about suicide was somewhat of a stance against that. It’s similar to what martyrs believe. However, I do feel that you need to focus on the light hidden in that darkness (sounds Kingdom Hearts-ish, but it’s also true) and make it so that living is a better option. It takes a people solution to find that. I found that I wasn’t alone in how I thought at times and it helped me a bunch to process what I was feeling.

There’s a wonderful line near the end of My Broken Mariko and it’s found on a beach sign. It said “Suicide isn’t a crime, but littering is.” I sometimes feel that suicide is still treated as a crime even by those who want to help. I think that’s why you hear questions like “Why did they do this? How could they?” Most police responses to people with mental illness do not end well. Sometimes, psychiatric help does more harm than good. I’ve had bad psychiatrist/therapist experiences that felt too “medical.” That’s why I want more community efforts emphasized to tackle suicide and not just only rely on the standard solutions.

This is what I think My Broken Mariko is calling for - a communal stand against the injustices that lead people to consider suicide as an option. And I’m glad someone like Waka Hirako feels the same way I do.

There’s a wonderful guide on Psyche, “How to talk to a suicidal friend” with resources and books. Also, please remember that it’s possible that you can’t save someone in the end even if you tried as best you could to help (like Tomoyo did for Mariko) and no one should ever shame you for that. Here’s a list of resources for suicide bereavement.

#My Broken Mariko #manga #mental health #suicide #psychology #josei manga

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teaandcrowns · 4 years

Text

Whispered Truce

Diplomatic Solution part viii

_________

Each moment that ticked by raised the levels of anxiety in Katara. Dawn drew nearer; their time was running short. What remained before them to accomplish was the most important part of their plan to try and halt the illness—no, Katara corrected herself, shaking her head, the poisoning of this town, and it was also by far the most dangerous.

When Zuko explained to her his plan of making sure this message reached the right people properly, Katara had felt her stomach twist a little. By all rights, she shouldn’t have felt much of anything—he was the one who would be putting himself in far more immediate danger, and he was still technically an enemy, despite the last few days of working together with her. But, if he did get caught, she reasoned, that’d blow their plan of alerting the townsfolk in a way that might actually work. He’d also be captured and who knew what might happen to him… She cut herself short on those thoughts. Who was she kidding? Zuko was the prince of the Fire Nation. Surely some rural town wouldn’t dare go against the word of their very own prince? Then why didn’t he just march up to the mayor’s office and order him on what to do? a voice whispered in the back of her mind. She worried her bottom lip with her teeth. What was it that made him skulk around in costume as if he feared being caught? Her mind raced, but she couldn’t begin to come up with a good reason why.

With this new seed of a question slowly starting to burn a hole within her, Katara kept her eyes trained intently on the hawk mews. She crouched atop a rooftop with a clear and easy path directly toward the mews in case she needed to reach it quickly, but for now, she was simply stuck waiting, watching for any movement in the shadow of the tall building indicating Zuko’s position.

His plan was simple: grab a messenger hawk and the appropriate ribbon, trek out of town a little bit, then send the hawk back to its home mews with the “official” document he’d written, making it look, for all intents and purposes, that the letter came from the capitol itself. He’d also insisted that he go alone, so she could keep lookout, and it was only after he’d slipped silently away that she realized she didn’t actually have a way to warn him if she saw something. Part of her wondered if he’d known that all along and had deftly maneuvered things so that he would be the only one in direct danger of being caught. If that were the case, why? Why would he do that? This far into things, she couldn’t imagine for a second that he wouldn’t follow through with the plan, or try to double-cross her, but she wasn’t sure she could wholly believe he was doing it simply out of the goodness of his heart.

Guilt.

Katara sucked in a quiet breath, then nodded to herself. The green glow of the ancient caverns beneath Ba Sing Se still shone brightly in her memory, and still they stung as sharp as she imagined those jutting crystal shards would have been. He must feel guilty for what he’d done, and this was his way of trying to atone for that.

Twice now there was a peace offering between them, shaky though it might be, and Katara didn’t know what to make of it or what to do with it. Her nature made her want to take it, without hesitation, to believe in the goodness in him. But another part of her nature wanted to slap it away in anger, cold and distant, for all that he’d done to her—to the group.

He was such an infuriating dichotomy. She trusted him, but she didn’t trust him. She respected him, but she wasn’t sure she could ever forgive his choices and actions. Yet, she still wanted to, but she didn’t want to, all the same.

An exasperated noise quietly left her throat, and she closed her eyes for a brief moment. Her thoughts and stomach were all churned up threefold not only because of who she was working with and all he represented, but because there was absolutely nothing she could do in this moment. She wanted to rush down there and help him—they’d both stolen into the mews earlier, after all—but she didn’t know if her sudden appearance would cause more harm somehow than not. What was more, by this point, she’d waited too long if she were going to do anything.

So, she stewed in silence and waited, glaring at the mews.

After a few more moments, an idea occurred to her. It didn’t actually do any good to watch the mews with no way to warn Zuko, so instead she turned her attention to the surrounding jungle. On top of a roof as she was, she might be able to have enough of a vantage point to scout out a good spot they could release the hawk. The grey of predawn was slowly spreading across the sky, lightening it just enough that she could see further out. She pressed back any additional anxiety that might have risen in her belly from that undeniable reminder of their dwindling hours, and focused on searching. There. With a lingering, furtive glance back at the mews, Katara gambled that she would have enough time to slip out to the potential spot she’d noticed before Zuko would make it back. Or need help.

Her descent from the roof was silent and graceful and swift, and she wove out through the streets of the town into the greater dimness of the jungle beyond.

It was easy to navigate here, even with little sight; she could sense the water all around her, on and within the verdant thickness of the plants. Idly, Katara wondered if this was something like how Toph saw through her earthbending. Even the very air around the plants was heavy with moisture—it was a wonder waterbenders didn’t come from these eastern Fire Nation islands' clime, with how abundant and readily available water was.

What she headed toward was a tall, rocky outcropping, the dark, solid outlines standing out against the softer relief of the trees and vines around them. Within a few minutes, she reached the base of the rocks. The whole formation rose before her, tall enough that she was sure there’d be a clear view from the pinnacle back to the town. If she’d seen it clearly from her vantage point before, she’d hazard a guess that they'd at least be able to see the mews once they climbed it.

On the way back, she played with the water in the air, using it to propel her faster through the jungle until she reached the outskirts of town and retraced her steps back to the roof where she’d been waiting for Zuko.

Katara had halfway hoisted herself onto the roof proper when she noticed a dark figure at the other end. Her stomach wrenched for a moment, heart leaping to her throat in fear that she’d been noticed and someone was now lying in wait for her, until she saw the hawk on the figure’s arm jolt a little, and the turn of the figure's head gave away the telltale dull flash of the white of his mask. She let out a small sigh of relief and relaxed, pulling herself up the rest of the way and going over to join him.

“Where were you?” he hissed as soon as she drew nearer.

The sharpness of his tone took her aback. It wasn’t just anger that she heard, but… fear?

“Did everything go okay?” she asked.

“I got the hawk, didn’t I? Where were you?” he demanded again. “You were supposed to wait here for me.”

“Well, I’m here now,” she snapped. “If you think I’m just going to sit idly by, thumbing my beads and waiting, you’ve got a big shock coming.” Katara motioned back toward the jungle were she’d just been. “I spotted a good place to release the hawk, so I ran to go check it out. I was only gone for a few minutes, and I didn’t realize you needed a constant babysitter.”

He raised a hand and motioned for her to lower her voice. “Okay, sorry,” he said, surprising her. She thought for sure he was going to argue back. “I just got worried when you weren’t here, is all. Let’s go to the place you found.”

Just like that, her anger deflated a little. She couldn’t really blame him for being tense; it’d been a long night. A long last few days, in reality. His nerves were probably just as shot as hers, and, the thought occurred to her, he was probably getting his arm—and now shoulder, as the raptor shifted its position as he climbed down from the rooftop—torn up by the messenger hawk’s talons. With some effort, she managed not to sigh.

They moved quickly through the dimly lit dirt streets of the town, Katara leading the way toward the rocky outcropping she’d scouted. The jungle welcomed them with thick, heavy air and the quiet, intermittent buzzing and chirruping of nocturnal insects and creatures preparing for the eventual dawn. In some ways, it reminded her somewhat too keenly of the Earth Kingdom swamp they’d crashed into a few months ago. She tried not to dwell on that overmuch, not wishing to see what sorts of visions or nightmares a Fire Nation jungle would give her.

Fortunately, they soon reached the rocks, and Zuko nodded in approval. “This should be perfect.”

Without further ado, he began climbing up, and she followed suit, watching where he put his hands and feet with seemingly little forethought. This kind of agility appeared to come so naturally to him, and she wondered where—and when—he’d learned it. Katara imagined that the firebending prince of the Fire Nation would have spent most of his waking hours perfecting his bending abilities, but Zuko had other physical skills that surprised her, as well as academic knowledge that made sense, but still made her wonder just how much he actually knew. And, yet he still had failed to capture a couple of self-taught Water Tribesfolk and a goofy airbending kid. How could someone know so much and be able to move like he did still be such a gangly teenager?

She wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh at that or be concerned with how endearing she abruptly found it.

When she reached the top, he was already standing near the front of the pinnacle, the messenger hawk perched on a thick leather glove that he now wore. Zuko softly scratched at the feet of the bird while Katara rounded to his side and slipped the message into its back canister, attaching the black ribbon like before. She gave him a nod as she stepped back, letting him know that it was secure.

“Ready to go,” she said, startled to hear how breathless she sounded from nerves and the swift climb.

“Here goes nothing,” he muttered, almost to himself, then shifted the arm holding the hawk up and toward the town, releasing the jesses he’d been holding. “Let’s hope it works the way we want it to.”

“Yeah,” she echoed quietly, following the dark shape of the hawk with her eyes.

A few moments of silence settled around them. Katara broke it.

“Do you still feel like it’s not enough?” Her voice sounded as if it would be swallowed up by the thickness of the jungle air.

“Yeah,” he replied, not tuning his head from the town.

“Zuko,” she said, and watched him stiffen. “Thank you for all your help. I… can’t really say I know why you did all that, but… I wouldn’t have found out the source of the illness—the… poison—without you. So… thanks.”

This moment was an echo of the catacombs of Ba Sing Se, except now their positions were reversed. He was the one with his back toward her, and she was the one extending a small peace offering. Something ached in her chest, and she found her breath caught with trepidation somewhere between her heart and her throat.

“I can’t walk away from people who need help,” he said softly.

I will never, ever turn my back on people who need me, she heard herself say. That’s something we have in common, she heard him say.

Her heart pounded in her chest and she worried her lower lip. The words were right there on the tip of her tongue, waiting to spill out of her mouth. Did she dare? Could she trust him? She remembered the intensity with which he pursued the leads in the town with her, the quick anger against the mayor who poisoned his own townspeople just to enrich himself.

“Aang—the Avatar—needs help.” Her voice was small and unsure, the words almost a whisper, but unable to remain unspoken.

For an anxious breath, she was convinced he hadn’t heard her. Then, he turned to her and lifted the mask off his face, and pulled the black hood off his hair.

“I can teach him firebending,” he said, and for the life of her she couldn’t tell if he was stating a fact or asking her a question with strange wonder.

Her compulsive chuckle punctuated the oddness of the moment. “I did tell him I’d find him a firebending teacher.”

#zuko #katara #zutara #atla #Avatar The Last Airbender #renamed Diplomatic Solution on ao3 #just in case tumblr is still doing that stupid ass thing #where posts with links don't show up in the tags #i'll do a reblog with the appropriate links #but you can find this completed work on ao3 #my fic

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