#or i just assume that when it is in debilitating pain that it's just... somehow to fuck with me and i am cognizant that this isn't true

[uncanny-tranny]

You know... it's okay to trust your body. If you are separated from your body to such an extent you feel you cannot trust it, I truly from the bottom of my heart empathize and feel grief for you, but you can trust your body.

It's okay to listen to your body and to heed what it is telling you. I wish you (and your body) well wherever you go. You deserve the peace of mind to feel able to do what you want.

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Remember the Pokémon trainer ask with having pokepastas in their team? Could I maybe request something angsty?~ basically can I get headcanons of Arven and Kieran’s reaction to finding out Trainer got in a accident and was suffering from VERY lethal injuries and in panic missingno..basically messed them up into a pokepasta trainer,kinda corpse looking and now in never ending pain because of the raw wounds that never fully Heal but ofc take medication to numb the pain down and look out now for they’re friends so they don’t suffer the same fate? :))

Oh btw have a nice day or night!!! Remember to drink water!

Arven

From the moment he, Penny, and Nemona discovered your team enjoying a picnic...he always wondered how you got something like Missingno on your side.

But since it nearly corrupted his damn pokedex trying to just get information on it AND you were reluctant to share your past, he figured you'd just say "don't ask questions you don't want answers to" and end the convo right there.

He definitely wouldn't let Mabosstiff near it.

Last time he went near a Pokémon nobody should've known about...he almost lost his companion.

From time to time, he catches glimpses of your wounds (not during picnics ofc), bandages, and the medication Nurse Miriam prescribed to you, and suggests you save some of the herbs for yourself.

And they do help with your pain management when incorporated into tea or sandwiches (especially the salty herba mystica, which relieves your aches for a little while).

They're not miracle cures, but it's something.

Eventually, there comes a point where you know Arven wants to understand how you acquired Missingno, why you have so many ghastly Pokémon by your side, and why you were determined to defend him and the others down in Area Zero.

So you sit down and explain how you found it by accident in Kanto, caught it, and realized it was simply a lonely creature who wanted a trainer it could love and protect. Like any other Pokémon.

Yet you didn't realize the extreme lengths it would go to achieve that goal....until you nearly suffered a lethal wild Pokémon attack (it was in the dead of night, and you were ambushed while chasing after what you thought was a shiny).

You were bleeding out, bones broken and gaping wounds all over your body, and unconsciously begged for help-

And Missingno somehow heeded your call, escaping its pokeball and reviving you.

But in doing so, you were brought back as a zombie..one who still remembers the pain of that night and often cursed the glitch for not letting you die.

In time though you've made peace with it, knowing you were stuck this way now and it wouldn't let you go...

To the point where it erased its own pokeball from existence and became a constant presence around you, invisible aside from a few occasional glitch particles.

Yet you knew Missingno didn't mean any ill intent--all it wanted to do was save you.

Now you vowed to save others so they didn't suffer the same fate as you, whether that be haunted Pokémon left abandoned in some town or atop a mountain or your human friends in Area Zero.

Your pains aren't as severe now thanks to the meds, and you're grateful for Arven introducing you to herba mystica.

You were afraid he was gonna be freaked out by your story (or not believe you), but..while he finds it horrific and sad at first, he understands you better and is simply glad you're here now.

He's also happy to help his buddy manage their pain better, even if the remedies are only temporary.

Kieran

You had to bandage and conceal a great deal of your wounds so nobody at BB Academy got concerned, with DISABLED giving you a consistent best Heal Pulse to ensure your chronic pain wasn't debilitating).

Even so, Kieran assumes you got better over the past year and is desperate to battle you and win Missingno..something he vowed to acquire after realizing he'll never get Ogerpon.

You try explaining that it's literally impossible for you to surrender it, and it's too dangerous to bring it into a battle anyway, but he thinks you're just lying to him again and bragging.

In the back of his mind, though...he kept wondering why you had so many injuries..

Ofc..he's too focused on being stronger than you to ask you.

But after seeing Missingno come out (in its Fossil Aerodactyl form) and literally glitch Terapagos' beam out of existence and use Cut on multiple falling rocks---he was amazed.

You finally invite him to your dorm to talk after the mochi mayhem events, knowing he deserved some answers.

He sees the pain meds littered all over your countertop, and you finally reveal to him why you need those, why you look the way you do, and why you keep Missingno around:

Basically, after catching and befriending it, you got attacked by some wild Pokémon, and they would've left you for dead had it not intervened.

You made it feel loved, cherished, never using it as a weapon or an infinite item dispenser...and it couldn't watch you bleed to death.

So it saved your life, but it came with a great cost: neverending physical pain with your wounds never fully healing.

You used to curse Missingno for not letting you go, trying to release it several times to no avail, and just being miserable in general.

Yet once you realized it attracted more misunderstood, tortured, and damaged Pokémon to your side..you came to forgive it, knowing it was just like them despite its uncanny appearance: a creature who just wanted to protect its trainer.

Now you take medication (and a few leaves of herba mystica) to numb the pain down, so it didn't hurt as much as it did before.

You wouldn't want anybody to have a brush with death like you did. Not even your worst enemy.

That's why you went so far to protect your friends in Area Zero, especially Kieran.

After hearing your story, he felt so torn up and guilty--and convinced he was being "overdramatic".

You were still suffering all along, for years..and he had no idea, only thinking about himself and his selfish ways and how his pain couldn't possibly compare to-

But you stop your friend from spiraling, holding him and letting him cry out all of his renewed guilt, telling him that his own suffering was valid, too.

He was starting to look like a corpse with the dark circles and paler complexion....and it scared you.

Seems like he took "I wanna be like you" a bit too literally.

But you're glad Missingno saved you--otherwise you never would've gotten the chance to meet him and help him become more confident in himself (ofc you wish things were different before and didn't require you shattering his confidence first).

Since that conversation, Kieran starts taking better care of himself and makes a promise to protect you.

Not from physical threats per se as you're basically immortal, but from rude stares and whispers of how "creepy" you are.

He tends to hug you a lot and lend you his jacket for warmth if you ever get cold in class or in the polar biome.

It does help with the chills you get so often, and makes you feel grateful that you two were still friends despite everything.

[should-be-sleeping]

Tough day today... and friendly reminder that being human is easier when we help each other.

I saw one of our neighbors, an older woman we sometimes talk to in passing, sitting outside of her house. I don't know what exactly made me look twice, but on second glance as we drove by I realized her walker was in the grass. She was otherwise just sitting there, like she had a thousand times before, so it would have been easy to assume she was fine and go on with my life as normal but something told me to go check in on her anyway.

She was not fine. She was the polar opposite of fine. Just diagnosed with terminal cancer not fine. No next of kin not fine. A veteran facing eviction from her house for missing rent while in the hospital not fine. In constant debilitating pain not fine. Only semi-lucid not fine. She was extremely alone not fine.

I thought, at most, she might be bored while unable to pick up her walker not fine. A five minute detour from my day not fine. A help her back into her house and say "see you later!" not fine. Instead I spent the last three hours with her because she was so scared and alone and no one should be alone.

We talked a lot while I was there. She's actually two years younger than my mom (who also has cancer but slightly better luck, I guess). I helped her into her house and got her a drink and we talked about what all is going on with her. None of it was good. I was as reassuring as I could be, but there's only so much of this I can actually help her with.

"Why did you come?" she asked through tears.

"Because you looked like you might need some help."

She called me an angel. I told her I was just doing my best. I told her that kindness should never be rare. That we should all try to make the world just a little bit better than it was.

She offered to pay me but I told her I was just there as a friend. Before today we were basically strangers. No need to repay me with anything other than her company, I assured her. She cried, a lot. I managed not to somehow. Something tells me she had needed to cry long before this but in being Strong she never had the chance to.

She needed to get her mail, which is a long walk when you're disabled because it is not at all handicap accessible (across a parking lot, over a bridge, across a small field). So I helped her get her mail. We stopped every three feet because her pain was so bad, but she was determined to be able to go do this with me and not just send me on an errand. I patiently stayed with her and reminded her, through her apologies, it was fine to take our time: there was a nice breeze and birds were singing. She appreciated this. She loves nature.

Halfway back she said she wanted to go to the pool. To put her feet in the water. She loves water, and has not been able to even see the pool in a month. Neither of us were dressed for swimming, but I took her to the pool anyway. There is a stair leading down to it, meaning she couldn't bring her walker, so I offered her my arm.

We went to the pool. She put her feet in the water and then, with more energy and enthusiasm than I'd seen the whole time, she jumped in. In her fancy dress! She was instantly ten years younger at least, clear and happy, floating in the sun. Dress and all. She grew up with a pool and had been on a swim team.

I sat by the edge of the pool while she swam, keeping her company and also making sure she was okay. When she got tired I took her back home and then had to help her get undressed and redressed. I made sure she felt no shame. Getting out of wet clothes is hard for anyone, let alone someone with like twenty pounds of tumors racking them with constant pain.

She was so fucking happy to have gone swimming.

She is trying to "make everything right" before she goes. Trying to repay her debt to society and her debts in general. She couldn't understand why the corporation that owns our houses wouldn't take her money. She was genuinely distressed -- not to be homeless on her deathbed but to not leave this world with a clean slate. I told her intent matters. She can only do her best.

This company not letting her repay her debt was their fault, not hers.

When I finally needed to go, I told her to let me know any time she needed a hand or just wanted company. She told me she was going to die tonight. I told her I hoped not, so I could see her tomorrow. I offered her a hug, we hugged and she sobbed for a solid ten minutes into my shoulder. I told her she was okay. That it was okay.

When I got home I cried myself, because I could not believe she was going through all of that alone. I cannot even imagine how isolated she must have felt. Once I pulled myself back together I sent her a text reminding her to reach out any time and I'd do my best to come over. Like, any time at all.

I hope she is here tomorrow.

[a-very-sparkly-nerd]

Snake Boi Callum Week - Day 3: High Mage/But Rayla Was In Trouble/Mirrors/Magic

(heads up, possible TW for pregnancy complications; I know they can hit close to home, and better safe than sorry!)

I'll Become the Monster, Like None They've Ever Known

Silence was not a good thing. Silence meant grasping for words, words to soften the blow. Or, worse, a kind lie.

“Well?” Rayla prompted, and Xan finally moved away from her stomach.

He straightened his glasses, slowly writing and checking off boxes on his clipboard he not-so-subtly held out of the couple’s view. “I…”

Out of nerves, Callum squeezed Rayla’s hand so hard that she hissed. Immediately loosening his grip, he murmured an apology before turning his attention to the doctor. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Your baby…” Xan began, and now he wouldn’t look at them, and that was not a good sign. “Well, they’re malpresented. That means the fetus isn’t correctly positioned. In this case, your child’s head is at the top of the womb, near the heart, rather than near the birth canal.”

“What does that mean?” Rayla asked nervously, glancing to Callum as he felt her heart rate speed up. “Can it be fixed?”

“Well, no,” Xan said. “There are chances of both the mother and child surviving the birth, but those are rare. The chances of one of you surviving rather than the other is about 50/50, given that most result in the death of both.”

Rayla leaned back against the chair, somehow paling even more as she let herself go limp onto Callum. He put an arm around her and rubbed slow circles into her back.

Xan wasn’t done. “However, your pregnancy is also ectopic.”

Callum sharply looked up at him as Rayla buried her face in his shoulder. “And what does that mean?”

“It means your child can’t be carried to term because it is growing outside of the uterus. To be frank with you, I’m shocked you haven’t come to me with concerns of, at the very least, extreme discomfort.”

Rayla… even all these years later, she still didn’t complain when she was mildly uncomfortable, or even in debilitating pain. She still never wanted to burden anyone, and now it could cost her her life.

He shot to his feet. “And why didn’t you tell us sooner?!”

“An ectopic pregnancy can be diagnosed anywhere from the first trimester to quite literally during labor. And malpresentation usually shows up at thirty-six weeks pregnant on average. We actually got quite lucky, finding it as early as we did.”

“You call this lucky?” Callum spat, pacing now as his voice came out strangled. “My wife and child are both going to die!”

“Well… not necessarily…”

Rayla tugged his hand, and he sat back down, tucking her further into him. “What are the survival odds?” he asked in a low voice. “For either of them?”

Xan took off his glasses and wiped them off with the hem of his shirt before repositioning them on his face. “Near zero for even one of them surviving. I think it’s safe to assume both Princess Rayla and your child will die if the birth continues as planned.”

Rayla threw her arms around his neck, her sobbing loud and clear despite being muffled by his shoulder. His shirt was quickly soaked, Callum pulling her into his side and rubbing her shoulder.

Still, he had to ask. “And if the birth doesn’t continue as planned?”

“Well, if we act now, one of them can be saved. We can perform a surgery to remove the child, and your wife’s chances of survival will skyrocket; I can near assure you she will live and be just fine in due time. Or, given how far healthcare has come due to the use of magic, we can force the birth and an Earthblood and Sunfire elf can heal the child and give them the nutrients and growth needed to simulate a normal pregnancy, an incubation if you will, to keep them healthy until labor would be induced in normal time. But Princess Rayla will not live.”

Callum let those words sink in. Rayla or their child, probably both, would die if a decision wasn’t made at this very moment. It didn’t feel real. It felt like a nightmare, a cold dread wrapping around him, like a cruel trick because the universe could never get enough of fucking around with his and Rayla’s lives. It’d been difficult enough to conceive, only able to do it at all because of magic, and now this? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fucking fair.

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[ripley-ryan]

I haven’t ever gone to the ER for pain. Only for other forms of illness. But I can tell you even then that from infancy neither I nor my mother were taken seriously when it came to getting me treatment. I won’t get too much into her experiences with healthcare here aside from the fact that I probably wouldn’t have ever even existed had it not been for my grandmother sticking by her side during emergencies. But I will tell you about a shared experience between us. Below the cut so this doesn’t take up too much space.

When I was born, I was vastly premature. Just short of making it into the third trimester. So obviously, I spent the first few weeks of my life in NICU. I finally arrive home. That Friday afternoon, I quit breathing. It’s temporary, I resume shortly after. But this is enough to prompt my mother to take me in. Now obviously this is a Friday afternoon, nobody wants to deal with the new mother and a baby that seems fine. But she refuses to leave until I’m treated. A social worker is even sent to speak to her. She asks, “Are you afraid to be alone with your daughter?” to which my mother replies, “No, I’m not stupid.” Thankfully a few minutes later I stop breathing again in the waiting room and someone finally takes me back. We leave with a little infant sized baby monitor.

This experience, I think, really highlights this kind of issue. I was an infant. I had no way to self-advocate. I’d only just come home from my first few weeks of life in that same exact place. So the only person I had to advocate for me was my mother. A woman with her first ever infant. On a Friday night when everyone just wanted to go home. Holding a baby so small she had to wear Cabbage Patch Kid clothes for the first few months of her life. Of course any doctor or nurse would assume she was nervous about finally being alone with such a small and fragile child. But she was right, I was having problems. And so I was on a breathing monitor for the next few months.

I’ve never been withheld treatment for pain in an emergency (although I have been told I can take a third! extra! advil if the first two didn’t work for my knee pain that was borderline debilitating at the time). But I have faced similar levels of disbelief. I recently had to gather medical records for an upcoming doctors appointment. I came upon test results from a 24/48 hour set of heart monitors from a few years ago. WHITE COAT HYPERTENSION was what the title of the page said. In big bold letters in case I somehow missed anywhere else on the page it said the same thing. Simultaneously, but at the bottom of the page in a place that wouldn’t immediately catch the eye, the paper read that I experienced enough of an anomaly that it could “result in more target organ damage and a more adverse clinical outcome.” It also took the time to list every factor as NORMAL even though those same numbers were the ones that prompted my doctor to even order those tests in the first place.

Now, I can’t fault all healthcare workers for not treating women the way they do men. I know how exhausted they are. How overworked and overburdened. But I think it’s fair that I should have known when they ran a pregnancy test on me as a teenager without notifying me beforehand. That also occurred during a visit to the ER in 2020. I was 15 and in the beginning stages of an allergic reaction to something I couldn’t put my finger on. Due to the nature of a disorder I have, it could have been anywhere from a cold or bug bite to a broken bone or surgery (although the latter two were clearly not the cause that time). But the cause didn’t matter. I was 15 and female and so despite my insistence I was not pregnant, they ran tests without telling me first. In retrospect, it’s nothing in the long run. It’s pretty harmless. But I think it’s definitely interesting what I was told and not told in my many visits to the hospital. For the white coat hypertension diagnosis, I was simply told that the results were slightly different than normal but showed nothing wrong with me and that I was fine. So I never bothered to read the results for myself, because when you’re told you’re fine, what else are you going to do? And for the pregnancy test, I was just straight up never informed of a test being run. Of course it was negative so there was nothing to report back, but it’s still something I should have been notified of.

This is honestly part of why I still sometimes call my mom back with me during specialist appointments. It helps to have an advocate around. Because when you’re female and not trained in the medical field, and your doctor is much older than you and has training, you’re very likely to be intimidated by the interaction, even if you are not intimidated by the person on the other end of it.

Early on a Wednesday morning, I heard an anguished cry—then silence.

I rushed into the bedroom and watched my wife, Rachel, stumble from the bathroom, doubled over, hugging herself in pain.

“Something’s wrong,” she gasped.

This scared me. Rachel’s not the type to sound the alarm over every pinch or twinge. She cut her finger badly once, when we lived in Iowa City, and joked all the way to Mercy Hospital as the rag wrapped around the wound reddened with her blood. Once, hobbled by a training injury in the days before a marathon, she limped across the finish line anyway.

So when I saw Rachel collapse on our bed, her hands grasping and ungrasping like an infant’s, I called the ambulance. I gave the dispatcher our address, then helped my wife to the bathroom to vomit.

I don’t know how long it took for the ambulance to reach us that Wednesday morning. Pain and panic have a way of distorting time, ballooning it, then compressing it again. But when we heard the sirens wailing somewhere far away, my whole body flooded with relief.

I didn’t know our wait was just beginning.

I buzzed the EMTs into our apartment. We answered their questions: When did the pain start? That morning. Where was it on a scale of one to 10, with 10 being worst?

“Eleven,” Rachel croaked.

As we loaded into the ambulance, here’s what we didn’t know: Rachel had an ovarian cyst, a fairly common thing. But it had grown, undetected, until it was so large that it finally weighed her ovary down, twisting the fallopian tube like you’d wring out a sponge. This is called ovarian torsion, and it creates the kind of organ-failure pain few people experience and live to tell about.

“Ovarian torsion represents a true surgical emergency,” says an article in the medical journal Case Reports in Emergency Medicine. “High clinical suspicion is important. … Ramifications include ovarian loss, intra-abdominal infection, sepsis, and even death.” The best chance of salvaging a torsed ovary is surgery within eight hours of when the pain starts.

* * *

There is nothing like witnessing a loved one in deadly agony. Your muscles swell with the blood they need to fight or run. I felt like I could bend iron, tear nylon, through the 10-minute ambulance ride and as we entered the windowless basement hallways of the hospital.

And there we stopped. The intake line was long—a row of cots stretched down the darkened hall. Someone wheeled a gurney out for Rachel. Shaking, she got herself between the sheets, lay down, and officially became a patient.

We didn’t know her ovary was dying, calling out in the starkest language the body has.

Emergency-room patients are supposed to be immediately assessed and treated according to the urgency of their condition. Most hospitals use the Emergency Severity Index, a five-level system that categorizes patients on a scale from “resuscitate” (treat immediately) to “non-urgent” (treat within two to 24 hours).

I knew which end of the spectrum we were on. Rachel was nearly crucified with pain, her arms gripping the metal rails blanched-knuckle tight. I flagged down the first nurse I could.

“My wife,” I said. “I’ve never seen her like this. Something’s wrong, you have to see her.”

“She’ll have to wait her turn,” she said. Other nurses’ reactions ranged from dismissive to condescending. “You’re just feeling a little pain, honey,” one of them told Rachel, all but patting her head.

We didn’t know her ovary was dying, calling out in the starkest language the body has. I saw only the way Rachel’s whole face twisted with the pain.

Soon, I started to realize—in a kind of panic—that there was no system of triage in effect. The other patients in the line slept peacefully, or stared up at the ceiling, bored, or chatted with their loved ones. It seemed that arrival order, not symptom severity, would determine when we’d be seen.

As we neared the ward’s open door, a nurse came to take Rachel’s blood pressure. By then, Rachel was writhing so uncontrollably that the nurse couldn’t get her reading.

She sighed and put down her squeezebox.

“You’ll have to sit still, or we’ll just have to start over,” she said.

Finally, we pulled her bed inside. They strapped a plastic bracelet, like half a handcuff, around Rachel’s wrist.

* * *

From an early age we’re taught to observe basic social codes: Be polite. Ask nicely.Wait your turn. But during an emergency, established codes evaporate—this is why ambulances can run red lights and drive on the wrong side of the road. I found myself pleading, uselessly, for that kind of special treatment. I kept having the strange impulse to take out my phone and call 911, as if that might transport us back to an urgent, responsive world where emergencies exist.

The average emergency-room patient in the U.S. waits 28 minutes before seeing a doctor. I later learned that at Brooklyn Hospital Center, where we were, the average wait was nearly three times as long, an hour and 49 minutes. Our wait would be much, much longer.

Everyone we encountered worked to assure me this was not an emergency. “Stones,” one of the nurses had pronounced. That made sense. I could believe that. I knew that kidney stones caused agony but never death. She’d be fine, I convinced myself, if I could only get her something for the pain.

By 10 a.m., Rachel’s cot had moved into the “red zone” of the E.R., a square room with maybe 30 beds pushed up against three walls. She hardly noticed when the attending physician came and visited her bed; I almost missed him, too. He never touched her body. He asked a few quick questions, and then left. His visit was so brief it didn’t register that he was the person overseeing Rachel’s care.

Around 10:45, someone came with an inverted vial and began to strap a tourniquet around Rachel’s trembling arm. We didn’t know it, but the doctor had prescribed the standard pain-management treatment for patients with kidney stones: hydromorphone for the pain, followed by a CT scan.

The pain medicine started seeping in. Rachel fell into a kind of shadow consciousness, awake but silent, her mouth frozen in an awful, anguished scowl. But for the first time that morning, she rested.

* * *

Leslie Jamison’s essay “Grand Unified Theory of Female Pain” examines ways that different forms of female suffering are minimized, mocked, coaxed into silence. In an interview included in her book The Empathy Exams, she discussed the piece, saying: “Months after I wrote that essay, one of my best friends had an experience where she was in a serious amount of pain that wasn’t taken seriously at the ER.”

She was talking about Rachel.  

“Women are likely to be treated less aggressively until they prove that they are as sick as male patients.”

“That to me felt like this deeply personal and deeply upsetting embodiment of what was at stake,” she said. “Not just on the side of the medical establishment—where female pain might be perceived as constructed or exaggerated—but on the side of the woman herself: My friend has been reckoning in a sustained way about her own fears about coming across as melodramatic.”

“Female pain might be perceived as constructed or exaggerated”: We saw this from the moment we entered the hospital, as the staff downplayed Rachel’s pain, even plain ignored it. In her essay, Jamison refers back to “The Girl Who Cried Pain,” a study identifying ways gender bias tends to play out in clinical pain management. Women are  “more likely to be treated less aggressively in their initial encounters with the health-care system until they ‘prove that they are as sick as male patients,’” the study concludes—a phenomenon referred to in the medical community as “Yentl Syndrome.”

In the hospital, a lab tech made small talk, asked me how I like living in Brooklyn, while my wife struggled to hold still enough for the CT scan to take a clear shot of her abdomen.

“Lot of patients to get to, honey,” we heard, again and again, when we begged for stronger painkillers. “Don’t cry.”

I felt certain of this: The diagnosis of kidney stones—repeated by the nurses and confirmed by the attending physician’s prescribed course of treatment—was a denial of the specifically female nature of Rachel’s pain. A more careful examiner would have seen the need for gynecological evaluation; later, doctors told us that Rachel’s swollen ovary was likely palpable through the surface of her skin. But this particular ER, like many in the United States, had no attending OB-GYN. And every nurse’s shrug seemed to say, “Women cry—what can you do?”

Nationwide, men wait an average of 49 minutes before receiving an analgesic for acute abdominal pain. Women wait an average of 65 minutes for the same thing. Rachel waited somewhere between 90 minutes and two hours.

“My friend has been reckoning in a sustained way about her own fears about coming across as melodramatic.” Rachel does struggle with this, even now. How long is it appropriate to continue to process a traumatic event through language, through repeated retellings? Friends have heard the story, and still she finds herself searching for language to tell it again, again, as if the experience is a vast terrain that can never be fully circumscribed by words. Still, in the throes of debilitating pain, she tried to bite her lip, wait her turn, be good for the doctors.

For hours, nothing happened. Around 3 o’clock, we got the CT scan and came back to the ER. Otherwise, Rachel lay there, half-asleep, suffering and silent. Later, she’d tell me that the hydromorphone didn’t really stop the pain—just numbed it slightly. Mostly, it made her feel sedated, too tired to fight.

If she had been alone, with no one to agitate for her care, there’s no telling how long she might have waited.

Eventually, the doctor—the man who’d come to Rachel’s bedside briefly, and just once—packed his briefcase and left. He’d been around the ER all day, mostly staring into a computer. We only found out later he’d been the one with the power to rescue or forget us.

When a younger woman came on duty to take his place, I flagged her down. I told her we were waiting on the results of a CT scan, and I hassled her until she agreed to see if the results had come in.

When she pulled up Rachel’s file, her eyes widened.

“What is this mess?” she said. Her pupils flicked as she scanned the page, the screen reflected in her eyes.

“Oh my god,” she murmured, as though I wasn’t standing there to hear. “He never did an exam.”

The male doctor had prescribed the standard treatment for kidney stones—Dilauded for the pain, a CT scan to confirm the presence of the stones. In all the hours Rachel spent under his care, he’d never checked back after his initial visit. He was that sure. As far as he was concerned, his job was done.

If Rachel had been alone, with no one to agitate for her care, there’s no telling how long she might have waited.

It was almost another hour before we got the CT results. But when they came, they changed everything.

“She has a large mass in her abdomen,” the female doctor said. “We don’t know what it is.”

That’s when we lost it. Not just because our minds filled then with words liketumor and cancer and malignant. Not just because Rachel had gone half crazy with the waiting and the pain. It was because we’d asked to wait our turn all through the day—longer than a standard office shift—only to find out we’d been an emergency all along.

Suddenly, the world responded with the urgency we wanted. I helped a nurse push Rachel’s cot down a long hallway, and I ran beside her in a mad dash to make the ultrasound lab before it closed. It seemed impossible, but we were told that if we didn’t catch the tech before he left, Rachel’s care would have to be delayed until morning.

“Whatever happens,” Rachel told me while the tech prepared the machine, “don’t let me stay here through the night. I won’t make it. I don’t care what they tell you—I know I won’t.”

Soon, the tech was peering inside Rachel through a gray screen. I couldn’t see what he saw, so I watched his face. His features rearranged into a disbelieving grimace.

By then, Rachel and I were grasping at straws. We thought: cancer. We thought: hysterectomy. Lying there in the dim light, Rachel almost seemed relieved.

“I can live without my uterus,” she said, with a soft, weak smile. “They can take it out, and I’ll get by.”

She’d make the tradeoff gladly, if it meant the pain would stop.

After the ultrasound, we led the gurney—slowly, this time—down the long hall to the ER, which by then was  completely crammed with beds. Trying to find a spot for Rachel’s cot was like navigating rush-hour traffic.

Then came more bad news. At 8 p.m., they had to clear the floor for rounds. Anyone who was not a nurse, or lying in a bed, had to leave the premises until visiting hours began again at 9.

When they let me back in an hour later, I found Rachel alone in a side room of the ER. So much had happened. Another doctor had told her the mass was her ovary, she said. She had something called ovarian torsion—the fallopian-tube twists, cutting off blood. There was no saving it. They’d have to take it out.

Rachel seemed confident and ready.

“He’s a good doctor,” she said. “He couldn’t believe that they left me here all day. He knows how much it hurts.”

When I met the surgery team, I saw Rachel was right. Talking with them, the words we’d used all day—excruciating, emergency, eleven—registered with real and urgent meaning. They wanted to help.

By 10:30, everything was ready. Rachel and I said goodbye outside the surgery room, 14 and a half hours from when her pain had started.

* * *

Rachel’s physical scars are healing, and she can go on the long runs she loves, but she’s still grappling with the psychic toll—what she calls “the trauma of not being seen.” She has nightmares, some nights. I wake her up when her limbs start twitching.

Sometimes we inspect the scars on her body together, looking at the way the pink, raised skin starts blending into ordinary flesh. Maybe one day, they’ll become invisible. Maybe they never will.

[fenristheorem]

How do you think Lance will react or behave when he realizes he’s falling in love with Gardienne?

Somehow, I feel this is a masterpiece of both fluff and angst... mostly angst, I guess, but with a bit of fluff.

Also, since the ask doesn’t specify, I wrote this assuming that they’re not in a relationship. It gives me more to write, however, I’ll be happy writing headcanons on Lance realizing he’s falling in love when he’s just casually dating Guardienne!

~Under the cut~

Lance realizing he's falling in love with Guardienne:

What is this feeling that he is feeling???

Is he dying? Having a heart attack? Has she poisoned him?

Lance is confused as all hell - why is his heart racing and his body tingling around her?

He knows why, and he wants to kill himself for it

He nearly destroyed the world, killed his brother and now he’s falling in love with the woman who should have killed him. Nice job. Well done.

Lance thinks he’s sick really. Maybe he’s actually ill or maybe he is twisted beyond redemption.

He decides not to tell her, she would probably kill him if she found out. Maybe he should tell her then???

It starts out slow. He begins to focus on her greatest qualities; the time she invests into the guard, her adamance on protecting the guard and Eldarya, her stubbornness on not taking shit from anyone - even her superiors. She doesn’t play games when it comes to safety and moral boundaries.

But she’s also soft, and kind. She’s not afraid to open her heart up willingly to others knowing how easy it would be for her to be hurt in the end. She lost many things, and yet she’s still willing to keep loving others knowing that they could be lost in time.

And as much as she used to hate him, and sometimes tries to hate him still, he knows that she’s getting used to having him around.

Lance tries to make this transition as easy as possible. He stays out of her way, does his best to provide help or protection without bothering her, remains friendly and cordial whenever he can. She has every right to be here, he doesn’t, and he’s not willing to step on boundaries.

However, he can’t ignore the warmth that begins to bloom in his chest when he observes her, and over time that warmth spreads from his chest, throughout his body, until it turns into an inferno that burns him from within. He begins to notice how beautiful she is, with vibrant eyes, sleek hair, and perfect skin, littered with small scars from their past battles.

And then she begins to grow comfortable with touching him. It doesn’t happen very often, but it drives him to the edge of sanity when it does.

It can be a small brush, or a gentle touch, but the absolute worst part of it is that he can’t actually feel it. He’s aware of the pressure and length of the touch, but the armor protecting his body doesn’t allow any actual physical touch to occur. It distress him to no end; he’s that close to actual physical contact - with the woman he’s in love with no less - but it can’t happen because of the armor.

He nearly stops wearing armor. But he’s also aware of the fact that he’s a warrior and needs to be well armed and protected at all times.

Besides, it would be very suspicious if he suddenly stopped wearing his armor. The last thing he wants is to scare her away.

However, the burning heat that spreads like liquid fire through his body is eventually replaced by cold anguish. The tingling he feels where her skin should have touched his turns to painful tensing as he steels himself to not reach out and initiate his own touch, knowing that it would likely upset her. His breathing, once completely aware of how steady and deep it is, turns to well-hidden constricted heaves as he breathes through a tight throat. And his eyes, once having glittered with interest and admiration, now glint with tragedy and turn away from her.

He can’t have her, he can never have her, he doesn’t deserve her.

This once beautiful feeling that embraced him kindly has now turned to a cold, painful sheet that lays over him every time he sees her.

Eventually he tries to avoid her for his sake. He finds it hard to think around her - she distracts him - and she doesn’t even know it. This tactic works for a while until he realizes that he just feels empty again not being near her and seeing her around. So he allows himself to go back to a bit of a normal routine, allowing himself to see her around occasionally. This just puts him in agony again, feeling how much he needs her but knowing she couldn’t ever possibly feel the same.

Lance begins to have dreams of her. He dreams that they’re together, alone, pressed so tightly against each other that he doesn’t know where one of them ends and the other begins. In these dreams, he savors the softness of her lips as he kisses her deeply, her enticing scent as she’s laid on his bed, the soft lull of her voice as she calls for him, and the way that she grasps onto his back and arms as she lets him have his way with her. And then he wakes up, cold and alone, and the rest of his night is rendered sleepless as the vividity of his dream quickly slips away to turn into an emptiness that makes him curl in on himself to try and ease the pain.

He turns this distress into physical labor; training harder and more often, spending more time at the forge, going on longer, harder missions in hopes of being away long enough to eventually forget about her. But nothing he does can truly distract him.

When he trains, he wonders if she’s perhaps watching him in interest and admiration from a corner he can’t see. When he works the forge, he can only imagine how she would react if he made a special reawakening gift dagger for her. When he’s away on missions, missing her so much that it hurts, he wonders if she’s missing him too.

Lance eventually gets used to this feeling - it’s just like his emotions on his brother’s death, or the terrible crimes he’s committed in his past. It’s an emotion that physically effects his whole body. And while it can be debilitating, sometimes, late into the night when he’s left alone to suffer to his own thoughts and opinions on himself, it’s nothing that he can’t live with.

He does his best to avoid and ignore her, but he can’t help but jump eagerly whenever she acknowledges his presence or extends a bit of warmth to him. He’s nearly completely sure that she doesn’t know about this, he hides it very well, but sometimes he wishes that she did. Who knows, maybe she does feel the same? He can’t know for sure until he asks, but he knows that if she doesn’t it’ll complicate things beyond any possible repair to the point where they won’t be able to function around each other. The cost of telling her and having her not feeling the same heavily outweighs the cost of not telling her and him suffering for who knows how long with an unexpressed love. He refuses to complicate things for the guard again, especially when it’s for something so personal and useless to the rest of the guard, so until she expresses any sort of interest that may possibly reflect his own emotions, he’ll bite his tongue and suffer it.

He’s suffered many things before, he can suffer the burden of hopeless love.

I hope this is alright! Again, I’m happy to write headcanons on Lance already being in a relationship with Guardienne and realizing he’s in love with her then, just submit a request if that’s something I should write. I might make that a scenario/short-story combined with his confession of the weight of his feelings if it’s asked for.

Have a request? Ask them here!

But first, please read the rules list for asks!

[yinses]

salvation and redemption   if you could only save one soul in this wretched world fyodor dostoevsky x reader rating: t  a/n: interrupting our normal scheduled programming for this idea i couldn’t get out of my head after going through my 5th rerun of bsd. i’ve always found fyodor to be an interesting character and he remains as an enigma i can’t shake.

“you love me right, kroshka?”

your hand paused at the crown of his head, a lapse in both your thought and judgement. it should have been a practiced answer for you, with how often he asked it. your response should have been expected as well, certainly given how his arms-his hands warmed your body. being with him was like living with a bomb inside your chest, a timer with no limit as he teased your existence by his mere proximity. 

everyone assumed you’d been numbed by experience. no one truly trusted a man like fyodor do. so of course you were simply submissive by defeat. you couldn’t escape if you wanted, so why not be pliant and just enjoy the life you were given until he deemed it time for your retribution. 

but in truth, you never feared fyodor in the way others did. 

you didn’t dread what he was, your trepidation stemmed from the person he once was. a child lost in his own ideals and thrown head first into a task bigger than himself. 

for as long as you could remember, it had always been you telling him not to worry. that it would always work itself out somehow. and in the event it didn’t? you would be there to save the day. 

in your youth, due to your ability, you likened yourself as a hero. not the super kind, with all the strength and posture. no, you were more comfortable behind the scenes, the afterthought once all the glory had dispersed. 

everyone liked to think it all happened in a simple swoop. the champion would defeat the adversary, stop the chaos and life would go on. but only for those unaffected by the utter destruction left behind. crumbling infrastructure and a debilitated economy. 

growing up in moscow was just another city under the predation of evils and conflict. it was easy for such a place to worship the one who could bring forth deliverance. yet in the overwhelming relief of the downfall of the perpetrator, they often forgot about the repentance of the souls and atmosphere that was distributed in the process. 

truly what did grieving do for anyone but bandage cracks when they needed to be filled. 

as a child you had more cracks than porcelain should have allowed, yet the integrity remained if only in name. 

“watch out!”

“wait, fyodor don’t!”

but you were too late. with a sigh, you fell to your knees uncaring of the blood that stained your already soiled socks as you cradled the dead canine. it had been made feral by nature, instead of choice. starved due to the lack of substance in his environment and forced to turn on whatever viable option was left. 

you were just children. fleshy but not overly meaty and certainly not part of its diet. he struck out of his own fears of humans, cruelty baring its vulnerability to the world. in search of your own next meal, you’d stumbled unknowingly into its territory. 

already dirty from the streets, fyodor hadn’t seconded his thoughts when he’d darted for the nearest trash can in hopes of salvaging anything to appease your stomachs. he’d been a moment too late to see the dog hidden in the corner, already thrown back by a lunge before he could dare to evade. it had been instinct for him to strike first, a thoughtless punishment executed out of fright. 

rubbing his freshly scraped palms against his ratty jacket, fyodor spared you a sour look. “yes, kroshka, im fine. thanks for asking.” his dry reply went unacknowledged as he rustled through the garbage. 

in the changing seasons of russia, even the newly dead didn’t take long to scum to the cold. despite the insulation, it’s coat already had a chill as you ran your fingers through it’s fur. 

“you’re not actually going to bring it back are you?”

uncaring of the way it stained your clothing, you drew the dog close to your chest as a dull light m encompasses your body. in that moment, time seemed to stop as if altered by a silent command before it backpedaled backwards without regard for reality. at the first shift of life, you carefully disentangle yourself and put distance between you as the animal slowly comes to terms with its restoration. 

not even a drop of blood was present as evidence of its past demise. shaking it’s coat, it stood on unstable legs, gaze filled with trepidation without cognition. a good deed should bare fruits of gratitude. 

so why were you suffering from the sharp pain of fangs tearing into the flesh of your shoulder? your cry was short lived, however, as fyodor jumped back into action, a quick touch of it palm undoing your works. 

in his haste, he’d carelessly knocked over the metal trash bin causing the crash to echo through the night. coupled with your cry of pain and the wail of repeated death, it was no surprise that your commotion attracted attention. 

“not every life deserves a second chance.” 

you don’t fight it when his fingers close around your wrist and he promptly drags you out of sight. whether the police or less honorable citizens, it wouldn’t be good for the two of you to linger too long. your hand grips the curve of your shoulder where the attack had just missed your throat. a second light show reveals a dingy shirt but one without tatter or blood. the pain from the bite gone with it but the sting of your decision lingers. 

“not every deed should be punished,” you whisper. 

you expect for him to stop you then, overcome with the need to debate but he continues to drag you along, making up for your lack of speed with his strength. 

“this world wouldn’t need either if it wasn’t so cruel. maybe then people like us could be happy for a change.”

for orphans, a strive for happiness was best waited out until you could age enough to properly take it from the world at will. eventually the two of you would be able to contribute to society and earn a decent living. 

it was easier to dream of a house. not too big or small. one that sat comfortably on a plot of land away from the dirt and grime of the city. you’d live off your own crops and grow old by your own ambitions. these for the aspirations that manifested in your heart. leaving only room for emotions like acceptance and expectation. 

but fyodor was already sowing the seeds of condemnation and reformation. tired of the mishandling of the world and the path it was on. as a child he promised you a life without faults. you couldn’t have imagined at that age, how many of his own would manifest in turn. 

yet out of obligation- or perhaps maybe it was affection. you stayed with him. slowly the hero of your story became the villain and your backstage presence was pushed further and further out of your inherent role of retribution. 

what good would punishment be if you unraveled the seams of disciple after all? 

salvation and redemption. 

that’s the name given to your ability. 

the ability to reverse the wrongs of the world, at the price of your own soul. for as black as this reality was becoming, at your rate you would have long been swallowed up had it not been for his intervention. 

gradually your hand picked back up its pace, fingers working their way under dark tresses as you scratched at the scalp. for some many years, you’d only known the body lain against you to be cold, shivering against the bricked walls of abandoned buildings. but because of his actions, his directive- now you were both warm, fed and properly housed. 

no, you didn’t need to be the hero. they only ever perished in the end. 

just his salvation. 

his excuse for redemption while he scoured the world for crime and provided the diligent punishment. 

dropping your head, you pressed your lips against the rise of his cheek.

“until the end, fyodor.” 

[vintagedolan]

could you maybe write a lil something about grays girlfriend getting a migraine? like how he would react or maybe he knows the look on your face when you start to feel one coming on. i get them a lot and just need gray snuggles, forehead kisses and for him to play with my hair 🥺

 as a chronic migraine sufferer this hits ~different~

You’d had to learn how to function. Unfortunately, the world doesn’t stop just because you felt like your head was going to explode. 

Internally, it was a shit show. Your stomach was churning, lights painfully bright against your eyes - even the smallest sounds were deafening. And that was all on top of the pounding in your head, the feeling of your brain beating against the inside of your skull with every fast beat of your heart. You prayed it was as worse as it was going to get, that it wasn’t going to progress into the debilitating pain that would have you curled up in the dark for hours.

Externally, you had on the everything-is-fine mask. You did your best to keep your face composed, to keep listening to Ethan talking about how excited he was for the candle launch - the meanings of the crystals, which ones he thought were going to sell best. 

You thought you were playing it off well. You shifted, let your head rest on the bottom of your palm, subtly putting pressure on your temple to try and ease some of the ache. Ethan was standing, so you couldn’t look at his face for too long without the lights making things worse, but you still tried to nod along and give him an encouraging smile or comment when you could. Only somebody who really knew you, knew your tells, would know something was up.

And after a year of dating, Grayson prided himself on knowing you very, very well. He suspected it as soon as he walked in, but it wasn’t until you closed your eyes for a moment too long and sucked in a long breath that he was sure.

“Baby, does your head hurt?” 

You turned to look at him, catching his concerned frown over by the fridge as he watched you.

“A little.” 

He knew in your world, that meant a lot. 

“You wanna go lay down for a little bit?” As if on cue, the pounding in your head started to somehow intensify even more, moving behind your eyes and pulsing. You nodded - or at least you assumed you did, because Grayson was next to you then, guiding you out of your chair with an arm around your waist, headed down the hallway. 

It took you a minute to realize you weren’t headed towards the bedroom.

“Where’re we goin,” you mumbled, not even having the energy to keep your words from running together.

“Pod studio. It’s quieter, and darker in there,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your head when he reached around to open the door. The newest room in the house was wonderfully decorated, but you didn’t have enough time to appreciate it. All you were focused on was the very inviting looking couch that he was leading you over to under the dimmed lights. 

You sat down, head dropping into your hands and thumbs moving to your temples, desperate for any kind of relief. 

Grayson crouched down in front of you, ducking so he could meet your downward gaze.

“I’m gonna get some stuff, I’ll be right back okay? Hang in there.” 

The whimper that came out of your mouth was involuntary, and you hoped he didn’t hear it as he hurried out the door. You weren’t sure how long he was gone, but you looked up when he got back with his arms full. Balanced in his left was the diffuser that usually sat on his shelf in his room - he’d already prepped it with peppermint oil, knowing it was supposed to help with headaches. In his right was a bottle of water, some medicine, and your favorite blanket from the living room. He came and crouched in front of you again, passing the little pills and his hydroflask over.

“Here baby,” he turned his hand so the pills fell into your palm and you grimaced, knowing that tilting your head back to swallow them was going to make the throbbing worse - it always did. 

“They’ll help. Please take em, for me,” he murmured, low and soft so it didn’t hurt you. You nodded at him, watched him sigh a bit in relief as he untwisted the cap of the bottle and kissed your forehead, standing up to plug in the diffuser while you took them. 

The lights dimmed down as low as they could go without being completely off, and then finally he was there, the couch dipping down with his weight as he climbed on next to you. You waited until he got situated, laid back against the pillow and the arm rest before you used the energy you had left to crawl on top of him, straddling his lap and tucking up against his chest as he spread the blanket over you.

“Tell me if need to move,” he whispered - the best position always changed based off where your migraine was centered, and he was content to let you use him however you wanted. This time, you moved until that little bump on his shoulder was lined up with your right temple, giving you just enough pressure to take the bite off the pain. 

He took your stillness and the little sigh you let out as the sign that you’d found the ‘sweet spot’ as you called it and he was careful not to move much as he brought his right hand up to your head, gently starting to run his fingers over your scalp and through your hair. He turned his head, pressed a few kisses to your forehead before he spoke.

“Hate seeing you hurting like this. Wish I could make it better.” His voice was so soft, so careful to not cause you any more pain.

“You do make it better. You always make it better,” you mumbled, pressing a kiss to his neck, sweet and light. It still made his eyes flutter closed, right hand moving from your hair down to your neck, over your back and back up in a soothing cycle that distracted you from the pain until you could drift off in his arms, hopeful for relief when you woke back up.

[generallynerdy]

One life, I thought—a thousand deaths (Jon Antilles & Fay)

Summary: On Queyta, Obi-Wan Kenobi is not the only one to escape Durge and Ventress. One of the four legendary Masters, Jon Antilles, emerges from a lava stream despite knowing he’s going to die. He’s so sure of it that he crawls his way to Fay’s side, wanting to spend his last moments with the woman who he considers his Master. But she has other plans. Plans to make certain that Jon Antilles lives past today.

Warnings: Angst, Character Death, On-Screen Character Death, Implied/Referenced Character Death, there’s both sorry, Self-Sacrifice, The Curse of Immortality, holy shit i made myself sad dude Word Count: 2,191

Prompt: Angstpril Day 2 - Sole Survivor

Author’s Note: listen I know nobody knows about these characters that are in literally one comic but I have FEELINGS about them okay?? Jon is meant to be a badass mysterious enigma but he screams sad boi and Fay is like...the greatest cryptid Jedi ever, I love her. So, of course, I decided to make them and Knol and Nico suffer. (Also I know Obi-Wan survived the mission but the Sole Survivor still applies because Jon is the sole survivor of the four legendary Masters, just in case that wasn’t clear.) I just finished this today, so the editing is minimal.

Read on AO3

*

Using the Force as a shield is, in theory, one of the easier skills a Jedi utilizes. That is assuming, of course, that the Jedi in question is in good health, a decent mental state, and isn’t under a severe amount of stress. If said Jedi is, say, three feet into a pool of lava, already bearing grievous injuries and the weight of the deaths of two close companions, and feeling the fading life of another, the simple task, understandably, becomes something of a problem.

Jon has finally managed to pull the Force around him like a blanket. It protects him from the bubbling lake around him now, but the first few seconds he couldn’t pull it off were torture.

As it turns out, lava burns. It burns like shame, like failure, like the nightmares Jon used to have about his Master abandoning him on a planet in Hutt space for getting just a little too mouthy. And it hurts nearly as much.

“Fuck,” he hisses. He makes a rule of not cursing, but right now feels like an appropriate time to break it. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

He claws at the charred remains of his robes. Contrary to popular belief, lava doesn’t melt initially, as Jon now knows. Instead of melting, he burst into flames for the few seconds it took to pull himself together, though they felt like an eternity. Red, throbbing burns litter his entire body, his hair singed but miraculously intact thanks to his hood, which is entirely ashes now. The pain consumes his thoughts, making his shielding start to flicker in and out.

And then, through the debilitating agony, a touch of something familiar.

Jon’s eyes fly open. “Fay,” he whispers.

Her light is dimmer than it should be, not flickering in and out mischievously like it usually does. But still, she makes an effort to reach out, to check on him. It sends a sob up his throat.

“Hold on, Fay, hold on.”

Clenching his fists, he opens himself up to the Force. His actions are ones of faith, not of desperation, and he lets it flow through him as he takes a deep breath. The idea of using one of his Master’s abilities would normally make him nauseous, but the disgust doesn’t even cross his mind this time as he prepares to teleport. He thinks of that open, flat space of rock that Obi-Wan and Fay ran to, their enemies close behind. Focusing fiercely on that distant image, he pulls on the Force and folds the two points—

Jon collapses on solid ground with a heaving gasp.

Every inch of his body protests the change, especially his knees, which burn when they make contact with the ground, but somehow he manages to ignore his own complaints.

Fay isn’t far, or she shouldn’t be, at least. The distance between them seems gaping when he tries to move.

Still, her light is fading fast. And he wants to be by her side.

So, Jon Antilles crawls on hands and knees, dragging his body across sharp stones and past bubbling streams of lava. He aches with each movement and cries out when it becomes too much, but he persists regardless. Something in him knows it may be the last thing he ever does.

Finally, he sees her.

She’s sprawled out, her chest hardly moving as her breathing becomes shallow. Her near-golden hair is filthy with ash and her eyes are dim. She’s hardly herself, Jon thinks, and feels his stomach sink.

Hundreds of years the great Master Fay has lived and breathed. Hundreds of years and he’s going to watch her die today.

“Jon,” she calls out weakly.

He pulls himself to her side, grabbing her hand with his own shaky ones. “I’m here, Master.”

They only met when he was a teenager, but he feels as if he’s known her all his life. They’ve travelled the Outer Rim together, following the Force, for decades now and he’s never regretted a second of it. In all but title, Fay is his Master. She was always better than Dark Woman, even when the bar was six feet under. The only record with both their names will be at the Temple, where the dead are listed, a handful of mission reports with other Jedi, and the stories the younglings share of the 4 legendary, nomadic Masters.

“Knol and Nico,” Fay breathes out, “they’re one with the Force.”

Jon grimaces. “Yes. And the Force is with us.”

She laughs, breathy and half-choked. It’s an old lesson, familiar and grounding. “And so too are they,” she adds.

“Where’s Obi-Wan?”

“Gone, with the cure.” She smiles just a little. “The Republic fights another day.”

Suddenly grim, he squeezes her hand. “But not us.”

A pause.

“But not us.”

The silence overwhelms them. The wind whistles in the distance, carrying with it nothing but smoke and ashes. Queyta isn’t the best place to die, Jon thinks absently. He would rather it have been someplace with flowers.

“I wish it could’ve been Jedha.”

He almost jumps at her voice, but her words jarr a surprised laugh from his sore lungs. “Jedha? I thought you hated cold planets.”

“Oh, yes, but not that one. Force, I should have taken you. The Force there is so...so strong, so pure, you can feel the kyber from the surface,” she explains, staring straight up at him. If anyone else were to gaze so intensely at his scars, he’d be uncomfortable, but she’s safe. She’s family. “And the Guardians of the Whills are so kind. I met a young one of theirs some decades ago. You two would’ve gotten along.”

Jon laughs a little. “You’re always looking to find me friends, Fay.”

Her smile turns sad and she lifts a hand to his face, letting it rest on his cheek. “You’re so young,” she whispers. “Too young to be so lonely, Jon.”

He shuts his eyes, lets himself be comforted by her touch. When he opens them again, she still has that gut-wrenching look on her face. He places his hand on top of hers, unsurprised at how cold they are despite the blistering heat.

“I’m not lonely,” he promises.

Jon doesn’t say that it’s because of her, Knol, and Nico, but Fay picks up the thought anyway. Her eyes fill with tears.

“I have watched so many I love die.” Fay’s voice wavers as she says it. He realises that it’s the first time he’s ever heard it do that. To be honest, he’d thought it was impossible. “Taken by age, by Darkness, by foolishness. Never have I met a soul as good as yours, Jon. And never a Jedi so worthy of love.”

“Fay…”

She shakes her head. “Your Master did not deserve you. The galaxy did not deserve you.”

Pulling her hand away from him, Jon squeezes it. “You did,” he says firmly, though his voice cracks.

“I hope so,” she admits with a rueful laugh. “I hope so.”

He smiles weakly. “I wish you’d found me first. But I thin-I think the Force knew when I needed you to save me. Because you did save me, Master. I could never thank you enough.”

She takes his word silently, holding his hand even tighter. “You never needed to.”

“Thank you,” he says now, even though it’s useless.

Fay’s grey eyes meet his pale ones and suddenly, she’s distressed. “You’re so young,” she repeats.

But Jon can see that she means something else this time.

“Not too young to do my duty.”

“Too young to die doing it.”

Jon thinks of Tan Yuster, one of four Padawans to die on Geonosis. The Jedi have experienced great loss these past months since the beginning of the war and so many so much younger than Jon have died in battle, the clones included. Of course, to Fay, they all may as well be children.

“I will go proudly into the Force,” he promises her. At your side.

Fay’s expression twists. “No.”

He scoffs. “I don’t think we have a say in it.”

“The Force let me live this long,” she says suddenly, as if it’s a realisation, “longer than I should have. Obi-Wan is gone, I’ve done what good I can, except...you’re here. Why are we here?”

“To say goodbye,” Jon offers.

She shakes her head, then tries to sit up, struggling until her would-be Padawan helps pull her up. “I’m done with goodbyes.”

“What are you—?”

He doesn’t get the chance to finish his question. Fay presses their foreheads together and grabs his hands with a newfound energy that terrifies him. Chills go up his spine when her presence in the Force covers him like a blanket. Warmth climbs up his hands, then his arms, and with a glance down he finds that his skin is healing.

“Fay, no!” he cries, trying to shove her away.

She only tightens her grip. “Stay still, Jon.”

She sounds more like herself, certain and unwavering. Jon would be happy-crying if he weren’t horrified. He tries to drag himself out of her grip, but she’s impossibly strong. Her healing creeps up his entire body, soothing his burns, though scars remain behind.

“No, no, no—FAY! Fay, stop it!” His screams turn to sobs. “You’ll die, stop—!”

“I already am,” she says, just as certain in her abilities as her fate. “But you don’t have to.”

Trembling, his attempts are weaker now but still there. “Please, please,” he begs. “Not without you!”

Tears stream down her cheeks. She allows herself a moment of weakness; she opens her eyes and meets his tearful gaze, remembering the teenager she first met. He was so scared and so brave. And for a moment, she’d thought he must be a ghost. But no, he was just a boy. For the first time in a long time, she had let herself build a bridge between them, like Knol and Nico before him, even knowing she would have to watch him die one day.

Now, she thinks with fierce stubbornness, she won’t have to.

It feels like her life is leaving her for him, though she knows it’s just fading into the Force. It’s to it that she speaks, the cosmic energy she’s dedicated her long, long life to.

“If anyone is deserving of the time you’ve given me,” she gasps out, “it is Jon Antilles.”

She doesn’t see the horror in Jon’s face, but she can feel it in his quiet Force-presence, so subdued. He hides himself on purpose and it truly breaks her heart. His light is so strong. The galaxy is all the better for his existence.

“I don’t want this! Fay, I don’t—let me die, please—”

Fay only lifts her head and kisses his forehead, the sort of gentle gesture a mother might give her son. “One day,” she promises. It rings with truth, with the strength of the Force behind it. “But not today.”

Jon cries out and tries to rip himself away, but freezes when pure light washes over him. The warmth he’s always associated with Fay soaks into him, healing all his wounds in an instant and rejuvenating his fading energy. Stars burst before his eyes, like he’s seeing into the very universe beyond Queyta, beyond what he’s meant to see with his petty Human eyes. In another instant, it’s gone and Fay is slumping over.

She falls to the ground with a thump, a noise that jolts Jon back into focus.

“Master!” he sobs.

He pulls her up from the ground with the sickening realisation that she’s a complete deadweight. She’s limp in his arms, already paling. Desperate, Jon pushes her hair out of her face and finds...nothing. Her eyes are dull. With his fingers on her wrist, he can’t feel a pulse.

“Fay?”

The steady beat of her Force-presence is gone, a gaping hole in his universe. Their bond, one strong enough to resemble a training bond, is shattered, a physical pain that throbs in his skull.

Jon begins to hyperventilate, his sudden gasps for breath burning his now-perfect lungs.

“Come back,” he begs Fay’s corpse. “Fuck, please. Please, come back.”

He pulls her into his lap, clutching her robes like a child being left behind for the first time. It doesn’t hurt to move anymore and, thank the Force for it because his entire body shakes with the force of his cries.

Overwhelmed with grief he’s never experienced, Jon wails into Fay’s shoulder, rocking back and forth. The agonizing sound rings across the valley, a noise like torture.

It’s only now that he feels the frayed edges of his bonds with Knol and Nico.

He screams again, his vocal cords protesting it sharply.

The last time Jon was this alone, he was a child. And now, he’s right back where he was before he met his three closest companions. Except now, now, he knows what it means to love and to lose. It aches. It aches like nothing he’s ever felt.

“Please,” he whispers hoarsely. “I can’t—I need you. What do I do? What am I supposed to do?”

He never gets an answer.

*

River’s Tags: @hahaboop & @mystoragehatesme

Masterlist

[onthepyre]

like real people do

1.4k prinxiety, featuring roman being incredibly stupid

To Roman, almost everything about Virgil is curious.  A lot of it is why.  Why does Virgil try to hide his smile — unless he's with Roman?  Why does he pretend he likes black coffee only to dump gallons of cream and sugar in when nobody's looking?  Why is he so incredibly… adorable?

(Roman isn't quite sure that's the right word, but it's the closest one he can find.)

But there are other things, too.  Where does he find such pigmented eye shadow?  What's his middle name?  Does he like Roman's singing voice?

Roman wants to know everything.  But lately, there's one question that's been almost permanently stuck in his mind: what would it be like to kiss Virgil?

Okay, wait, hang on.  He's not in love or anything — it's just curiosity!  It has absolutely nothing to do with the fervent eye contact Virgil will not stop making whenever someone brings up their love life (Roman can't figure out why — is he trying to show him how dumb he thinks it is?  That he wants to leave?  That he's jealous?  It can't be that).  And it isn't at all related to how he bites his bottom lip when he gets stressed out, which happens far too often for Roman to be okay with it.  And it definitely doesn't stem from Virgil's new experiments with makeup — especially the lipstick.  That's completely unrelated.

He's just curious, okay?  He wants to know.  He feels like he's been spending too much time with Logan, but this idea has wormed its way into his head and it won't leave.

Would Virgil be gentle?  Or would he throw his usual caution to the wind and press hard against Roman's mouth?  Would he go slowly?  What would he do with his hands?  What would Roman do with his hands?  Will teeth be involved?  (Somehow, that seems in character.)  Would Roman even do it right?

And for some reason, it is agonizing that Roman doesn't know the answer to any of these questions.  He's known Virgil for years and hasn't even kissed him once, which he thinks is quite a shame.  

(He's known Patton for even longer and it doesn't get on Roman's nerves that he hasn't kissed him, but he ignores this.)

So, he devises a plan.  It isn't a terribly complicated one, but he assumes this is for the better.  There are less steps to mess up, and fewer things that can go wrong.

First, he gets Virgil alone (he knows it'll make him less nervous).  This part isn't that hard — Roman knocks on Virgil's door at a groggy hour between afternoon and evening, when he knows Virgil will be home.  Virgil rolls his eyes — ask next time, asshole — but his smile betrays his harsh words.

He invites Roman in, and Roman tries to play it cool for a bit.  

"What are you here for?" Virgil asks as he sits down to turn on the TV.

"I missed your face," Roman says, which isn't untrue, but definitely isn't the main goal of his visit, nor does it fit the "calm and collected" vibe he was going for.

Virgil shakes his head a bit and shoots Roman a weird look, but forgets it almost immediately when he finds The Nightmare Before Christmas on Netflix.

"Oh, shit!  They must've just added this!"  He smiles, wide, and Roman's brain just screams, screams kiss him kiss him kiss him over a monotone of wordless noise.  But he doesn't, not yet, because he doesn't want to ruin Virgil's good mood even though something in the back of his mind tells him it wouldn't.

The noise in his head begins again when Virgil turns to lean against the arm of the sofa and throws his legs over Roman's lap, which is far more affection than he's ever shown before, at least through touch.  And Roman reminds himself this is just curiosity, just a vague sense of wonder, and definitely not a debilitating crush.

And this continues, all through the movie, every time Virgil shifts a little bit closer or smiles.  And Roman absolutely loses his mind when Virgil begins to sing along under his breath because his voice is so pretty and it takes every fiber in Roman's body to stop him from diving across the sofa and kissing Virgil.

The credits roll and Virgil looks over and stares for a second.  "Do you want to stay for dinner?" he asks, finally, with a remnant of a smile in his voice.

And Roman, like a fool, says, "Uh, yeah, I should — I should be able to."

Virgil practically bounces off the couch and into the kitchen, with Roman not far behind him.  He digs through the cabinets and settles on spaghetti, but not without suggesting at least three other dishes and deciding, without Roman's input, that he doesn't want to make them.

"Can I…" Roman begins, trying to decide if he's actually going to go through with this or not.

"Can you what?"

Roman chickens out at the last moment.  "Can I ask you something kind of weird?"

Virgil makes a face.  "I mean, within reason."  He pauses.  "You're making me nervous, Princey."

Roman takes a deep breath.  "Have you ever kissed a boy?"

Suddenly Virgil can't look at him.  He frowns into the boiling water.  "Uh, no.  I thought I was straight for fourteen years, repressed like hell for another five, plus nobody has ever asked me out and there's no way in hell I'm going to.  So.  No, I haven't."  He stares at his spaghetti for a bit longer, then glances over at Roman.  "Have you?"

Roman grins.  "A few times.  My first kiss was pretty shit — I think he actually tried to gag me with his tongue."  This prompts a chuckle out of Virgil, and he speaks again.

"I did kiss a girl once, when I was fifteen.  She turned out to be a lesbian, which should give you a pretty good idea of what it was like."

Roman grins.  "Well, that doesn't count, then.  It's like kissing your grandmother."

There's silence except for the boiling water, just for a moment, until Virgil continues.  "I kinda wish I had.  Kissed a boy, I mean.  Just to get it over with."

And.  Wow.  Okay.  This is Roman's moment.  Without actually looking at Virgil, he stutters out, "If — I can.  Um.  I'll kiss you, if you want."

Virgil's face turns three shades of red in seconds, and Roman can only imagine his is the same.  There's a long pause and Roman is worried that he has massively fucked up until Virgil says, "Yeah.  Okay."  And Roman does his best to squash the feeling of elation in his chest but gives up in seconds because wow.

Virgil moves towards Roman but stops at least a foot from him, making direct eye contact the whole time.  Roman does manage to overcome the urge to make fun of him and takes the last step, so he's only inches from Virgil's face.  Virgil's eyes are wide as he stares at Roman.  He places his hands on the back of Roman's neck and his gaze falls to Roman's lips and he finally, finally closes the gap.

There's about five seconds of just still, soft lip-on-lip contact, which already has Roman's heart beating fast, but then Virgil sighs through his nose and Roman can feel the breath on his face and the floodgates open.

Roman hand finds the small of Virgil's back and tugs him closer.  Virgil's mouth, hot against Roman's, falls open, and Roman's response is almost too enthusiastic.  He makes an embarrassing noise in the back of his throat and Virgil presses harder against him.  Virgil smiles and Roman can feel it against his lips and.

Oh.

Maybe this is love.

And Roman pulls back at this realization.  Virgil's eyes stay closed for just a moment and he frowns before looking up at Roman.

"What's wrong?"  Virgil's voice is quiet and gentle and it breaks Roman's heart.

"I can't.  I'm so sorry, I — this is my fault."

And Virgil's face is painful and for a second Roman almost wants to cry.

"Ro, what do you mean, I-"

"I'm in love with you, Virgil."  

Virgil screws up his face, frowning almost, and Roman turns to go — and Virgil grabs the collar of his shirt and pulls him into another kiss.

This one is shorter, just long enough and forceful enough for Virgil to make his point before he pulls away.  He presses his forehead against Roman's, smirking slightly.  

"Yeah, and?"

"Wait, do you mean-"

"Yes, dumbass.  I love you too."

Roman laughs — giggles — and pulls Virgil forward again (this is the third time he's kissed Virgil) and he feels him laugh and it's everything.

[bigskydreaming]

Not to harp on that last reblog but omgggggg. LOL, I had this acquaintance in offline life that tried to stress that like, I shouldn’t let peoples’ opinions of the way my face currently looks get to me, especially with as much stress and pressure as I was under trying to get a surgery that was essentially outside of my personal budget/resources range.

And it was just like, I appreciate the thought and the body image positivity and all that, but I’m kinda bemused that with as much pain medication as you routinely see me take, your go to assumption is that I’m trying so hard to get the prosthetic surgery because of image related issues, instead of like....the debilitating pain issues lolool. Its like, I promise you that conforming to what society says I should look like or my daily routines should be like doesn’t even crack the top twenty lists of reasons why I want a new jaw lmfao.

Its that thing where its like, its not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment in and of itself, its just it really had nothing whatsoever to do with me or my situation or motivations, and its kinda telling when people jump to that assumption despite me prioritizing and frequently making mention of literally a dozen other more pressing concerns. Like, I’m laughing, but in a sort of ‘oh no, a person who has watched you deal with pain and vertigo and nerve related issues for literal months assumes your reasons for wanting a super expensive surgery is people making fun of your jaw hurts your fee-fees and you’re laughing’ kinda way.

Like, it actually is super belittling to leapfrog over disabled peoples’ actual stated issues to make it about stuff that’s not even on our list. If you want to know what’s on the list, just ask, we’ll probably tell you? In fact, we probably already have, many, many times and the fact that you somehow didn’t hear and thus decided to just come up with your own hot take about what those probably are is like....hmmm...maybe....the real issue all along?

[chaosincurlss]

In another world, I’m camped at my best friend’s bedside, reminding her of all the ways I’m going to help her heal, of all the ways I am grateful she survived, of all the ways I love her. She wears a sleepy smile that I’ve seen nothing short of a million times, and a hospital gown that does nothing to hide away the deep purple of the harm the world has done to her. One person should never have known so much pain, and she never should have had to be the one reaching to swipe away the tears that cascaded along my cheeks. Of course, she wouldn’t be the girl I’d grown alongside if she wasn’t the one trying to piece me back together, even when she was the one falling apart. That would be the place where I know myself, where I know the person before me, where I’ve memorized the features of the face my eyes can’t leave.

In this world, I’m looking down at a person I’ve been told is my best friend, but the girl in the coffin looks nothing like her. Everyone comments on how she looks as if she’s sleeping, but those are just the lies they need to tell themselves, because the truth is that this corpse looks like nothing more than some mangled version of Elena Gilbert. As if some twisted person had been given a canvas and asked to paint an idea of her, a broken and warped idea of her that no restorative makeup was going to fix. Some depraved creature had been let loose with the idea of Elena Gilbert and they’d left her this distorted thing. Her cheeks sunken from where her bones had been crushed and they hadn’t cared quite enough to conceal it, the line of her hair disrupted by the loss from when she’d been pulled across the gravel, the perfect button shape of her nose that should be scrunched by laughter now forever scuffed by the injuries she would never have the chance to recover from. From the slumber she would never have the chance to awaken from. I don’t know why people say they look like they’re sleeping, now more than ever, I don’t understand why they say it. At best, they look dead. At worst, they look like someone you’ve never met, but are expected to mourn anyway.

In this stranger’s stray strands of chocolate hair, I was expected to find memories of the times we’d spent playing dress up before we had any idea of what the world would be. Of when we would take turns in whichever princess dress happened to be the favorite that week, though the plastic pearl clips were the constant that stayed with us through it all, and I wished I had them now — I wished I could tuck her hair away just as we did when we were nothing but a twirling vision of trouble in tiaras, and I wished for the magic they held for us then, the type of magic that could undo the very worst of days.

When I took this stranger’s icy cold hand in mine, it should have reminded me of the very first time she’d slipped her fingers between my own, when her skin against mine spoke of something more than it ever had before, of the night that had felt like finally coming home. When we’d held our breaths, and let the silence lay heavy in the darkness of a childhood bedroom, words too much of a threat to such a flighty thing, if we’d even had words for what we were at all.

There was a sickening connection that I didn’t care to recognise in the midst of all of this — one I didn’t care to recognise, which meant that it was the only thing my mind could latch itself on to. I wanted no link between this nauseating period in my life, and any kind of happy moment that I’d been lucky enough to share with Elena, but it was there. This sense of blur that only came along with an emotion so intense that the human body didn’t know what to do with it. There was no part in our mind well enough equipped for the way that our feelings can simply overpower every other function we have, so comes the blur. Either end of the spectrum, the body doesn’t care to differentiate, it all hits the nervous system in the same way, the edges of it lost to the intensity of it all.

The moments of undiluted ecstasy. The moments of debilitating grief. A blur.

How we went from friends to more, the stretch of time it took and the ways it wove its way into my days and into the very fabric of my being, much like the days since the accident and the flurry of planning for the wake and the way that it chipped away at the very fabric of my being. A blur.

The moments when our hands ventured further than they ever had before, the way she said my name as if it were a question, as if it was everything to her, the moment they said the word ‘dead’ and there wasn’t an inkling of a question to it, as if they weren’t taking everything from me. A blur.

The way her lips brushed over the sensitive skin of my stomach and demanded that every hair I had stand in salute to her and the ways she could make me feel, the way my screen lit up with her smile every time there was a call to make and I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to feel again. A blur.

Promises of forever made through tears as we braved her empty home for the first time since her parents went over the bridge and how I couldn’t leave her side, how I wouldn’t let her drown in her despair and waste what they would have wanted for her, how I stand alone without her arms around me and there’s nothing to keep me from going under. A blur.

As I try to find my memories’ home in this shell of a person I don’t recognise, without the comfort of the warm chestnut hues that housed every up and down of this rollercoaster that we had called us, the want of warmth soon boils over into a burn. A burning rage for the emptiness of it all, for the finality we would never have, for the clarity she would never be able to grant, for the moments that should have come with the time that we always assumed was guaranteed. Each moment ahead became blurred — first by the silent and pure anger that bubbled for a life that would remain unlived, buried six feet under with every possibility that went with it — second by the tears that came alongside the accompanying agony of such a realization.

From my parents, to my teachers, to my friends, to passersby on the street — I had always been this little gust of Chaos, the ever-twirling bundle of blonde curls, whose path you didn’t dare enter. Not without a taste for Chaos, or a strong enough armor to combat it.

And, oh, how the Chaos swirled below the surface, nothing in my path but this future of shattered bones and scattered dreams, and all that I knew was that I needed to reach for something real, and the scrap of this imposter that I’d been given was nothing close to enough. So much was left buried beneath the surface, beyond this face that I didn’t know, there had to be a piece of the girl I loved somewhere below the chunky wool of the turtleneck the undertakers had insisted upon. A freckle that sat just where her shoulder met her neck, perhaps they’d tucked away her mothers necklace to keep it safe, there had to be a piece of her somewhere, something to tie me to this desolation.

So, my fingers curled at the material, and pulled in search of a prayer that any God who watched over this abomination knew wouldn’t be answered. They would sit in their almightiness and laugh at the girl whose heart broke too easily, the girl who filled herself to the brim with more hope than any one person should be able to carry, the girl whose mouth would fall agape as her eyes fell upon the jagged markings that should be the dip of Elena Gilbert’s collar bones, the exact place where sweet kisses would pool in exchange for the sweeter sounds of her laughter. Not only was this not the body of someone I knew, it was barely a body at all, something sewn together and strategically layered with thick clothing to fool those who dared to gather here in this place that had no hope of salvation.

At once, my hand dropped away, and the material sprung back into place, returning back to its post to guard the secrets that lay below. I expected that the horror had found its way out from within, that the discovery couldn’t have gone unnoticed, but when my gaze shot upward — the same busy conversations were carrying on. The same stories being swapped of the loveliness of the girl we had all known, and the tragedy of such an accident, an accident that had somehow lost its details between the asphalt and this room. Silence and I weren’t well acquainted with one another, though my mind swam with the images that were now seared upon my brain, and they were something as unfathomable to me as the fact that I apparently hadn’t made a sound. Then I can feel that edge approaching, the one where the blur takes over, the one where your mind decides that your fragile little self has had too much of the emotion that it has given to you, and floats you out to sea until you can be trusted to be returned to calmer waters. There was no comfort to be found within the confines of the casket, lesser comfort to be found in the walls that surrounded me, and yet I couldn’t help but search — as if she might round the corner at any moment, and this might have been nothing more than the worst corners of my mind grasping at my dreams. Solace was all that I asked, among all of the unknown, just a moment of relief.

In a sea of unfamiliarity, there stood a startling reminder of what unfamiliar truly was, a face in the flood of bodies that swirled in this whirlpool that threatened to pull me under — an expression of complete stillness amid this Chaos, tucked away at the very edges of the crowd, where another may have let him remain nothing but alien. Not me, not the ever dutiful hostess whose role was snapping back into place at the sight of a guest left unwelcomed, one who was also uninvited as far as I was concerned. This skin of someone who planned, who preened, who tended to the details and the finer details of events — it was the familiar ground I’d needed to find my footing once again. It wasn’t the hand I’d wished to hold, it wasn’t the beauty mark I’d sworn to worship for the rest of my days, but it pulled me far enough away from the depths to satisfy the ever watchful guardian within my mind that was determined to protect me from myself. If I never said it aloud, the Gods that spent their days laughing away at my misfortune would know and wonder at the miracle of my gratitude for the rudeness of a man who showed up to a funeral without invitation. For they would know that if it weren’t for that moment, if my eyes hadn’t caught on his, if I wasn’t compelled to leave Elena’s side and ever so politely quiz him on his funeral attending etiquette — the waves would have crashed over me, and I never would have seen shore again.

[redrose689]

Chapter 1 - Prologue

Year 2248

As Spock stared at the flashing, gaudy invitation on the screen of his PADD, he – not for the first time, mind you – thought to himself what his parents would do.

When faced with a social endeavor, Spock was never one to particularly thrive. Not like his father – Sarek, Spock quickly corrected himself – did. As a diplomat, Sarek was somehow renowned for his way of making reason with even the most illogical species. The reason for this was frankly lost to Spock, who believed he hadn’t seen such skills displayed by his father in quite a few years.

Perhaps what was considered skill was really just an immeasurable amount of patience.

And then, there was his mother.

His mother was a bit trickier to decipher. As mercurial as Earth’s Pacific Ocean, one moment she was smiling and charming her way around the room (assuming that the occupants were a mix of other species rather than Vulcans, of course), and the next she was quietly bemoaning at how ‘stuffy and horrid’ the whole affair was. From across the immaculately placed table, she would send her young son a pained expression, and this little secret act would bring a warmth to his chest when he was a boy. It had become clear to Spock as he was growing up that although she did not particularly enjoy the tedious affairs that came with hers and Sarek's own respective careers, she was nonetheless capable of acting like it.

But, Spock reasoned, this Starfleet social gathering was not the same as a diplomatic affair. This is something his mother would press on him to go to – to go make friends. This was something his mother would thrive in, in a way that neither Sarek nor Spock could ever.

Frustration flared in his chest. In an uncharacteristic move, Spock tossed his PADD carelessly onto the bed, shrugged on an Earth styled coat, and walked out into the brisk San Francisco air.

Perhaps, he was approaching this predicament in the wrong manner. His siblings – wherever they may be now – would be a more relevant comparison, considering them being closer in age. But Spock quickly decided that Sybok would perhaps thrive with his natural charisma and eloquence, the latter of which was often attributed to their father. And Michael? Well, his elder sister was fearless and undaunted. Focused. On quiet nights, Spock often thought to himself that Michael was more of a true Vulcan than Spock would ever be.

Spock attempted to lift up his coat’s collar in vain, as it did little to alleviate the chilly winds that graced Starfleet Academy. Laughter echoed across from the other side of the courtyard, where a group of students sat together eating lunch.

He – not for the first time – wondered if coming here was a mistake.

As he glanced towards the students, however, a figure caught his eye.

Her short stature had slowed to a stop, as if caught in action. It took him less than a split second to recognize his mother. The only reason it took him any longer was due to her human clothing and loose, flowing hair. It was indeed his mother, Spock reconfirmed, who was somehow on Earth.

From across, Amanda Grayson raised her hand in a sheepish wave.

Spock eyed his mother's drink warily. He's only been on Earth among humans for two weeks, but he has already been made quite aware of the effects of intoxication.

"Oh, don't judge me," admonished Amanda, as she wrapped up her brown hair in a loose, messy bun. "It's been a long week."

Spock wisely decided not to press on it. "I was not aware you had business on Earth."

Amanda raised an eyebrow. "Spock, when do I ever need a reason to see my son?"

"I would assume by your tone that it is never, but it is strange considering I had seen you only thirteen days ago. Furthermore, if I recall correctly, you have not visited Earth in the past eight years."

"Was it really that long ago?" mused Amanda, a small frown gracing her face. Remembering what forced her to return to Earth eight years ago, Spock found himself reluctant to break the silence.

Amanda suddenly shook her head, as if waking up. "Love, how have you been?"

It occurred to Spock that this was the perfect (and he used that term subjectively, of course) time to bring up his predicament. Although Spock was certain of his mother's response, hearing it from her directly would be comforting. But Spock hesitated. He was already doubting his decision in coming here, and he sought no reason to bring that doubt onto his mother. His mother, he knew, would worry unnecessarily.

So instead, he answered, "I am well." He tilted his head. "May I inquire your reason for being here, if not for business?"

Faintly exasperated, Amanda reached into her bag.

Spock blinked when a small, soft item was tossed into his lap. In a forthright manner, Amanda nodded at it. "I meant to bring this to you."

The item was made of a soft, knitted wool. "It is a hat."

"A beanie," corrected Amanda. "It's your father's - he uses them whenever he has to go to an ice planet like Andoria for business. It'll suit you well here."

Amanda pursed her lips as Spock inspected it. "You don't like it?"

There was a sharpness in her tone that Spock recognized far too well. Spock and his siblings were definitely on the receiving end of it before, but it was mainly Sarek who was more often than not graced with it.

"It is appreciated," Spock answered carefully. "You travelled sixteen light years to bring me a beanie?"

Amanda gave Spock a soft smile, but it was not a familiar one. And he had a startling realization that it was sad.

“Spock,” she said, with the smile intact. “I’ve been on Earth for the past two weeks, and I’m staying. Indefinitely.”

Spock blinked. “What do you mean to do in this time?”

“I was offered by the Academy to be a visiting professor for the current academic year. We’ll see what happens after.” She raised her hands up. “Don’t worry – I won’t embarrass you here, I promise.”

We’ll see what happens after.

In Spock’s surprise, he forgot to refer to his father by his name. “You left father.”

His mother held her hand out, and Spock accepted it.

Spock always felt from his mother a flurry of emotions. She was a sandstorm, while Sarek was a levelled lake.

Spock felt from her a surprising amount of determination. Of purpose. Some fear, though it was invigorating rather than debilitating, and some sadness and pain. But there was an overwhelming amount of assuredness, as Amanda promised, “Spock, it was not because of what happened – ”

Spock spoke in a fast manner. “That is unlikely considering the argument that had entailed. While we may have had a serious disagreement, it was not my intention for you and Sarek – ”

“‘Sarek’,” suddenly exclaimed Amanda. She threw her hands up. “My god. You both can be so dramatic sometimes. Spock, he is your father. And refusing to call him such isn’t going to change anything.”

“It was his decision to denounce me as his son and cast me out of the S’chn T’gai clan.”

Amanda’s face tightened, and her smile disappeared. Part of Spock regretted that, but the other part felt relieved at stirring her out of the facade.

“I know,” she said flatly. “Believe me, I know. But that isn’t wholly it. So please, do not blame yourself for this.”

“Your words for comfort are appreciated, but not necessary. It is evident that me rejecting the Vulcan Science Academy was a source of great distress among the family, and it clearly led to the dissolution of marriage with Sarek.”

“Dramatic,” Amanda repeated. “And no, love. I am sincere when I say that this was a long time coming. Your father knew it, and I knew it as well.”

Spock found himself confused.  His mother was gazing levelly at him. Her eyebrows were slightly furrowed and her mouth in a small frown, but there was no obscene display of pain or grief. “I do not understand. I was under the impression that you and Sarek shared a… mutually satisfying and content partnership. I was not aware there were serious strains.”

Because past all the arguing and disagreements and shouting (on his mother’s behalf), Spock always saw in Sarek a softening when it came to his wife. And as for Mother, well, Spock steadfastly believed she was capable of loving anything.

His mother chuckled, and Spock deemed it genuine. “Well, your father is not always an easy man to love, and it’s not easy for a Vulcan to give it.”

“When I had asked him as a child, he said that he married you because it was logical.”

Spock remembered it clearly. He was ten years old, then. Covered in bruises and filled with confusion. That was the first time he had hit somebody.

Amanda seemed to contemplate this. Surprisingly unfazed, Amanda shrugged. “Love, you’ll learn quickly enough that logic is subjective.”

Privately, Spock disagreed.

Amanda continued, “And in some way, he believes that there are other things even stronger and more valued than love. In that, I think he’s somewhat right.”

Spock fell silent for a moment. “You do not love him anymore.” Spock found that to be a rather sad thought.

But Amanda frowned and shook her head. “I still love him. I do – it’s just love is not always enough.”

“I do not understand.”

“Well,” she mused. A strong breeze fluttered the strands around her head. “Love is only one facet in marriage – and in any relationship. Another one is history, which is tied to trust. And another is communication.” She sighed. “Your father sorely lacks in the latter. It’s a marvel, considering we are bonded.”

“You are still bonded with him?”

“Of course.” Amanda grimaced. “I know it’s confusing – I hardly understand it myself. But right now, your father and I are simply… separated.”

He thought about how Amanda was to remain here ‘indefinitely’. “Do you intend to remain so?”

“I don’t know,” she said honestly after a pause. “We have reached a point where both of us have to get ourselves sorted out first before deciding anything. Your father, especially.”

Spock exhaled, in what was almost a sigh. “I am sincere when I say I did not intend for this to occur.”

Amanda patted his arm. “Spock, listen to me. This wasn’t a sudden decision that occurred solely because of Starfleet. It was a… culmination, of sorts.”

“Of the arguments?” He remembered hearing Amanda’s raised voice during certain nights. It always coincided whenever one of the children tested Sarek’s patience – which happened quite a bit.

His mother’s face softened, and it was almost warm. “No, love. It was not just the bad. All the good, the great, and the tragedies – they’re all tied together. And how your father and I ended up now is just… just how it came to be.”

Silence befell the both of them, and the sound of waves softly crashing filled the air once more.

As they walked back down the winding streets of San Francisco, Amanda asked, “You avoided the question earlier – how is everything? Classes? The people?”

Spock glanced down at his mother. It was strange, how time made his parents shrink. He could remember vividly a time when he thought his mother tall and Sarek towering, like beacons.

“I admittedly am at an impasse.” He explained to her the upcoming Starfleet social. “Essentially, I am uncertain if I should attend this gathering.”

There was a lot he hadn’t said – how he felt himself lacking in friends, in company, and in confidence – yet somehow, Spock sensed she understood. She gave him the same soft expression she always did – faintly worried yet also amused, as if they both already knew the answer.

He knew she would tell him to go and branch out and –

“So don’t go.”

They reached his dormitory building, and they both stopped as Spock turned to stare at his mother.

She smiled. “Don’t go if you are truly uncomfortable. It takes time to acclimate to a new planet and new people – and that’s perfectly alright. It took me ages to adjust to Vulcan society, and even now, I’m still always learning.” She sighed and brushed off a stray leaf from his shoulder.

“But,” she emphasized, patting his arm. “- if it fear that is stopping you, go even if you're afraid – because you're afraid. The first step is always the hardest, but you have a good, sincere heart that people will see. And think about it this way: everyone here on campus is having a fresh start – just like you. Everyone is afraid, nervous, and stressed, and that’s – ”

“Perfectly alright,” finished Spock. For once, he didn’t question the meaning of this paradoxical phrase he has heard since childhood.

His mother beamed up at him. “Exactly.”

Looking at his mother now, Spock supposed he had never seen her so relaxed in public. The only place on Vulcan she could relax was home at the D’H’riset. But on the streets of Vulcan, there was a certain image she carried – the ambassador’s human wife.

To the Vulcans, she was invisible, in that way. She wasn’t Amanda Grayson.

On Earth, she was invisible, too. No, corrected Spock – it wasn’t an invisibility. It was a freedom.

It was something Spock felt here, as well. Realizing this, Spock felt a sense of peace over his decision, for once.

Spock accepted her hug, as she continued, “And I know it’s never cool to have your mother around you during school, but I’m always here should you ever need anything – even if just company.”

“Perhaps weekly lunches will suffice.”

Spock knew he said the right thing when she hugged him tighter. “That sounds lovely.”

“Will you be well on your own?” he asked, as he stepped away.

“Yes, yes,” she assured him. “This isn’t the first time I left your father, you know.”

Spock apparently did not manage to completely hide his disbelief, as Amanda laughed, “There’s quite a bit we didn’t tell you kids, did we?”

“Evidently."

There was a familiar twinkle in her brown eyes. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell you all about it.”

An hour later, Amanda tentatively stepped into the cool, brisk waters of the Pacific. The cold bit at her toes, but her eyes closed regardless, and she swayed against the force of the tides and wind.

She deeply inhaled the salty air and relished in the warmth of the sun’s light.

It really had been too long.

Eventually, she sat down – alone – on the white sand. She could hear the waves crashing and the sharp cries of birds as they swooped overhead, as well as the laughter from a young family sitting nearby. It was so loud here on Earth, yet it never felt more silent.

The bond was… silent.

Amanda exhaled slowly, burrowing her hands deep into the sand – and with it, her anger and sadness.

As the fine grains of sand slipped through her fingers, she remembered a time long ago, when she and Sarek were at a beach. Except it wasn’t here in California, but on the other side of the Pacific Ocean. A small smile slowly graced her mouth.

Amanda softly snorted to herself.

There many things she couldn’t tell her son, but those, well, Amanda can cherish them all herself.

[p-artsypants]

Longest Night (39) Remembering

I just want to say thank you to everyone for their reviews. I can’t respond to all of you because I just don’t have the words. But thank you! I read each and every one, and they keep me going when times are rough. Over all, reviews have been kind. I was expecting some ‘omg you’re a terrible person and I hope you die’ but that never came. You guys are just awesome and I appreciate you so so much!

I didn’t expect this story to be so long, and I’m kind of losing steam to pump it out so fast. I’ll finish it of course, but some chapters take time to figure out what’s happening. I have most of the story planned out, but the ‘when’s and ‘how’s are a little fuzzy. You guys have been very patient and I appreciate it. I just wanted to keep you informed. I think you all deserve it.

Ao3 | FF.net

—

You would think that since Adrien and Marinette were finally allowed to be together, things would be smooth sailing.

But it wasn’t. It was awkward.

Which was completely unfair in fact. She was finally with Adrien, but never alone. And he couldn’t talk. They were just out of arms reach from the other, and even if he could speak, what would they even talk about? Small talk? Surely not about the time in the catacombs.

Did he know what she did? Did he remember being an akuma? Did he know how they got out?

So many days passed in that room in silence. They watched feel-good movies one after the other. Nino and Alya would come to visit and share stories of uplifting things that had happened.

They learned of their trending hashtag. They watched the interviews with Nadja. And they got to watch the benefit concert.

“All that money was put into a fund for you guys,” Alya explained. “That way, you don’t have to worry about supporting yourselves. You are taken care of for life!”

On one hand, yes. Wonderful. Finding work and going back to school were two things that Marinette was afraid of doing, afraid of failing at. Like two giant boulders she’d have to pick away at with a tiny hammer. So to know they had a large safety net was a relief.

On the other hand, it was kind of disgusting. They were real people being tortured, with no granted privacy. Everyone had seen both of them naked, in their most vulnerable moments of weakness, crying, panicking, even hallucinating. And people were just watching it. And they got invested and wanted to know more, like they were characters in a show and not people actually suffering!

Taking donations? Fine.

But making a concert out of them like some sort of spectacle? Disgusting.

Watching the interviews, it became apparent that everyone knew about Marinette’s debilitating crush on Adrien. How awkward she was around him, how she embarrassed herself.

There was a reason she had a secret identity. So that Marinette would be safe. Marinette and her family.

What did she have left of her own?

“What was the point of that?” She asked as Jagged’s ‘Exit Music’ faded out.

“Girl, it’s a benefit concert.” Alya quirked her head to the side, like she had no idea what was wrong.

“The benefit of who?”

“Of you two, of course. What else would it be?”

“Did you plan this?”

“Well…yeah? Most of it. It was Jagged Stone’s idea though.”

“Did you pat yourself on the back afterwards? Thought you picked a bunch of really vulnerable moments to really drive the emotion up?”

“What? N-no…”

“You know what I saw? A bunch of people singing a bunch of useless songs to make themselves feel better. What was even the goal? To bring awareness to our suffering?”

Alya huffed. “Don’t be like this, Marinette. Jagged brought the idea to us because there was nothing else he could do. He’s a musician. So he wanted to play music to help you somehow. I’m sorry that my video choices upset you. I thought they were funny and captured the person you are outside the suit. I wanted others to see that person.”

Marinette didn’t have a response to that.

“And you know what? Maybe we did want to feel better. What good does it do anyone if we all sat around feeling hopeless?”

“Yeah, like I didn’t know how that felt.”

Alya exhaled hard. “That’s not what I’m saying. If everyone lost hope, who would even bother to save you? If there was no chance?”

Marinette glared at her. “Well, I hope Hawkmoth really enjoyed the concert, since he was the only helpful one.”

“He wasn’t—“ Alya growled, but bit her lip. “You know what? It’s not my place. I’m sorry. I legitimately didn’t know this would hurt you.”

Marinette turned her gaze away. “I’m sorry for snapping. Thank you for putting the concert on.”

“Nah girl, you can thank Jagged when he comes to visit. He was really worried. And you might thank Luka too.”

“I’ll try.”

—

For his own part, Gabriel was practicing the art of holding his tongue. Some moments it was difficult, but he had to tell himself it was an emotional response to seeing his only son in pain.

In this time of quiet observation, he watched Marinette and Adrien, studying the changes in behavior. Noting was setting them off in anger, and what they were okay with. His goal in the next several months was to push those boundaries.

There was no reason for Adrien to hiss at nurses that were touching Marinette.

Besides this, he was also trying to consolidate Chat Noir and Adrien, and Marinette and Ladybug. It had been a chore since the beginning, but it was still so hard to piece together.

And now with their changes in personalities, it was impossible.

He hadn’t really known Marinette. The few times he met her, he’d describe her as small. Timid, shy, unable to have eye-contact, and incredibly clumsy. From Adrien and Lila, he learned that she had a lot of people that trusted her and was easily liked.

Ladybug on the other hand, demanded attention and respect with her very presence. She exuded confidence that he had found annoying, if not respectable. Though they had been enemies, she was certainly a formidable opponent. Calm, calculating, and creative.

New Marinette was none of these things. Closed off, bitter, quiet, and volatile. Words were like pouring salt on her bare back, some grains fell in open wounds, and it was impossible to predict what would set her off.

Adrien used to be polite, graceful, and wore his emotions on his sleeves, no matter how hard he tried otherwise.

Chat Noir was obnoxious, reckless, and larger than life. He came off as a goofball, but Hawkmoth could tell he took his duties seriously.

New Adrien was impossible to read. Silent, watching, calculating. Completely stoic unless someone touched Marinette. There was no way to tell how he was coping, other than to assume he wasn’t.

The doctor was right, they were unrecognizable.

The only saving grace was the softening gaze Adrien had when looking at Marinette. She was the only thing that seemed to pull him out of his abyss.

“Good morning,” Dr. Boucher stated early one day. Adrien was awake, but Marinette was still sleeping.

“Good morning,” Gabriel returned for his son.

“Well, things are going great, I’m really thrilled with the progress both of them are making. We’ve avoided every complication, quite Miraculously. So I was hoping to do one more procedure on Adrien while he’s still admitted.”

Adrien glanced at the doctor, seemingly listening.

“Your vocal nodules. It’s a really easy procedure, we won’t even put you to sleep. Just numb the area and use a tiny laser to remove the growths. Shouldn’t take too long at all.”

Adrien turned to Marinette, whimpering in the back of his throat.

“I promise you won’t be gone long. Might even be back before she wakes up.”

“I’ll let her know if she does,” Sabine spoke up from Marinette’s side of the room. “You might as well get this done now, Adrien. Then you don’t have to come back.”

“And they’ll only get worse as time goes on.” The doctor added.

Adrien screwed up his lips and gave a stiff nod.

“That’s a good boy.”

—

Marinette awoke to Dr. Boucher speaking. “Now, in order for your vocal cords to fully recover, I don’t want you to speak for two weeks. After that, you can gradually start speaking softly. No yelling for a while. Okay?”

Marinette raised her head to see the doctor was talking to Adrien.

“What’s going on?” She asked.

“See, I told you you’d be back before she woke up.” The doctor smiled. “We just got done removing Adrien’s vocal nodules, so he should be able to speak within the next few weeks.”

“That’s wonderful.” She said softly.

“And how are you feeling?” He asked her.

She frowned. “Gross. I want to take a bath.”

He smiled. “Well, I’m afraid you can’t. But we can give you a sponge bath and wash your hair.”

Oh.

Oh.

Huh.

What a strange trigger.

One moment, she was safe in the hospital, the next, she was standing in the rain, a deranged Chat Noir next to her. They were looking in the window of a salon. Then she was in a chair, staring at her own horrible perverse reflection.

“Can I wash your hair? Give you a trim? It might make you feel better.”

And then…

Blood. Everywhere. Salo’s lifeless face dissolving into ash. Gunshots ringing in her ears. Adrenaline pumping. Bodies of her tormentors laying all around her.

And Chat smiling with blood in his mouth.

“Marinette?”

Alya’s little sisters hiding and crying. Chloe, terrified and cowering against a shelf. A man dangling over the edge of a building by his neck. Dozens of men being eviscerated, torn to shreds. A whole building worth of angry thugs laying on the floor and writhing in pain.

“Marinette!”

Bodies hanging from the Arch de Triomphe. A fight with Hawkmoth, and Chloe, and Nino.

“Alya!” Her own voice screamed. “Come out and face me! Face judgement for your neglect and betrayal!”

Over and over. Blood. Screams. Death.

Because of them.

Because of her.

A stern hand grabbed her arm. “Speak to me Marinette, what hurts?” The doctor was speaking, but Marinette wasn’t listening.

She turned to look at Adrien, who was only staring at her wide-eyed, tears of his own streaming down his face.

Gabriel was right there with him. “He’s upset too. What did you do?”

“I don’t know! I thought a sponge bath was a fine idea!”

Marinette was reading the look on Adrien’s face wrong. Her own anxieties fed her lies and told her that the fear she was seeing was directed towards her.

And to be honest, she was a little afraid of him too.

He had torn out throats with his teeth, and then laughed about it. He had enjoyed their murder spree.

And so had she. Justice, she said. They were setting things right. Doing what others were too cowardly to do.

But violent revenge wasn’t that far off from what Salo had been after.

In fact, theirs had been much much worse.

“I’m just like her…” Marinette sobbed. “I’m just like Salo.”

“Honey no.” Sabine demanded. “Absolutely not.”

“I’m not an idiot!” She choked. “I know what I did! I know the whole story! I remember all of it! I’m disgusting!” And she turned away. Away from her family, away from Adrien.

But she stood firmly facing her guilt.

It was a veil being lifted. A fog rolling back to reveal memories that were aching to be noticed. Deep primal instincts that thundered inside. There was no ignoring it, and it was only a matter of time before the truth became known.

“I can’t take this,” stated Tom, who had been quiet since Marinette awoke. In quick strides, he was across the room and scooping his daughter up into his arms.

Marinette allowed him, and clung to his shirt as she wailed. Sabine came up behind her and petted her hair patiently, silently.

Adrien had his back turned from them, and trembled in his horrified shock.

How could he?

How could he be so cruel and demented? How could he enjoy murdering? With his bare hands no less?

Was he so loyal to Ladybug that he’d kill for her? She hadn’t even asked him to. Was he so depraved that that felt like the right thing to do?

He was a monster. An absolute monster.

Shakily, he took off his Miraculous and tossed it blindly, hearing it ping against the linoleum.

He didn’t deserve to be a hero. He didn’t deserve to live.

“Adrien,” Gabriel said as he crouched next to him. “You should hold onto this.” The ring rested in his palm.

Adrien shook his head, burying his face in his pillow.

Gabriel watched his son sink into himself, swallowed into a dark abyss. One he feared he’d never make it out of. But how was he supposed to help? A pat on the head? ‘There there’? Comfort was so out of realm of his expertise.

Still, there was hope for him yet if he realized there was a problem and wanted to fix it. Looking to the Dupain-Cheng’s, he found Marinette snuggled against her father. The scene was so sweet if he hadn’t known the context.

Gabriel looked to Dr. Boucher. “Can he be moved?”

“Uh, yes. I think that’d be alright.”

Coming around to the other side, Gabriel slid an arm under Adrien’s waist and forced him to sit up.

His head flopped forward and rested on Gabriel’s collar bone.

“Come on, Adrien, it’s alright.”

But Adrien just sobbed against him.

“Adrien,” Tom stated firmly. “Come here, son.” And he held out his hand.

Adrien lifted his head, his chest rising and falling with erratic breath. He looked Tom in the eyes, trailing down to his outstretched hand. That was something he wholeheartedly didn’t deserve.

“You can go,” Gabriel assured. “It’s okay.”

After a split second of hesitation, Adrien staggered to his feet and fell the last few feet to reach Marinette’s bed. Tom caught him before he hit the ground and swept him up onto his lap.

There were tears, there was repentance, and shame. It lasted far too long as the 12 hours of memories roared like a debilitating hurricane in their minds.

And then soon, it started to feel good to cry. It wasn’t great. It was exhausting and draining, but in a good way, like after running a race.

“You remember how it ended, don’t you?” Sabine asked softly. “You gave me your earrings, and I did Miraculous Cure. They’re all okay now. Maybe a little scared and confused, but they’re alive.”

Marinette sighed with a shutter. “I have to apologize.”

“If it will help. But I’m sure they understand and don’t hold it against you.”

Gabriel mimicked Sabine’s comforting motions on his son. “You were both akumatized. You know better than anyone else that akumas are irrational. They embody the very emotion they felt when they are transformed.”

“You remember when I turned into Weredad?” Asked Tom. “I trapped you in a tower, and beat up Chat Noir. You know I’d never do that. I want to protect you, but I also want you to enjoy life and make your own decisions. It was irrational.”

“And you remember when Nonna turned into Befana?” Asked Sabine. “She wanted to hurt you, Marinette. And she turned your father into coal. Grandma would never want to hurt you.”

“You see Marinette,” Gabriel continued. “A lot of akuma’s hurt, and some even kill. They petrify, and turn people to ice cream. But life goes on. Paris heals. You are just unfortunate enough to remember it.”

“Why?” Marinette whispered. “Why did we remember?”

Gabriel frowned. “I think Hawkmoth might be the only one to know the answer.”

“But that’s something to worry about later,” Sabine interjected. “You have plenty of emotions to sort through as of right now.”

Marinette nodded sagely and wiped her cheeks.

Then her eyes flicked over to Adrien.

He managed the smallest smile for her, the fear disappearing from his eyes.

It sent a spark to her heart, and her face heated up.

[bow-woahh]

As our differences divide us

Summary: 

Adora believes in the Horde. Catra doesn’t.

Or

An AU where Adora (with the sword) stays with the Horde and Catra leaves for the Rebellion.

Relationship: Adora/Catra

Words: 3287 Notes:

This work is for the She-Ra Winter Gift Exchange, my recipient was @catrahappinessclub who requested a canon divergence AU, which is something I rarely write, and ended up being a bit of a challenge for me. One I thoroughly enjoyed however. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

(read below the cut or here on Ao3)

——

The first time they see each other after Adora’s recovered from Thaymoor, Catra assumes things will be the same.

Well, actually, her instincts have an inkling of doubt.

Of course, she doesn't voice this to anyone—especially not to Adora herself. Instead, she goes back to the barracks; sits on Adora's (practically their) bed and waits, because immediately after she’d recovered Adora and gotten her back to the Fright Zone, Shadow Weaver had (according to one of the senior cadets who’d been there after Catra was shooed away) taken her in for questioning—what does that even mean? And why ask Adora who was barely conscious when they'd gotten back, when there was all the other cadets, or better yet, Catra?

She laughs to herself.

The witch obviously just wants Adora to herself, to congratulate, indoctrinate, whatever it is she normally does. Catra thinks if it was her in that situation, it would hardly be as nice; Weaver would somehow turn it into a punishment as she always does. Never Adora though. Never Adora, and as long as she's okay, Catra can live with herself. But—

She shakes her head and doesn't bother entertaining the idea.

Getting increasingly impatient, Catra tries to occupy her mind, but she can only focus on how her tail can't seem to stop moving, and she wonders what they're doing that's taking so long. It takes so long for Adora to come back that Catra starts to dose of in that time, comfortable at the foot of her –their– bed. One eye cracks open when she smells the faint familiar scent of Adora, who must still be making her way to the barracks. Her tail perks up, and her ears twitch as she listens out for the footsteps of her friend; her pupils practically dilate as she waits poised to tackle Adora onto the ground the moment she sees her.

Before she even passes through the doorway, Catra is already springing off the bed to greet Adora unceremoniously, saying a split second too early, “Adora!”

However, when she finally enters, the Adora she expects to see is far from the reality.

Weak. She’s frail, barely standing, to the point where Catra is surprised she’s managed to get here all the way from Weaver's lair. Eyes half lidded, bags burrowed deep, out of breath—no doubt from exerting more energy walking—how is she worse than before?

"Catra…" she all but whispers, before collapsing into her arms, nearly the ground, though Catra catches her just in time.

“Jesus Adora!” Catra hisses, panicked as she drags her to the bunk. She lays her down slowly, one hand cradling her head and the other on her back.

All Adora does is give her a reassuring smile, practically mouthing, “Sorry...I’m just a little–”

“Tired? Yeah I know, you were gone for a while, y'know, but what…What happened out there?” Catra interjects, curiosity – and concern – getting the best of her.

“I went to recover the sword.” Adora states plainly, as if she expects Catra to understand the importance of it. The day they stole the skiff flashes back into her mind: the rush and adrenaline of driving it; the giggles and laughter; the Whispering Woods; the shoving and pushing; driving just a little too high which ended in Adora falling and then—

“You mean the sword you thought you saw after you hit your head?” Catra says, sarcasm bleeding through her voice, even though she saw a glimpse of it earlier, not only is it hard to believe the thing’s real, but also it’s an easy jab at a bleary Adora who glares at her halfheartedly, shaking her head.

Sitting up slightly, leaning in and grabbing hold of one of Catra’s hands, she says, “Catra, It’s here, I found it. I was right! I think it was, like, calling to me.” The grip on her hand only gets firmer as Adora says a smidge quieter than before, “I’m sorry I didn’t let you come with me, I just didn’t want you to get in trouble on my behalf.”

Makes sense. Adora’s always so considerate and careful about not getting her in more trouble than she’s usually in with Shadow Weaver. Catra appreciates it at times, and at others...it feels like even Adora sees her a pet to keep out of their ration bars.

Catra sighs, but it isn’t exactly out of exasperation. “Fine. It’s fine. I saw it anyway—I was just messing. But, I thought you’d be feeling better by now.”

“Huh?” Adora says, and it perplexes Catra immensely. Is she that delirious from debilitation she doesn’t know what she’s talking about?

“The sword, it must have tired you out or something, right? You were barely awake when we’d gotten back.” Catra looks at her, expecting something back, expecting this to prompt her memory, and although it seems like Adora’s trying, she has this blank look on her face which she tends to make when she pretends to know what she’s talking about.

“Yeah...the sword,” Adora nods, far too slowly for it to go noticed, and in any other situation Catra would laugh at the empty stare she’s receiving, but Adora’s just gotten back from the black garnet chamber, after being gone for nearly a whole day chasing after some magical sword.

“What happened before?” Catra asks, hoping all she needs is a little more probing.

“Before what?” Adora replies, face falling into utter defeat as she admits she has no clue what Catra’s talking about.

“Before we found you, Adora!” Catra says, hands moving away from her and voice rising above the optimum level for a fatigued, confused Adora, who as a result flinches at the shift in volume. She instantly wants to apologise for it, but she can’t bring herself to, in fact, she virtually forgets to when she goes to look at Adora again, who’s concentrating so hard on searching for the answer Catra wants.

Evidently, thinking intensively is far too taxing, as a second later Adora is wincing, hand gripping her head as if she’s trying to push back against the pain, in a fight she’s bound to lose. Catra moves a little closer, and in an attempt to comfort her, places her both hands on Adora’s face, one atop of Adora’s hand tangled in her hair. She whispers ‘it’s okay’ over and over, until the winces and whimpers placate, and she brings both their hands back down to Adora’s lap.

“Did...you don’t remember do you?”

Adora shakes her head, looking down and the grimy floor.

“Do you remember leaving? Finding the sword? Being in Thaymoor?” Catra implores, trying to see how big the gap in her memory is.

“I...I remember leaving, and finding the sword…” she speaks slowly, as if she’s trying to picture the events in her head. “Then, I think that...there was—”

“There was what? C’mon Adora, think,” Catra says eagerly, adamant to try and fit the scattered puzzle pieces together which are Adora’s thoughts.

Adora shuts her eyes, humming, softly at first then, as she continues, “I think there...there–” she winces again, this time harsher, almost guttural and choked up, the grip on Catra’s hand dead tight. Catra’s eyes widen and she realises she may have pushed too hard again. She bites the inside of her cheek.

“So you don’t remember?” She asks again, despite not needing the clarification. Frankly, she’s just not sure what to say at this point.

Adora, once again, shakes her head and says quietly, “no.”

Catra recalls the events of today and how she had felt. How her excitement had quickly dulled as they passed through Thaymoor, seeing all those dead bodies, seeing mere children, seeing people her age, laying limpless on the ground, void of all life. If she hadn’t been with the Horde...would that have been her? She had no doubt it would. Hordak, Shadow Weaver, they’re both cold blooded and hardened, unempathetic, unsympathetic even. Catra, on the other hand, she’s not like that, no. Hardened, maybe, but she’d never...she’d—she wanted to throw up. How could Shadow Weaver send them there? Well, she knew exactly why. Her obsession with Adora was as clear as day to see, seeing as she sent a whole squadron to look solely for her.

She swallows back the bile in her mouth at that thought, just as she always does when similar things come and intrude in her mind. Then she thinks of something else. “That sword...do you remember using it?”

The question seems to unnerve Adora, as she looks down at their hands in her lap. Catra hopes she isn’t asking too much of her, hopes Adora isn’t hurting herself for her again. “I, um, just remember a surge of power...and feeling heavier and lighter at the same time, and uh, like electricity was rushing through my veins. It’s less of a memory and more of a feeling, I guess.”

“So you remember using the sword—or the feeling of using the sword, but not why, where, if there was anyone with you…” Catra uses her free hand to scratch the back of her head.

“Well, I do know we were in Thaymoor, Shadow Weaver said just as much. I just don’t know what actually happened.” Adora says. “Why does it matter anyway? It was probably just the sword, Shadow Weaver said—”

“If it was the sword, why can’t you remember anything before using it?” Catra says, only mildly irritated at Adora’s usual obliviousness, even if it’s more acceptable than usual considering the circumstances. It’s impossible not to consider the one conclusion she wishes she could stay away from: Weaver. The old hag must have done something. Catra isn’t sure what, but figures it must have something to do with that sword.

From what Adora says about it, using the thing must have tired her out...Catra wants to believe that’s all there is to it, that Adora is just weary from a power that frankly seems beyond the Horde and beyond them all—though Catra doesn’t have time to dwell on that at the moment. Though surely, Weaver would want to replenish her star student energy then? The unease Catra feels is too glaringly obvious for her to ignore, and her instincts all tell her to push on and uncover the answer she knows she’ll receive.

“What else did Weaver say to you? About the sword.”

“She said it possesses a lot of power that only I’m able to use, and how she could strengthen it to be even more of an asset to the Horde.” Adora says it pridefully, clearly pleased at herself and Shadow Weaver’s praise.

That’s when it clicked. The swords power. It’s linked directly to Adora from what Catra can gather, so...her coming back like this had to mean Weaver took some of that power. She realised years ago that black garnet only has a finite amount of power, meaning the same can be said for Weaver. But would she really...to Adora? And what did Adora see that made the hag erase her memory? Was it something that could ruin the Horde? That would make Adora realise Shadow Weaver’s poor treatment of everyone and...and of Catra? Maybe she realised and she—

“It was her.” Catra’s face contorts into something close to anger and disgust mixed into one, hand pulling away from Adora’s.

Predictably, Adora’s face falls, similar to the bewildered face Catra’s seen countless times before, but yet different, with a hint of something else Catra doesn’t bother to put a name to. Adora sits up fully, leaning against the metal wall as she says, “No, she’s helping, like she always is, she cares and wants me to succeed and—”

“They’re using you! Can’t you see?” Catra’s standing up now, hands waving around maniacally, desperate for her to realise what’s always been right in front of her.

“No, they’re not. Clearly, you’re just jealous and don’t want to admit to it Catra.” Adora’s voice is firm and unwavering, like she well and truly believes it. Catra wants to think that it’s only because of whatever mind wiping the witch has done but even before—

“I–” Catra cuts herself off, swallowing down any words she thought to say, deflating completely from her rise of temper.

Adora moves to the side of the bunk, facing Catra fully, who doesn’t miss the small grunt of exertion she lets out doing so. It makes her heart hurt seeing Adora like this, incapable of making it better.

“I don’t understand the problem Catra. Isn’t this what you wanted? With the sword, I can be on top, we can be on top...together.”

Technically, she’s not wrong. Catra did say she wants that. Though, she’s starting to realise only one of those things is alluring to her. One of those things is sitting right in front of her, in pain because of them, because of her.

“They’re hurting you, Adora. She’s going to hurt you more, and I can’t just stand and watch, not when—” Catra stops herself, refusing to look at Adora in case she breaks down right here—she can already feel the cracks in her voice, the bottled up emotions and years’ worth of feelings seeping through that are meant to be contained, that are meant to stay below the surface.

“Hey, Catra...” Adora says, soft enough it soothes her ailments, allows her to look up off the ground. She pats the seat next to her and Catra finds herself ambling over, despite everything, despite how she’s angry and upset; she finds herself in Adora’s arms, ears flattened and tail curling around Adora waist, pressed into her chest, trying to suppress any whimpers, any noise at all from making her weakness more overt. Eventually, Adora’s hand migrates to scratch behind her ear, and any noise that were once whimpers are now purrs, and for a while it’s enough.

It would always be enough, Catra thinks, if it weren’t for the Horde.

That’s when she voices what she’s been thinking for...for too long, but never dared to utter it, knowing it wouldn’t be taken seriously, or worse, it would be turned down, and she always thought if that happened, that her heart would crack in two. But maybe, just maybe Adora would. Maybe she would this time.

“We could...we can leave here y’know—Together, tonight. We, uh, We can rest up and then just like you did in the middle of the night we can, yeah, we can leave, only this time we don’t come back. You, you can take your magic sword too, and we can figure it out together. Can’t we?”

And it’s crazy, maybe a little impulsive, definitely desperate, but Catra thinks things could work, and for a second Adora looks like she thinks it could too. Then, just as she expects deep down, the words she’s been dreading come out.

“Catra...I can’t,” she says, touch unwavering as she continues to stroke behind her ear, as if to pacify her, or simply delay Catra from exploding.

There’s a possibility it works, however Catra thinks it’s more likely that she just feels too weak to fight Adora, not like this, not when she already lost the battle before it had begun. Still, she tries again, no matter how futile. “Why? Why not Adora?”

Adora lets out a small sigh, but answers nonetheless. “Well...this, it’s our home, and the Rebellion, they’re dangerous. Shadow Weaver said they must be the ones responsible for my current state, and it only makes sense. You have to understand that we’re safe here, Catra.”

At that, Catra laughs, she can’t help it, and Adora’s touch wavers now, and Catra sits up, gazing right into her eyes. She knows exactly what she wants to say, what she’s always wanted to say, but instead, she settles on: “Then how come you can’t remember a thing? How come you’ve come back here looking worse than you did after Thaymoor? Answer that.” She spits each word out like venom on her tongue, and the look Adora gives her tells her she feels it to.

Searching far and wide to form words that will make an appropriate response, Adora holds Catra’s stare, then slow and calculated, she says, “Catra...we already went through this and I—”

“Because really Adora,” Catra starts, voice slowly rising, “I know you can be pretty oblivious but I thought even you could see that the Horde are not the good guys!”

The reaction Catra gets is not at all what she anticipates. Adora’s countenance goes from the once calm expression to one of hurt, guilt — which Catra can’t wrap her head around — then as if a memory’s resurfacing, she clutches her head as she did before, only this time, she truly looks like she’s in pure agony, so Catra puts aside her grievances once more and pulls Adora close, who whimpers, cries, whispers nonsense, some of the words sounding close to an ‘I’m sorry’. She holds her like this until the whispering stops, until the cries stop, until the whimpers stop, and holds her past that too, until everyone else is trailing in to get to their bunks and Adora is sound asleep. None bother to take note, or poke fun, or worse, threaten to report it. Maybe they will tomorrow, but Catra’s bribed (or threatened) for their silence many times — Not that tomorrow matters for her.

Catra lets herself cling onto this moment, lets herself indulge as much as she possibly can, especially knowing this is the last time she’ll be able to. For a little while, she closes her eyes, listens to Adora’s steady breathing and the sound of metal clanging and pipes churning. Age old comforts. Soon after, when she knows for a fact everyone is deep in their own slumber, she wriggles out of Adora’s strong hold (still firm although she’s asleep) slowly enough not to wake her, slowly enough that it’s almost excruciating for herself. She lets out a sigh as she looks at Adora’s sleeping form. Beautiful, even like this. Catra’s never had to say goodbye, not to anything she’s actually cared about. This is a first. One she never thought she’d have to experience. A single tear rolls down her cheek before she reminds herself she’s past that, and wipes it quickly, disregarding its existence.

I hope we see each other again, Catra wishes to say aloud, but refuses to try her luck. Hopefully under different circumstances.

She contemplates writing a note, but that seems far too incriminating, not to mention she doesn’t have much time. Instead, Catra’s parting gift is much simpler: one kiss on her knuckles, and then, because she can’t help herself, one on her forehead too. This one lingers for a moment, just as she wishes she’s able to do, but she knows her time is up. Realising she has no clue where she’ll go, she stops to think, and her mind wanders back to her and Adora’s conversation. Shadow Weaver and Hordak have always claimed the Rebellion were evil. Though, seeing as their words had no influence on Catra’s thoughts anymore, who’s saying it’s true? It looks like she’d be heading to the Whispering Woods again then. And somehow, Catra would figure out exactly what happened, she would help Adora.

As she leaves the barracks, Catra looks back one last time, but this time she can’t linger too long, because she’s sure she’d change her mind and give in. This time, she can’t afford to. When she starts walking she doesn’t look back.

Goodbye Adora.

The next time they see each other, Catra knows things will be different.

***

[laylacooke]

Hunters & Vampires & Wolves, Oh My! || Orion, Fran, & Layla

TIMING: The week before the full moon. PARTIES: @3starsquinn, @caraitaliadolcemeta, @laylacooke SUMMARY: A young hunter saves a dumb-dumb wolf from a crazed vampire. WARNINGS: mentions of blood and injuries 

It’s not like Layla had wanted to be the next meal for a vampire much stronger than she was, it just sort of happened. But while she was hauling ass through the forest, she couldn’t let go of the fact that, somehow, she didn’t change. At least not yet. Maybe it was because she was finally finding some sense of peace and a home. Maybe it was because her mind was currently focused on the woman with fangs bared chasing her at a ridiculous speed. Whatever it was, she was just glad to not be a huge smelly, dog. And as she glanced back to the vampire to see how far she was, it only took a split second for the red head to hit a tree followed by a hard thud to the ground. Dazed and groaning, Layla couldn’t seem to focus on anything at the moment except her heartbeat in her ears and the pain running through her body from the impact with the huge pine that had stopped her from getting any farther.

How did she reach that point was a good question. But there was no return now. With just the sweet thought of that blood washing down her throat, dripping from the corners of her mind - Francesca was going completely mental, about to enter that often state of frenzy she just couldn’t get off whenever she tasted blood. It’s not that she was inexperienced still, it’s just that she enjoyed it too bloody much. She allowed the little wolf to take her chance. Hell, she even stayed behind for a while, counting the each second in her mind before she actually began to chase her down. Just keeping up with her, not really making any extreme effort, the Italian vampire couldn’t help but roar at that scene. Laughing out loud at the girl’s clumsiness, she even had to lean against the same tree that hit her (not the other way around). She couldn’t help it, it’s like when you see someone trip on her own feet and want to help, but you just can’t stop laughing. Except she didn’t really want to help her. “Cazzo, bambina, sei veramente una maldestra.” Unnecessarily catching her breath, she sighed with a little chuckle and suddenly jumped her, pinning her to the ground. “My doc said I’ve been missing werewolf from my diet. So… Thanks?” And her fangs violently pierced two, deep holes in her curvy neck.

Orion had been surprisingly lucky. In his months since he began coming to the Scribe headquarters hidden in the middle of the woods, he hadn’t been attacked or hurt once. In the woods. In White Crest. It was a miracle. The woods had been one of the main reasons he had talked himself out of coming back to the headquarters for so many years after his Uncle had originally shown him. Apparently, his luck had run out today though. His hearing picked up on the altercation, but he couldn’t tell how far away it was yet. He needed to focus. He took a deep breath and tried to home in on the sounds, finally pinpointing it after he heard something or maybe someone colliding with what he assumed was a tree. Against his better judgement, he took off in the direction of the sound, leaping over tree branches and weaving between trees. He tripped more times than he was willing to admit and had bounced off a couple of trees, but by some miracle he had stayed upright the entire time and continued to readjust his direction to follow the sounds of struggling. He finally broke into a small clearing to find two women, a girl on the ground and pinned by another, the woman’s mouth digging into the victim’s throat. It had to be a vampire, right? Oh boy. He had never come in contact with a human vampire. Which could only mean the tingling sensation that he was feeling meant the second girl must be a werewolf. “Hey!” Rio yelled, trying to force some confidence in his voice instead of the trembling that he sure was present. “Let her go!” He called out, jumping into the clearing and grabbing onto the woman, attempting to pull her off of the girl. But Jesus, that woman was strong, way stronger than Rio was. Uh oh.

By the time Layla had started to come around, it was too late. The woman that had been chasing her, aside from stopping to laugh at her misfortune, was already on top of her, and as soon as fangs sank into Layla’s neck, she let out a bloodcurdling scream. The last time she had been bitten by anything, it had almost killed her. Her mind had flashed back to that night in the woods when her father left her to die at the hands of a werewolf. Her heart pounded fiercely in her chest. She felt faint. And no matter how hard she tried, she just couldn’t shove the woman off of her. Vampire. It was her first encounter that she had known of, but her training as a hunter did offer her some knowledge, in that moment, of things she could potentially do. Unfortunately for her, she didn’t have any of the right weapons with her, and the one part of herself that normally gave her protection wasn’t working out for some reason, “Get…off….me!!!!” It wasn’t until she heard a voice in the distance, that Layla’s mind left her situation for the briefest of moments, and when she watched as he came forward to try and help get the leech off, she knew Francesca was still too overpowering, even for what smelled like...a hunter?

The branches shaking like the girl in her arms, dry leaves crushing with sudden impact and occasional bumping sounds - there was someone coming their way. It was never prudent to allow a living thing to witness a vampire feeding off a victim, it’d rat out her identity, yet she couldn’t care less. She was old enough, she was strong, well-connected, and she was hungry. What smelled humanly was getting closer, but he posed no threat. That living heart beat so fast, that ragged breathing, the sweat - they were as hesitant and even frightened as the redheaded puppy. The all-mighty hero jumped and dared to touch her. Fran let go of the werewolf for a second, pushing him and shoving him against a tree with a simple, easy motion of her hand. “Fuck off, kid,” she mumbled with her face still buried in the girl’s neck, lips smearing the blood all around. Whoever said you can’t play with your food was absolutely wrong, it’s just bloody fantastic. Francesca pulled up the shifter, sitting her up in one go, holding tightly to her upper arm and grabbing her hair so it wouldn’t get in her way. A crack, like a broken bench, echoed in the quietude of the forest, fingernails digging into her flesh. Ops, might have broken something. It wasn’t her intention to leave her completely debilitated. But then again, with that one in the picture, she might need to kill them both. She pressed her palm against the girl’s mouth to keep her quiet, actually enjoying the struggle. “Shhh, be a good girl and I might let you live after I kill that brat…” The vampire licked her blood-squirting neck. “I don’t think you’d like your meal blabbing while you’re trying to eat it.” And gave her another deep bite on top of the other.

Whether or not she was just a normal, everyday vampire wasn’t exactly clear as of yet, but Orion could definitely attest that she was incredibly strong. Way stronger than he was. His strength was built to match werewolves though, not vampires. Plus, he was pretty sure he had read that vampires get stronger the older they get. Did that imply that this woman had been around for a long time? Too many unknown variables. All Rio could process right now was the pain he felt as the woman shoved him backwards into a tree. It hadn’t looked like much effort at all for the woman, but Rio felt like he had just been body slammed against the trunk. His back stung and he crumpled to the ground, glancing up and forcing his vision to regain focus just to catch her digging her fangs back into the girl. “Crap.” Rio pushed himself back up, wondering what he could do to stop the girl from being murdered right in front of him. He glanced around the area, noticing fallen branches and twigs lying all over the place. With the woman distracted, it may not be that difficult to simply… stab her. It wasn’t exactly a wooden stake, but it would be deadly all the same. But… he couldn’t kill her. Even if she was attacking someone, what right did he have to end a life? A little maiming wouldn’t be that bad though right? He bent down, picking up a branch and breaking it in half, ripping pieces off so that the edge was sharp enough to pierce. Then he took a deep breath, closed his eyes and ran forward, stabbing the branch down into the woman’s leg using that distraction to try to shove her off of the redhead. “You need to run!” Rio yelled at her, hoping that she could wiggle free from the vampire’s grasp now.

Layla felt like a rag doll as the vampire continued to drain her blood. She had never experienced anything quite like this feeling before. She had given blood once, to the Red Cross when they had come to visit her school for a blood drive, but this was different. And with each passing moment, Layla felt just a little more lightheaded than the moment before. One thing she did see, though, was the man that was trying to help her, go flying back into a tree, and it angered her. Trying as much as she could, she began squirming to get free, but when Francesca picked her up, Layla could feel the crack of several ribs with nails digging into flesh, and she let out an agonizing howl. Some werewolf she was. With her mouth covered and tears now sliding down her cheeks, the redhead hoped some reprieve would come soon. And before all hope was lost, it did! With some slack in her captor’s grip, Layla, despite the pain she was feeling, bit down hard on the vampire’s hand before spitting it out and crawling her way towards safety. Well, as safe as you could be while struggling to get to your feet.

As one heartbeat throbbed madly, another slowed down. The werewolf’s blood didn’t pump as fast as it first did. Here was a special moment, when a vampire could actually feel a life slip away. It’d haunt her at some point later that week, maybe at the end of the month, when she found herself alone in her big house, but it didn’t bother her now. She had just decided to kill the other woman. Fangs dug deeper, tongue sucked stronger. She could hear the second beat but guessed the boy still struggled to get up after being knocked against a tree. And then the burning, maddening-stinging blow. It was followed by the worse bite that wet dog could give her, which bored her as much as a bee sting would, and she shooed her the same way she’d have done with an insect, pushing her away on both shoulders. It wasn’t a sign of surrender, she just had changed her mind about killing the redhead - she’d be killing the boy instead. Stupid boy. Growling as she pulled off the branch, Francesca stood up and turned to him. “You’ll fucking regret this.” In a flash, the brunette was standing right in front of him, blood all over her mouth, chest, arms, hands, leg. It was a horror show. The bloody hand grabbed his neck and lifted him from the ground, pushing him against that same tree, a branch scratching the side of his body, making a gash and tearing his top. “Scream. I like it.”

The woman was right, Orion did regret it. Almost immediately actually, as the attack had made him sick to his stomach and hadn’t even seemed to hinder the vampire’s strength or anger. It had only succeeded in shifting the woman’s anger from her original victim over to Rio. He supposed he was happy about the girl being free, but hadn’t exactly thought about what he was going to do once she was free. The vampire stood up, her body stained with blood, a mix of her own and her victim’s. It looked like a scene straight out of a horror movie, which Rio felt like he was currently stuck in. He should have run. Instead, he stood paralyzed by fear. He had always been afraid of hunters and the monstrosities they committed. In his mind, he logically knew that supernatural creatures were capable of just as much evil, he just thought that if they could talk things through, maybe they could figure something out. “I’m sorry- I didn’t want to hurt you I just needed you to-” Uninterested in his attempts to mitigate, the woman cut Rio off by grabbing at his throat, lifting him easily into the air and shoving him against the same tree he had already rammed into once before. He felt a sharp pain as something cut into his side, tearing into the hoodie and long sleeve shirt he had beneath it. Despite the much more pressing issue of the vampire currently trying to murder him, he couldn’t help but immediately feel the discomfort of having the scars that ran along his body exposed. But he was soon distracted as the woman pushed deeper and deeper against Rio’s throat, cutting off any chances he had at breathing. He kicked his legs furiously, connecting with nothing, and he clawed at the woman’s hands, but to no avail. And she was enjoying this? Holy crap. He choked and coughed, trying to form words, to beg the vampire to stop, but nothing was working. He could feel himself getting lightheaded, the life being quite literally choked out of him. He needed to do something now or he’d be dead. That’s when the idea struck him. He gave up on pushing away at her hands, instead flinging his arms back to his bag, the only thing separating him from the tree. He fumbled inside one of the pockets, feeling around for the container that he kept stuffed away for a rainy day. It stored little things, an iron ring, a silver necklace, a cross and salt. His vision was blurring now, and muscle movement felt mechanical and slow. But he pulled out the container of salt, holding it between the two of them and crushing it between his hands, watching all of the grains escape and pour onto the forest ground.

Layla was finally able to climb to her feet with the assistance of another tree. She hadn’t felt this kind of pain in quite some time, but her mind shifted when she noticed the vampire had gone after the man who had saved her. Clutching at her side, Layla looked around frantically for some way she could help him, but her mind was drawing a blank as the world was still spinning around her from lack of blood. And then she felt it, a low rumble coming from her belly. If she could at least growl or roar or something, then maybe it would distract the woman long enough that the hunter could find some kind of distraction. Standing there closing her eyes and panting, she felt it coming, and before she could stop it, Layla let out the best deep growl she had ever released, at least as a human. Face scrunching up in anger, she was preparing herself for battle when she saw the salt go down. Thank God! Her face quickly relaxed. Salt was perfect. It would keep the vampire occupied so the two could hopefully make a run for it.

“What you got there, little hunter?” Somber green eyes turned into ruby gems as they watched life slowly leave his desperate gaze, whilst he struggled and reached for his backpack. “That’s right, I know what you are. A little hunter protecting a werewolf?” She tutted. “That isn’t gonna go well amongst your community, yeah? The boy who died protecting a dog.” A dark grin spread across her lips, bearing out long fangs. He should’ve stayed out of it. She wasn’t a serial killer, she wouldn’t have hurt the girl (that much). But with all the drama he caused, now she obviously couldn’t let them just walk away like nothing happened. He bloody “branched” her leg! In the back, the redhead growled loudly, which only made Francesca roll back her eyes. “Will you shut up?! I’m trying to have a conversation here and inform this little guy about what’s going to happen after he dies!” She knew the wolf was in a bad shape and wouldn’t be able to do anything against her. It was pointless giving her any time of her night. Yet as soon as she was about to keep explaining the truths she was going to spread about tonight, there was salt e-ve-ry-whe-re. Francesca tightened her grip, growling loudly in anger, wanting to choke him at once. But her persistence lasted no longer than a couple of seconds and she pushed him aside with anger, dropping to her knees. “FUCK!” She cursed out loud, starting to pick and count every grain found under the dry leaves, stuck to wet dirt and damp grass. She used all her speed, appearing as nothing but a blur passing by their eyes. They were going to die a fucking painful death when she was done.

This vampire knew nothing about Orion, but still seemed to hit the mark way too closely. His only hope left had been the salt, which he had been increasingly afraid was not going to work, especially when the vampire didn’t immediately stop choking him out to focus on the salt. But after a long moment before he was being shoved aside, dropping into the ground and grabbing at his throat as he gasped for breath. He wished he had more time to celebrate that the stupid salt trick had actually worked. But right now, his only goal was to get far, far away from the woman. He crawled back up to his feet, still feeling dizzy and grasping at his side, catching the scent of blood as it began to leak from the wound. He moved slowly at first, but as soon as he got to the redhead and the two began moving through the woods he picked up speed. “We need to get far, far away from here.” He gasped as the two ran through the woods, trying to listen for anything that might signal safety. Through the fog, he could hear something over to their left. It was too hard to tell the specifics, but it was better than nothing. The two made their way toward the noise, Rio tripping multiple times along the way but managing to stay on his feet. Finally, the two broke through the trees and out into what looked like a neighborhood. “Houses. Let’s get into the house!”

Layla found relief when Orion had hit the ground. There was their opportunity, and she had just hoped he could get to his feet in time. With the blur streaking around counting salt, she knew their time was limited, but when he started moving, she followed. Layla hadn’t been to this part of White Crest, so her sense of direction was skewed, and it wasn’t helping that she was dizzy and her ribs were throbbing. However, she trusted Rio and followed him closely. When they broke through the fog and safety sat just ahead, she picked up the pace. The closest house just so happened to be for sale and as Layla used what strength remained, she busted open the door allowing them access. Once inside, she frantically began looking for something they could use to bar the door. She wasn’t sure how much time they had remaining, but she didn’t want to waste any of it. Panting, she continued to look, “The door...what are we gonna block it with?” She looked to the hunter who she noticed wasn’t exactly in the best shape either.

The blur of a shadow still flashed back and forth. Of all places, that needed to happen in the woods. In the bloody woods, with the mud, the dirt, the leaves, the branches, the insects and every other possible thing that could get in the way of finding millimetric grains of salt. “Fucking five hundred and thirty five,” Francesca counted it in a whisper, zipping in circles around the tree where the shaker was broken, like a maniac. The sooner she finished counting all that fucking salt, the sooner she got to kills those two. The pile was considerably smaller and there was just a tiny portion piled up here and there. It was almost time for the blood bath.

The last thing either of them needed was a breaking and entering charge to make their days even worse, but Orion was fairly confident that nobody else was in the house that they had just broken into. Of course, the pain in his sides was enough to throw his senses off their game a little bit, but they didn’t have much of a choice regardless. Once inside, he felt like he was finally able to catch his breath for the first time, and the pain in his side finally had a chance to remind him that it was still there. “We don’t have to block the door,” He gasped through heavy breaths, “She can’t get in here.” Not much for an explanation, but he needed a minute to collect himself before he could focus again. He pulled his hand away from the wound and caught blood on it. Great. Oh well, it would heal fairly soon. “My name’s Rio, by the way. You doing okay?”

The training Layla had regarding vampires had gone out the door as soon as they had taken off in a mad dash to safety, but when he had said something, it reminded her about the invitation rule. At least she thought that was legit. Between watching Buffy religiously growing up and having her parents spew facts at her, she couldn’t quite keep it clear. But to be fair, before she had become a werewolf, she had never encountered a vampire in her life. Looking to the man, she noticed the blood on his side, “Layla, and I would so rather be meeting you under different circumstances. But I’m fine. I’ll be fine. Are you?” She nodded towards his shirt, “You need help.” She had forgotten about the blood that was probably seeping down from the two puncture marks in her neck. Her ribs sure didn’t let up though, “Maybe there’s towels or something we can use. Follow me.” Going towards the back of the house, she made her way into a bathroom and began looking around. She wanted to help Rio out, especially considering he was the reason she was still here and not laying in the woods sucked dry from that leech of a woman.

“SIX HUNDRED AND TWENTY NINE GRAINS, YOU FUCKERS!” Francesca shouted from deep down her lungs, the anger making her boil from the inside out to the point her hands were shaking and her fangs were at permanent display. There was no need to look around, she knew they were gone from the sombre woods where one could commit murder without feeling exposed. It took her no more than ten minutes to count all that salt, but it seemed enough for the dodgy couple to just run away from the big, bad monster. They didn’t slip through her fingers though, as the vampire could still easily smell the trail of blood they both left behind. Like Hansel and Gretel’s breadcrumb trail, yet serving the opposite purpose - leading danger towards them, not salvation. In less than three minutes, Fran reached the quiet neighbourhood. All lights were out, except for light posts on the main street before all the suburb houses. Her heels were the only thing that could be heard in the next mile around them. And as they clicked, one by one the light bulbs burst. Not exactly burst, but at the speed of lightning she’d simply climb up each post close to a specific house that hung a “for sale” sign, and break them herself. She could hear them inside.

Now silently, the brunette surrounded the house, studying the best angle to get inside. Someone went to the bathroom. What a terrible time to need to pee, honestly. She wondered what she’d do in such a situation - you’re being hunted down, but hey, you got to pee. Urgently. She felt so lucky for having a system that simply had no physiological needs except for nourishment. Fran found the tall window to the bathroom, loudly and slowly clicking her nails against the wooden structure around it as, slowly, her hand “fingered” its way towards the glass. She stopped, then knocked against the wall, as if asking for permission to intrude. Then nothing. Until, slowly, the brown-haired top of a head appeared, making way to pale skin, then familiar ruby-sparkling eyes. “Let me in, little wolf…” She whispered, hoping she’d caught her attention and left her distraught enough to look her in the eyes and allow her compulsion sink in. “I’ll be good… Make this easy and everything will be over soon.”

“Me? No I’m fine don’t worry about me.” Orion assured, though Layla didn’t seem to pay much attention to that, opting instead to mission herself to find some towels for him.” She made her way through the house, and Rio trailed slowly behind her, trying to take in the rest of the place. It seemed barely furnished, which made sense considering the for sale sign. Must be people in the process of moving out. He hoped some dirt and blood stains didn’t devalue the home too much, considering the two had broken in dirty and injured from the attack in the woods. As Layla ventured into the bathroom to look for supplies, Rio strolled past it and made his way further down the hallway, peeking into the closed doors to check the rest of the area at. He felt weird, invading this person’s privacy like this. But regardless, the two had already broken into the home and it was smart to hang out here until they could be sure that things were safe. He made his way into what looked like the master bedroom, completely cleared out of furniture. He was careful not to touch any walls on his exploration, not wanting to accidentally trail blood along the house. He jumped out of his skin when he heard the banging on the window from somewhere around the house. Crap. She’s back.

Layla was now desperately checking every drawer in the bathroom. Under the counter. In the medicine cabinet hanging over the sink. Anything that would help Orion and stop the bleeding, before things got much worse. But in the ways of first aid supplies or even a leftover towel, she found nothing but a single Band-Aid shoved and forgotten at the very back of a drawer connected to the bathroom sink. As she raised back up to go show him her find, Layla’s ears quickly perked at the sounds outside, and then she smelled it...her. What she hadn’t anticipated was the banging on the wall which caused her to jump. Looking back and not immediately seeing anything, Layla narrowed her eyes. Curiosity had easily gotten the better of her, and by the time she had moved towards the window, it was too late. Her eyes had found Francesca’s. Staring deep into them, Layla felt numb to everything around her. Everything seemed to be okay, and all that mattered was the woman’s voice. Slowly, opening the window without any control over what she was doing, she stepped back, “Sure, you ca…”

The excitement was nearly impossible to handle. If Francesca had a heartbeat, it’d be pounding in her ears now. Whoever said there was no thrill in hunting was just wrong. When you got to have an actual conversation with your target, things got even more interesting. No one wants a hunt that ends in fifteen minutes, there’s no fun in that. Unable to restrain the grin in her lips, her mesmerizing red eyes remained the only thing that could be seen through the window, the rest of her body and features were hidden by the wooden structure of the house. Both of her hands were on the windowsill now and the vampire was more than ready to enter de residence and paint those walls red. It was dull, it needed some urgent proper decor, being completely honest. Some vampire style would do the trick.

Orion rushed out of the bedroom and back towards the bathroom. His side throbbed in protest and his heart was throbbing against his sternum. The pain dulled his senses, and his heightened hearing kept cutting out. He could catch the vampire’s words but his own heartbeat cut her off. He finally burst into the bathroom just as Layla started speaking, Rio’s mind could picture the horror scenario where Layla accidentally let the vampire in. From behind, Rio threw his hands over Layla��s mouth, covering them and stopping her from speaking. “Please don’t say anything else.” He whispered, pulling here away from the window and making sure to try to redirect Layla from the woman’s eyes. Rio kept his eyes trained on the bathroom tiling. “Please just leave us alone. We don’t want anything to do with you.” He said, trying to hide the trembling in his voice. “She was trying to compel you.” Rio explained to Layla, unsure of just how much she knew about the woman who was hunting them. “We need to stay clear of the doors and windows. If we can hang out until the sun comes up then we will be okay.”

Layla was so close to letting Fran in. It almost felt normal to finish the words, but before she could, she felt herself being pulled away. Her eyes were still set on the red orbs hovering just outside the window. They were so beautiful, but the further back they got, the more aware Layla was starting to become. When she realized what was going on, she blinked a few times and tried to speak, “You ca leh me go. I won say nuhhing.” Her voice was muffled, but she was coherent and understood what Rio was asking of her. For the second time that night, he had saved her life. She owed him big time. BIG TIME.

With a quick pant, Francesca rolled back her eyes. That night truly wasn’t going according to her last-minute plans. She, herself, gave up on compelling the wolf. That fake hunter knew too much for his own good, and, stupidly, he’d keep trying to save the day. Good luck when he ends up crossing paths with a crazy werewolf out there in the full moon. The vampire suddenly disappeared from the bathroom window, banging on the opposite wall, closer to the corridor they were standing in. “Little pig, little pig - let me come in,” she quoted the children’s story, a vicious smile gracing her lips. Again, she was having a little bit too much fun for someone who’d probably have reality sinking in in a month or so. “Well, then,” she continued after hearing no affirmative answer. “Then I’ll huff and I’ll puff, and I’ll blow your house in!” Her voice sounded angry, but it was all an act - she just wanted to scare them. They did cause her a lot of trouble, she could have some fun out of it. After a minute of silence, she banged her hand on the front door, incessantly, loud and strong, actually breaking bits and pieces of the wood. Then it stopped. Francesca got bored. “No worries, we’ll catch up some other time.” And disappeared.

Orion didn’t know how long the vampire stuck around. But he could hear her for what felt like hours. Stalking the area, threatening them. He couldn’t stop himself from shaking. He was terrified that at any moment someone could show up at the house and let her in. That she would find a way to kill them, plus some other innocent life too. But eventually, he heard her leave. “It sounds like she’s gone.” He mumbled. It wasn’t the most comfortable, but he had found the laundry room to be the safest place for them. It had no windows, which meant no fear of being compelled. It also meant they only had to listen to her taunts instead of seeing her make them in person. He was currently lying on the ground, and was too afraid to risk anything else. “We should stay here. Just in case. Until morning. I don’t want to risk her hiding some place out in the woods waiting for us to leave.”

Layla had almost gotten them killed and that raced through her mind as they were both shoved into the laundry room together. She hadn’t expected any of this to turn out the way it had, but she was grateful for Rio, and she owed him for saving her, “I am completely and 100% on board with that idea.” Pressed up against the wall, she could see Rio clearly with her wolfy vision. She could tell he was just as scared as she was. It was going to be a long night, but at least they’d be safe, and that’s all that mattered. Plus, it gave her plenty of time to profusely apologize for the mess she had gotten them into.