#someone else's oxygenated moon

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

Errors, “Errors,” and Sci Fi

@strawberry-crocodile

tvtropes calls stuff like the wolf example "science matches on" which I think is a pretty fair shake

This.  This is what’s got me thinking so much about errors.  There’s a certain danger, here.  A certain way that this particular effect — delicious dramatic irony — tempts the mind when reading old stories, even true ones.

What do you know about R.M.S. Titanic? I ask my class every year, and the first hand rises.  “It was unsinkable,” the student inevitably says, and everyone is nodding, “or so they thought.”  I write the word UNSINKABLE on the board, underneath my crude drawing of a ship with four smokestacks.  It will be crossed out before the end of the hour, but not for the reason they expect.

“I find no evidence,” Walter Lord, preeminent biographer of the ship’s survivors, wrote, “that Titanic was ever advertised as unsinkable. This detail seems to have entered the collective mind so as to create a more perfect irony.”  Indeed, historians’ examinations of White Star Line documents show the shipbuilders themselves worried it would be so large as to risk collision; they stocked several more lifeboats than 1910s regulations required.

The War to End All Wars (deep breath, satisfied exhale), also known as World War ONE. Chuckle.  Shake of the head.  What if I told you that this phrase, used primarily in American newspapers after the fact, wasn’t meant to be literal? Nowadays we’d say The Mother of All Wars, or One Hell of a Fucking War, but we wouldn’t mean literal motherhood, literal intercourse.  What if I said the armistice and the Lost Generation and the Roaring 20s were all braced for another outbreak of European conflict, and yet we still failed to prevent it?

Did you know they were so confident in the safety of the S.S. Challenger that they put a civilian schoolteacher onboard? I do, because I’ve heard that one repeated many times.  Only, see, it’s got the cause and effect reversed.  Challenger launched on a day the shuttle’s engineers knew to be dangerously cold, because the first civilian in space was on board. And NASA knew its shuttle project would be cancelled entirely, if they couldn’t get that civilian’s much-delayed entry into space in the next two weeks.  So they launched on a cold day, and killed her instead.

These are all what cognitive science calls Hindsight Bias on the personal level, what sociology calls Presentism on the cultural level.  Social psychology’s a little of both, is primarily interested in why you’re sitting on your couch in a Colonize Mars shirt watching PBS and chuckling at the fools who believed in El Dorado.  It wants to know why the mind flees straight from “marijuana will kill you” to “marijuana will cure cancer” without so much as a pause on the middle ground of its real benefits and drawbacks, its real (mild) risks and rewards.

And they can paralyze the sci-fi writer, if you think too much about them. Jetsons is futurist one decade, retro the next.  “There are no bathrooms on the Enterprise,” the creators of Serenity say smugly, as if Gene Roddenberry should’ve simply known that decades later it’d be acceptable to show a man peeing in full view of the camera, nothing but the curve of the actor’s hand to protect his modesty.  “No sound in space,” the Fandom Menace says, “No explosions in space,” and “A space station can’t collapse in zero-G.”  Only then NASA burns a paper napkin outside of atmosphere, transmits music using only the ghost of nearby planets’ gravities, and logs onto Reddit long enough to point out the Death Star would implode in its own gravity field.  And now we’re the ones pointing, the ones laughing, at those earlier point-and-laughers.  Self-satisfied, smug in superiority.  As if we did the work to find out ourselves, instead of just happening to be born a little later than George Lucas.

[astraystayyh]

The snow falls, we fall apart.

summary: when heartbreak looms on your life, and winter becomes a time you loathe, hyunjin helps you rewrite your memories with the season, and with it, everything you once believed about love.

genre: producer student!hyunjin x reader. roommates!au. friends to lovers. acute descriptions of heartbreak and general sadness. slow burn. hurt/comfort. healing and hopeless romantic hyune. very inspired by long for you so lots of pining and yearning. (wc: 13k)

warnings: mentions of alcohol. it is implied that reader was in an a very toxic relationship but no details are shared.

a.n: happy birthday to my hyunjin, my muse, my light. thank you for being so full of love that it made me love love again in return. this is i think my most personal piece, and i hope it reminds those who need it that love should be soft and kind, that it shouldn’t hurt, that it should heal not break. i love you guys and i love you my xi, writing this collab with you has been a true honor <3 also!! please listen to long for you while reading :,)

winter falls masterlist.

You’ve only ever felt utter despair twice in your life.

First, when you were seven years old, playing hide and seek with your cousins at your grandma’s house. It was a warm summer afternoon, the air sweetened by pastries you devoured hours ago. You decided to hide in a wooden cabinet up in the attic, only to end up stuck there. The walls felt like they were closing in on you, the oxygen seeping away from the cracks underneath the door, leaving you deprived of air, of life.

Second, at twelve, when you've come to discover sorrow's new facet, clad in grief's heavy cloak. Your parents adopted a hamster for your birthday, but they did not know he had a terminal disease. You were distraught, to say the least, when you awoke to its still form, death claiming a frail heart unaware of its imminent fate.

And now, third, many many moons later, you are knocking on Hyunjin’s door a few minutes after midnight. It is cold out, tears tracing rivulets on your cheeks, your fingers tinted pink from roaming outside in the harsh winds, your heart much heavier than when you were a child. More grief-stricken, at your own hands, this time.

A disheveled Hyunjin opens the door, his blonde ash hair tousled and sticking upwards, a clear indication of the many times he had run his hands through it in fits of frustration. His gray hoodie zipped up hastily, revealing the silver cross necklace he was wearing, nestling perfectly against his honeyed skin.

You've always had an aversion to seeking comfort, saw it as revealing your deepest vulnerabilities to a world that isn't always kind. It was easier, much simpler to do so when you were a clueless child— when you sank in your cousin Lia's hold as she attempted to steady your breathing, when your mother cradled you in her lap after Pinky died.

It is much harder now, much more embarrassing because Hyunjin has never seen you this sad, never glimpsed your shadows that now swarm his doorstep, unannounced.

“What's wrong?” he quickly asks, eyes darting over your figure in a rapid search for visible wounds. He wouldn’t find any. All your injuries stem from within— blood doesn’t have to be spilled for your heart to weep.

You had rehearsed a lie as you walked up to his doorstep. You would say that your car broke down near his place and ask if you could stay over for the night. He would insist he could drive you to your place and you’d refuse, saying that it was too late and you did not wish to bother him. You’d sleep on the couch and slip away in the early hours of the morning.

Yet, it is the genuine worry etched in his eyes that dismantles the fortress you've hidden in, melts the lie in your throat, morphing it into a steel lump coiling in your throat. He looks concerned when all you’ve had directed towards you recently was anger. And you missed someone looking at you in care, not reproach.

“I didn’t know where else to go.” You admit, your voice shattered, fragments of your vocal cords scattered out in the wind like a broken mosaic, the sound of it scraping against your ears.

Blow one hurt. It felt like your body turned against you as it deprived you of oxygen. The sobs that escaped you once you perceived the light pained you, perhaps more than being confined in the darkness.

Blow two was even worse, it was your first time experiencing grief. It was too hard of a concept for your innocent heart to grasp, too complicated for you to find solace in anything as adults do.

You promised yourself that you’d reserve blow three for monumental agonies— big pains and big sorrows only. That’s how you managed to keep all your tears at bay for most of your life. Would they be worth losing your third sob for? No, you've always found the answer to be.

And in all the twisted scenarios you’ve conjured up in your mind, deaths and illnesses and the haunting tale of failure, you did not imagine that it would happen on Hwang Hyunjin’s doorstep. That you’d burst into sobs at the compassionate look in his gaze, and the sad smile he sent your way. As if he knew, as everyone did around you. That you had handed a knife to a serial killer and it was only a matter of time before he stabbed you in the heart.

Two weeks ago.

“I’m trying to understand you but you aren’t helping me,” Seungmin is frustrated as he paces relentlessly before you from left to right like a swinging pendulum. You sit on the couch, beholding only his shoes, avoiding his gaze that would reflect the truth you dare not confront.

“He’s sucking the life out of you, can’t you see that?”

You can, out of everyone that surrounds you, you can see it the most. You feel as if you are carrying a skin that isn’t your own, weighed down by a relationship that has taken everything from you. But admitting it is admitting that you were wrong, in trusting him, in loving him. You couldn’t bear it.

“We are fine!” you shout back, the defiance in your voice surprises even you. This is a familiar script with Seungmin, a recurring conversation spurred by your puffy eyes and diminishing appetite. He tells you, begs you to leave, but where could you go? How could you leave a home where you've shed all your treasured belongings at the door— your skin, your bones, your very self.

What place would welcome you now that you're stripped bare of your soul?

“When was the last time he made you smile, huh? All he does is hurt you, and you...” he chuckles incredulously, running his hand through his hair. “You are letting him.”

Deny, deny, deny.

“This isn’t true. He loves me,” the words taste foreign in your mouth like rusty metal dragging across your lips. A small voice whispers that love shouldn't feel like this, but you quiet it down.

“Are you hearing yourself? Yn, I…” he kneels before you, his hands resting comfortingly on your knees. This is Seungmin, your best friend of five years. You know he has your best interests at heart, you are even more sure of it when his voice softens, shakes slightly when he utters your name. “Yn, please. I’m trying to help you. Please.”

“I didn’t ask for your help,” you push away his hands, standing up. “I don’t want your help, and I don’t need it.”

You quickly leave Seungmin’s dorm, your heart heavier than when you entered it, foolishly hoping that he'd ignore your distressed state after yet another fight with your boyfriend. But Seungmin doesn't understand, no one around you does— you’ve gambled your heart, and you cannot stop drawing the cards, even in the face of losing strikes.

❁ ❁ ❁

Hyunjin offers you a cup of tea with a gentle smile and you grab the steaming drink from his hands. The smell of chamomile wraps around your senses, and your brain fizzles out for a second before the soothing aroma. But it is a fleeting respite, the tempest of your thoughts crashes back onto you with an unsettling force, causing you to almost drop the drink as your hands shake. You place it down the table without taking a sip.

“I’m sorry for coming unannounced,” you apologize, wincing at the intrusion, “I hope I didn’t wake you up.”

“I always sleep late. Don’t worry about it,” he smiles, but you know it isn’t a genuine grin, because his eyes betray an unsubdued concern, refusing to morph into their usual moon crescents.

You’ve always thought that Hyunjin wears his emotions openly— when he laughed, he did so loudly, his boisterous giggles traveling around Seungmin’s dorm. When he hurt himself, everyone in the vicinity would know so from his loud yelps. And when something worried him, he would bite his lip, toying with the plush flesh to ease his nerves.

As he is doing now. Looking at you.

“We broke up,” you quickly say, and your words hang over you like a gloomy cloud. “But I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Do you want me to fight him? I’ll bring changbin too,” he suggests a serious tone underlying his playful offer, and it manages to tear a reluctant giggle out of you.

“Changbin doesn’t know me well enough to fight for me,” you counteract and he shakes his head. “He’ll fight for me, I'm his princess.”

“Are you now?” The giggle escapes your mouth less forcefully, and the smile that graces Hyunjin’s face is a genuine one.

“I am. My proposal stands,” he extends his hand and you wrap your fingers around his palm. “Thank you, I’ll keep it in mind,” you smile but he frowns, flipping your hand around in his hold.

“You are freezing,” he whispers, using his other palm to rub warmth into yours.

“It’s fine,” you lie, slipping your hand out of his grasp, not feeling deserving of his kindness.

Wordlessly, Hyunjin stands, walking into what you assume is his bedroom. You only know of his place because you dropped off Seungmin here some time ago. You are too exhausted to even drink in the interior.

“Here,” he returns, handing you a navy hoodie of his and black joggers. “This will keep you warm at night.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, hesitating for a few seconds before speaking again. “Can you please not tell Seungmin, I... I can't face him right now.”

“Of course. I’ll be awake still if you do need something.”

Hyunjin’s clothing is warm, although peeling away your own garments felt like shedding layers of your skin, as if the fabric melted into your very flesh, just like memories from the day did. You have never felt this worthless before, discarded like a forgotten leaf on the roadside, one he stepped on for his own enjoyment, leaving you crushed in his wake, unable to fly away again.

Hyunjin’s rose perfume wraps around you, and you find relief in sleeping somewhere where your, his, scent was no longer around. You foolishly hope that if you close your eyes hard enough, you’ll manage to convince yourself that you’re someone else, tonight. Someone who isn’t tethered to the heartache, someone who can slip away from the clutches of a love that hurts more than hate could ever manage to do.

❁ ❁ ❁

Heartbreak isn’t beautiful, no matter how eloquently you try to dress it in the syllables of poetry, no words can soften the burn in your lungs, the searing ache that courses through your very core, reminding you that deep within, down to the fundamentals of your being and the most basic alchemy that ties your atoms together— you are unlovable. Whether you cut your hair or allow it to grow, change your heart, or leave it as it has always been, you will remain so.

You don’t remember much of the past week, blurry fragments here and there that float in your mind like a distorted water reflection. There is little room for memories when you are busy trying to remember how to breathe— one inhale in, one exhale out. The simple concept seems harder when there are unkind hands permanently lodged into your heart, squeezing it tight.

What you do remember is telling Seungmin through text the next day, because you couldn’t bear the way his eyes would soften if you spoke to him in person. No signs of surprise cast on his figure, because he knew that it was long coming, a train with one final inevitable destination— you in shambles, him okay.

You remember Seungmin cradling you in his arms when he came to see you, and you trying desperately to keep the tears at bay— too focused on pinching your arm to let Seungmin’s warmth radiate through your being, Hyunjin lingering uncomfortably by the entrance of his living room.

You remember begging Seungmin to grab your belongings from the apartment you shared with your ex because you were unable to face him, him, and everything that your old place spelled out for you. Stand in the ruins of what you once thought would be your permanent home.

And now, you watch as Seungmin and Hyunjin bring suitcases full of your stuff into the latter’s place. And you feel like an outsider in your own body, standing at the corner of the room gazing at utter destruction, unable to stop it, unable to mend it. Seungmin quickly reassures you that you could crash in his and Minho’s place until you find a new one to live in, already taking out his laptop to search for new apartments for you.

But you did not care for it, your eyes zeroed in on the satin shirt peeking out of your suitcase. The one he bought you on your first month anniversary. Back when love felt like a gentle feather running down your spine, and not a dull knife slicing away at your skin.

“This place's expensive too,” Seungmin sighs, rubbing his temple warily. Your logical best friend could not fix your heartbreak but he took it to heart to alleviate your other troubles. You would thank him for it, later, when your tongue finds enough will to move.

“What if you move in with me?” Hyunjin suddenly says and his words filtrate through the fog in your mind easily, as if he rehearsed them enough times so they’d roll out smoothly out of his mouth. “I mean, Felix is away for the next year since he went back to Australia. And I was looking for a new roommate anyway.” He shrugs and Seungmin turns to look at you, his eyes convey the question his mouth doesn’t articulate— is it okay with you?

“I don’t…” your voice is croaked, so you clear your throat. “I don’t want you to do things out of pity.”

“I’m not. If I was, I would've told you to move in with me for free. I still need you to pay rent,” he raises his eyebrows, a playful tease and you smile in relief, nodding, “Okay, I will. thank you.”

Heartbreak is ugly and all-encompassing, weaving through the roots of your heart and infecting each organ with its insidious touch. It renders you immobile, incapable of performing the simplest tasks, burdened by a weight unseen by the world. But you try your best, your very best to contain it.

You smile at the cashier as she hands back your money only to wonder if her soft, well-manicured hands would too crush a soul without remorse. You go to all your classes without fail but your mind is elsewhere, contemplating why the sun filtering through the windows no longer warms your skin. Can nerve endings perish when subjected to too much pain? What's left of life when you can no longer feel the caress of the sun?

You watch a movie at Seungmin's dorm but your mind is elsewhere, fleeting to this morning and how you refused to stay in the shower for more than three minutes because your thoughts might become haunting ghosts tempting you to follow them. You brush your hair and spray your perfume, only because you have to, because you live with Hyunjin and you wouldn’t want your sadness to taint him too. You wonder how long you’ll have to bear it. You wonder if it’ll ever leave you or if the veins in your heart have molded themselves after the pain and they wouldn’t know how to accept happiness anymore.

You greet Hyunjin as he walks past you, shaking your head when he asks you if you want to eat dinner with him, quickly retracting back into your room. You have ten unread messages and a pile of growing laundry you need to do, but all you can muster is to gaze at the empty walls, mirroring the void within you. Your mom told you to call her again and you don’t know how you’ll speak to her without bursting into a sob, how you’ll tell her that all it took was one person to break you. Or maybe it was two people, your hands and his tearing apart your flesh and bones. Maybe that’s the worst part about it. So you don’t call her.

And you only ever emerge from your room when you need to, just like now because your water bottle is finished and you need to refill it. You go to open the kitchen door when you hear Hyunjin’s muted shatter, Felix’s distinctive deep voice coming out of the phone speaker.

“Next you add the melted butter and stir it,” Felix instructs, the sounds of pots and utensils clinking in the background. You fidget slightly, mustering the strength to paint a fake smile on your lips.

“What next?”

“Sift the dry ingredients then add them to your wet mixture,” Felix explains, met with a few seconds of silence. You can almost visualize Hyunjin's perplexed expression, blinking rapidly in confusion.

“Explain it to me like I’m five years old,” he requests, prompting a small smile to etch itself onto your face.

“How are you surviving without me?”

“I’m not please come home,” Hyunjin sounds horrified as Felix’s rich chuckles fill the air. “Why do you suddenly want to make brownies anyway?” he then asks.

You go to open the door when Hyunjin’s response catches you off guard.

“They’re for Yn.”

Hyunjin's words resonate in the air, causing a hitch in your throat and Felix’s teasing whistles simultaneously, but Hyunjin is quick to stop him. “No, no, no, it’s not like that. They’re just a bit down and I remember them loving your brownies. So…”

It takes you a fleeting moment to dig the memory out of your mind, a year ago, right before your ex came to pick you up from Seungmin’s dorm. You had a bite of Felix’s brownies, a surprised gasp escaping your lips at its delicious taste, back when food had taste and happiness came easily to you. It was an insignificant memory, you did not imagine Hyunjin, out of everyone, would remember it.

But he did, and he’s now pacing before your closed door, contemplating how he’ll convince you to finally eat something with him. He throws a thumbs-up in the air for no one but himself, inhaling deeply before knocking on your door.

“Hey,” he greets with a hopeful smile, his gaze meeting your tired form. He hesitates for a second, clearing his throat. “Brownies?” You remain unmoving and he falters, “Hm? Please?”

“Sure,” you nod and a wave of relief floods through Hyunjin as you step out of your room. His joy is short-lived when he takes the brownies out of the oven, only to find them thoroughly burnt.

His mouth hangs agape, and he walks back shamefully to the oven, lowering its door only to scream inside of it.

“This will be more therapeutic,” you say, pointing nonchalantly to the fridge and he agrees, opening its doors and yelling once again in the much larger space.

Your melodic laughter fills the kitchen, Hyunjin’s embarrassment is suddenly a forgotten memory.

“I’m craving kimbap. Should we get it instead?” you propose, a touch shyly and he quickly agrees, afraid you’d change your mind and walk back to your room where he can no longer ensure you are okay.

Hyunjin absentmindedly dances along to the music blasting through the convenience store when a girl sidles up to his side, a saccharine grin on her lips as she looks up at him, “hi,” she greets and his tentative smile mirrors hers. “Hey.”

“Are you single?” she asks, her gaze briefly fleeting to the window. “I think you are really cute.”

“I’m…” he glances at you but you're suddenly engrossed in the ingredients of the tuna kimbap you are holding, pretending not to listen. “I am but I’m not interested, thank you.”

“Oh, come on,” she places a hand on his arm and he physically recoils. “Give me your insta and we could talk.”

“No,” he repeats, grabbing her hand to remove it when a loud voice startles him. “Baby, what’s taking you so— What are you doing?” Hyunjin watches in horror as the girl’s eyes grow wide, before she scrambles to the man’s side, feigning fear.

“He kept hitting on me when I said I had a boyfriend, baby.”

“What?” both you and Hyunjin gasped in comical unison. He would find it amusing if not for the escalating anger radiating from the man, who looks like he spends all his days in the gym. Hyunjin suddenly regrets not working out with Changbin.

The man strides towards Hyunjin. “Do you want to die?”

“No? there’s a misunderstanding,” he replies, swiftly standing before you and shielding you with his arm. “Your… baby,” he wiggles his finger in front of the man's face, “she was the one hitting on me!”

The man scoffs loudly, his face growing redder from the anger seething in him. “So you hit on my girlfriend and then accuse her of cheating?” His fist rises threateningly, prompting Hyunjin to step back, accidentally bumping into your chest.

“Wait, wait, wait! Let’s go talk outside, man to man,” Hyunjin pauses, his voice taking on a taunting edge, “unless you're too scared?” he smirks as he feels you pull at his shirt, whispering an incredulous- “What are you doing?” He shakes his head, grabbing your hand and leading you outside, throwing a sly wink at the man behind you now.

“Are you seriously going to fight him?” you ask, your gaze shifting towards the deranged couple who are about to step out of the grocery store. “No, of course not. I'm a lover, not a fighter.”

“You said you'd fight my ex,” you point out and his eyes soften surprisingly.

“You are an exception.” He looks back at the man, who's now walking towards you both. “But anyways, do you know how to run?” he asks and you frown, “who doesn’t know how to—” you pause as realization dawns on you. “No," you whisper furiously.

“Yes.”

“No,” you shake your head, horrified and he nods, eyes apologetic.

“Yes.” His fingers entwine with yours, he squeezes your hand once before he takes off running.

“Hwang fucking Hyunjin!” you shout and he looks back at you, a mischievous smile on his face. “I’m sorry Yn my face is too pretty to be beaten up.”

“He’s following us!” you yell, looking back horrified as the, even angrier, man runs after you.

“Well, run faster!”

“I’m wearing fucking slippers!” you curse and he giggles, tipping his head back, the wind slamming into you both, his hand never letting go of your own.

“Oh my god why is he still running!” you groan and Hyunjin picks up speed, moving you even closer to his sprinting figure

“I know, is it ever that serious?” he yells above his shoulder and you dig your nails into his palm.

“Shut up, this wouldn’t have happened if you weren’t so gorgeous.”

“So, you think I’m pretty too?” Hyunjin grins proudly and an incredulous laugh escapes your lips.

“Really? Is this what you’re getting out of this situation?”

“Silver linings, Yn, silver linings,” he shouts as you round a small alley, finally stopping to catch your breath. You both fall to the ground, heavy breaths escaping your chests.

“Holy shit, I’m not athletic at all,” he heaves, his eyes meeting yours. He expects to find anger lingering in your gaze but all he can grasp is your amused smile before you collapse into a fit of laughter, clapping loudly and clutching your stomach with your hand.

“Oh my god, I’m crying,” you laugh harder, wiping away at the tears falling from your eyes. Hyunjin’s weariness disappears in the blink of an eye— he did not realize how much he missed your smile until he glimpsed it again. And it is beautiful. Happiness looks beautiful on you.

“Idiot,” you hit his shoulder playfully, and his response is delayed for a few seconds, the warmth from your smile rendering him immobile.

“I’m sorry,” he chuckles, pulling you up. “Here, I’ll carry you home,” he squats slightly before you. “How impolite of me. How dare I make your majesty run.”

You shake your head, amused, before climbing atop his back, his warm palms holding your thighs securely. “Only because the slippers hurt my feet.”

You walk in silence for a while, your arms wound up around Hyunjin’s neck, the ghost of a smile still lingering on both your faces.

“They said it will snow tomorrow,” Hyunjin speaks suddenly and you stay silent for so long he starts to wonder if you even heard him.

“Mm? That’s nice,” your tone is melancholic, and he pauses at the peculiar sadness in it— as though you were trying to act nonchalant about something that has once meant the world to you.

“Don’t you like the snow?” he asks and your hold on his neck falters.

“I loved it. Loved ice skating and building snowmen.” Your voice is light and airy, like Hyunjin’s favorite mint chocolate ice cream. “But now it reminds me of bad times, bad memories.”

“I understand.”

Hyunjin knows what it feels like to relinquish parts of yourself you never wished to part from. For someone to grab your happiest places and to cast a gloomy filter atop them. Sometimes it is the loss of a season that hurts more than the departure of a person.

And Hyunjin loves winter.

He’ll do everything so that you’ll come to love it again too.

❁ ❁ ❁

Is it a nightmare if the person in it is one you once loved, looked forward to beholding with your gaze, hoping they’d never slip out of your reach? You don’t know, but you are growing tired of having the same dreams every night. Of waking up with an exhaustion that goes beyond your restless sleep but pleads from your soul to rest after almost a year of torment.

You sigh wearily, rubbing a hand through your face before walking to the kitchen to retrieve a glass of water. You find Hyunjin there, eating a cupcake while standing shirtless, scrolling through his phone. You blink at the sight.

“Hey,” you clear your throat and he startles, dropping the cupcake on the ground. He goes to pick it up only to bang his head on the table, a loud yelp escaping his lips. You barely contain your giggles as you walk to his side, rubbing your palm soothingly on his head. “I'm sorry I didn't mean to scare you.”

“At least pretend you are sorry,” he mumbles, pointing to your amused smile and you chuckle, taking his hand and helping him to his feet.

“What are you doing up now?” he asks as he grabs some napkins to clean up the pink frosting smeared across the floor.

You hesitate for a few seconds before whispering, “Just nightmares. And you?” you quickly add, not keen on pushing the subject any further.

“I'm working on a song,” he explains, as his gaze lingers on your sunken eyes, weighed down by dark circles from too many sleepless nights.

“And the cupcake?”

“Some people need caffeine to function. I need flour.”

“I literally see you drink three americanos per day.”

“Okay well maybe I need both,” he admits sheepishly and you grin, drumming your fingers along the countertop.

“Can I sit with you while you work?” you ask quickly, before the words linger enough in your mouth that you no longer wish to spit them out.

The smile that Hyunjin sends you is kind, pushing the shadows of your nightmares just slightly out of reach.

“Of course, yeah you can. Don’t even need to ask.”

Hyunjin walks first into his bedroom, quickly slipping on a hoodie while you take in the interior. It is a quite simple room— a large bed with gray covers, and a desk filled with what you assume to be his producing equipment sits adjacent. But what catches your attention is the dried rose hung delicately on the wall, and the array of paintings surrounding it. You edge closer to it, drawn to the well-crafted paintings— a sun-drenched beach, a couple lost in an embrace so intimate their forms can no longer be separated, and an elderly pair riding a motorcycle, their love radiating vibrantly as if enclosed in eternal youth.

“You paint?” you ask, turning around to find Hyunjin watching you. He steps closer, enveloping you once more in the fragrance of his rose perfume.

“In my free time.”

“You are amazing, Hyunjin,” you compliment sincerely, your gaze fixed on that imagery of the old couple, one that most likely grew together. It tugs at your heartstrings, stirs a painful longing within you, a memory of a time when you too believed you’d find such boundless love.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, before brushing his fingertips gently against your forearm, for a fleeting second. “Are you okay?” he asks, a tenderness you’ve been aching for latched into his question. Your eyes refuse to peel away from the paintings and the love spilling from each paint brush stroke, a love that refuses to rest on your being as if you were harboring an armor that repels it.

“No,” you reply sincerely, turning to face him. “It’s really hard,” you say with a smile, hoping that the mechanical display of happiness would keep your tears at bay, tricking your brain into believing you're not as sad as you feel.

It fails to do so, and the tears well in your eyes like a gathering storm. Frustration twists your features as you shut your eyes, tilting your head upward in a desperate attempt to contain the flood. It pauses as Hyunjin cradles the back of your head, drawing you close to the warmth of his neck. His palm glides soothingly along your spine, before patting your back ever so gently.

Your back stiffens, hands curling into tight fists, breath catching in your throat. You've grown accustomed to pushing away comfort, putting up tall barriers to shield yourself. But tonight, Hyunjin seems to break through your defenses.

Tonight, you soften, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, head nestling deeper against his tender skin.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he whispers and another sob wracks through you, but he only holds you tighter. “It’ll get better soon.”

“I loved him,” you hiccup, your voice breaks, “a lot.”

“I know, that’s why it hurts.” His voice is gentle, and yet his hold on you feels secure as if you could stumble and fall, and he would be there to catch you

“I want it to stop hurting.”

“It will, with time.”

Your next words are tinged with a childlike vulnerability, reminiscent of blow one, then two. But you do not care for it, in that instant, you crave the reassurance, you need someone to plant a seed of hope in your soul because your hands are too frail to dig for it.

“Do you promise me?”

His response doesn’t come hastily, carelessly thrown into the air like idle chatters. He takes his time, considering it with the gravity of an oath.

“I promise you.” He finally says, each syllable infused with sincerity. A brief pause hangs in the air before he adds. “And if it doesn’t then you can hit me.”

“On your pretty face?” you ask, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.

“On my pretty face,” he confirms with a chuckle.

“What an honor,” you roll your eyes playfully as you lean back and he grins, tenderly wiping away your tears with the back of his fingers.

“I can't believe it took three minutes for you to cry in my room. This isn’t good for my reputation.”

“Good thing this will never leave this bedroom, right?” you point a finger at him threateningly, and he pretends to zip his lips, tossing away the imaginary key. “You got it.”

“So what are you working on?” you ask as you settle on the edge of his bed, knees drawn up to your chest.

“It’s a pretty sad song, wanna hear?” he offers, sitting across from you on his chair.

“Yeah, I'd love to,” you smile, and Hyunjin deftly adjusts a few buttons, before his melancholic whistles weave through the air, coupled with the somber melody of a piano. Your breath catches in your throat, the music reaching into the very depths of your soul. It's as if the notes are calling out for a loved one, for a time that has long passed, for a past that will never come back no matter how much we long for it.

The instrumental continues, each piano note and each violin string echo like a bittersweet lament, springing tears to your eyes. But the melody remains beautiful, akin to the beauty always found in the sadness— in the tears that cascade down your cheeks like glistening crystals, in the tremble of your hands akin to branches swaying in the wind, in the rise and fall of your chest with each breath, mirroring the ebb and flow of the waves.

Hyunjin watches you intently as the music envelops you both, his gaze softening with each passing moment. You bring a hand to your chest, almost unconsciously, too engrossed in the melody to even blink. He feels a blush sprout on his cheeks as your teary eyes hold his with the last fading guitar strings.

“You keep on making me cry,” you whisper, your voice choked with emotion, and he grins, tilting his head shyly against his shoulder.

“You like it?” he asks, a tad eager and you nod, not bothering to wipe the lone tears that are falling down your cheeks.

“I think this is what my loneliness sounds like,” you confess softly.

“As do mine.”

A silent beat runs between you both, it isn’t uncomfortable, but safe. Because you understand him, just as he understands you.

“Sometimes I long for things that have passed," he admits, “although I know I can't get them anymore.”

“The most terrible thing you can long for is yourself.”

“Because no one’s to blame for that loss but you?” he muses and you nod, a sad smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah, exactly.”

You bite your lip, casting a glance back at the paintings adorning the wall. “I don't love him anymore,” you begin quietly. “I stopped a long time ago because there was no room for love anymore to grow amid weeds and thorns.”

He remains silent, sensing that this is a weight you need to unburden yourself from.

“But in the midst of it I think I stopped loving myself too,” you whisper, a confession too terrible to be uttered out loud. “That's what I long for. The things I used to love that I'm indifferent to now.”

“Like you’re a stranger before everything once familiar to you.”

“Yeah, you express it prettily,” you remark with a small smile.

“It's my job,” he grins lightly.

“I think when your heart is pure,” he begins after a while, pausing to carefully choose the words that will soothe your burn, help sleep come more easily to you. “You give love to others more readily than you do to yourself. And it takes time, patience, to redirect that love back to your own heart once again. But it's not a mistake to love, you shouldn’t hate yourself for it. Nor should you blame your past self for loving the wrong person because they did not know what you now do.”

“Think of it as a caterpillar in their cocoon,” he continues gently, “when they finally emerge from their chrysalis, they might long for who they were, where they once were because it is the only place they've ever known. But they do not realize that they've transformed into a beautiful butterfly, that they can now fly, and witness much more than their chrysalis. So maybe, your new self will love the same things as before, or maybe you’ll find new, better things to love that you would have not known before. But in either way, your heart is beautiful. That is what matters, no?”

A small pout draws on your lips, your eyebrows scrunched as you gaze at him.

“You have a very tender soul, Hyunjin.”

Your words linger in Hyunjin's mind long after the sunrise, as you lay peacefully asleep on his bed. The melody of the instrumental he produced continues to play faintly in the background, serving as a gentle lullaby that eases you into slumber, entwined in his sheets, your arms wrapped protectively around yourself, one hand cradling your shoulders and the other resting gently on your stomach. The image sears into his eyes as he sketches the outlines of a figure holding itself absentmindedly, long into the night.

Hyunjin has had his fair share of compliments, mostly pertaining to his face, and others to his craft. but it is you who seems to have sensed that a part of his soul resided in his art, that he left pieces of his heart hidden in the notes he composes and the lyrics he writes, hoping they’ll find soft hands that will take care of them, just like your own.

Five days later.

hyunjin [11:34 p.m.]: are you home?

yn [11:34 p.m.]: yeahh, do you need anything?

hyunjin [11:35 p.m.]: come downstairs, im waiting for youu

if you say no i’ll freeze to death..

hurry i can’t feel my fingers anymore (please please) ㅠㅠㅠ

“This better be a life and death situation Hwang Hyunjin,” you say threateningly as soon as you appear before Hyunjin, causing him to straighten up from the wall he was leaning against.

“It is a very dangerous life-altering situation that requires your immediate assistance, indeed,” he responds solemnly, ushering you gently to his car and opening the door for you.

“Which is?” you ask as soon as he settles inside the car and he simply grins at you, his left dimple coming forth like the very sun on a gloomy day.

“You’ll see.”

Hyunjin’s eyes fleet to your figure every now and then, but you do not seem to notice, your gaze lost into the blurring lights ahead. He can tell you're still not entirely yourself, so he was prepared to forcibly drag you along with him. He’s almost surprised you accepted to come down so easily.

“Is that… Seungmin?” you speak suddenly, pointing to a man waving in the distance, as Hyunjin parks his car near an empty field.

“And Changbin? And Minho?” you continue, squinting your eyes, “and a bonfire?” you giggle with a hint of excitement.

“You love s’mores during the winter, right?”

Hyunjin smiles, your soul softens.

“I do,” you say quietly, “I really do.”

You quickly exit the car, running into Seungmin's arms with a grin of disbelief plastered on your face. “This is insane,” you almost shout, squeezing him tight in a hug.

“It was so hard to find the perfect middle of nowhere for this,” Minho grumbles as you move to greet him, but the warmth of his embrace assures you he's only teasing.

“Thank you,” you say with a smile as you hug Changbin, who affectionately ruffles your hair. “It was Hyunjin’s idea,” he reveals, and you glance back at Hyunjin, who stands with his hands buried deep within his sweatpants behind you. You mouth a silent “thank you” to him, but he shakes his head modestly as if it is nothing to bring happiness to a bruised heart.

The night unfolds in endless laughter, with Minho and Hyunjin taking turns roasting marshmallows over the crackling bonfire, and Seungmin serving you hot coffee to keep your hands warm. Your stomach aches from the uncontrollable fits of giggles that overtook your being as Minho recounts the time he danced so vigorously on stage for his dance club that he ripped his pants, feeling a breeze where there shouldn't be one; and Changbin tells you the story of the time his voice cracked in the middle of a rap battle, and how none of the boys stopped teasing him about it for months to come.

And as the four of them take turns making you laugh, a quiet, tender realization dawns on you—you are loved. It is something he tried to convince you was impossible, that no one around truly cared for you but him. And even then, you weren’t deserving of his love whole, only scrapes of it, as if you were a beggar tugging at the outskirts of his heart.

But Hyunjin reminded you otherwise. And if your friends found something worthy of love within you then perhaps so will you again, one day.

“Did you have fun?” Hyunjin asks as he opens the door to his, your, apartment hours later. What he doesn't expect is for you to respond by wrapping your arms around his slender torso, squeezing tight in gratitude.

“Thank you,” you whisper and he nods, though you cannot see him, returning the embrace by wrapping his arms around your shoulder blades.

Hyunjin doesn't let go first, sensing that perhaps you need this hug more than he does. He smiles as your eyes meet his again, but his grin falters when he notices your gaze flickering towards your bedroom, a hint of unease clouding your expression. It's as if behind that door lie monsters only you can grasp, wearing the faces of people you once knew, once loved.

“Wanna stay with me while I work on the song?”

“Last time I ended up sleeping on your bed,” you say a bit shamefully, recalling the morning you woke up to find yourself covered with a thick blanket that wasn’t there before, alone in Hyunjin's room.

“It's okay,” he shrugs, “I missed sleeping on the couch.”

You stare pointedly at him and he chuckles, “Fine, I did not miss it. But you needed the sleep, so it’s okay with me.”

“Fine,” you concede, though you did not need much convincing for it. “But only if you promise you’ll wake me up if I end up falling asleep again.”

Hyunjin tilts his head, thinking to himself for a few seconds before shaking his head stubbornly, a small pout drawn on his face, his eyes semi-closed. “No.”

“Hyunjin!”

“Nu-uh,” he insists, shaking his head once more as he walks back towards his room. “I'm waiting for you!”

“I'm not coming!”

But you do eventually join him, after changing your clothes and washing your face. You find Hyunjin clad in beige and white checkered pajamas, his glasses pushing back his silky hair as he hunches over his journal, scribbling away before erasing what he wrote.

“Struggling with lyrics?” you ask, leaning against the wall and he startles. “Do you float on the ground? Why can I never hear you come in?”

“Or maybe you just love being dramatic,” you sing-song, laying atop his bed, much more at ease than the previous night.

Hyunjin sticks his tongue out childishly in response, and you playfully mimic the gesture before both of you dissolve into happy giggles.

“Kind of,” he explains once you both settle down, “I have this specific feeling in mind that I need to convey.”

“You'll do well,” you reassure softly, “your lyrics are always so beautiful. Remember Cover me?” you smile and he scratches the back of his ear, a shy grin spreading across his face.

“You still listen to it?” he asks and you nod eagerly, attempting to belt into Seungmin’s ending high note. You fail horribly and Hyunjin throws a crumpled piece of paper on your face to get you to stop singing.

“My poor ears,” he laughs loudly, and you retaliate by throwing back a pillow on his head.

“You just don’t get my artistic abilities.”

“I’d get them more if you stayed silent.”

You gasp, faking offense as you stand up to tickle Hyunjin on his chair, he starts squirming immediately, his loud giggles spilling all over the room, coating it in vibrant hues of happiness, and you’re suddenly captivated by the sight of him— his head thrown back, a golden lock framing his laughter-filled eyes, his top lowering slightly to reveal glimpses of his collarbones and the delicate veins that trace enticing paths on his neck.

You pause, your hand hovering over the side of his stomach, as a long-forgotten warmth spreads through your heart, like the first rays of dawn greeting the earth after a long winter night. It doesn’t diffuse quickly through your being, but rather drapes like sticky honey on your veins, making you well aware of your growing blush, of how beautiful Hyunjin is in his joy.

“Never singing to you again,” you clear your throat, laying atop his bed once again, and quickly reaching for your phone, anything to avoid his eyes which rival the crescent moon outside his window.

Hours pass before a warm hand gently settles on your shoulder, rousing you from your slumber. Blinking away the fog of sleep, you find Hyunjin leaning over you, his grin wide and infectious. “Wake up,” he whispers, but you only groan, burying your face deeper into his pillow.

He doesn’t yield, taking hold of your wrist and guiding your drowsy figure upright, before wrapping the blanket snugly around your shoulders. Without a word, he leads you out onto his balcony, carefully putting his neon green beanie on your head to shield you from the cold.

“It’s snowing!” he smiles, and his excited tone manages to dissipate the fog in your mind. You blink repeatedly and soon enough, you too behold the fallen snowflakes, each one resembling a tiny speck of light bidding farewell to the sky to greet the earth.

“You missed the first snow so I didn’t want you to miss this one too,” he explains, and his thoughtfulness blankets you with a warmth that seeps into every crevice in your body, drips down your fingertips and makes the cold of 4 a.m. seem less harsh, less biting to the touch.

You don’t know how to say thank you, because those two words don’t encapsulate the depths of gratitude that you feel for Hyunjin. Because he is speaking to the person within you who still loves snow, the part buried underneath layers of dust from a ground heartbreak. But you still manage to hear him, and you squeeze his hand tightly, and he doesn’t let go until you finally do.

❁ ❁ ❁

Remembering has become easier for you these past two months— both the good and the bad. And each day, the scale tips towards one side or the other. Sometimes you recall the suffocation you felt with him, the feeling that no matter what you did you could never please him, that your hands were crafted to break rather than mend. And on those days your wound grows, it throbs and bleeds different emotions.

Sometimes it's anger— at him for treating your heart so carelessly as if you were a being devoid of feeling. And then at you— for staying, for giving him excuses and desperately searching for goodness within him, for the one redeeming quality that would convince you he was worth the pain.

And other days bring an excruciating sadness along, a weight that presses down upon you until you're paralyzed. Because you feel bad for yourself and for everything you went through. Because you’re unsure how to rise when unseen hands push you deeper into the abyss.

And on these days, Seungmin becomes your anchor. He buys your favorite food, skips classes with you, and takes you to your favorite gardens. He talks and he talks and you try your best to laugh because you do not wish to worry him more. It is enough to be your own burden, you do not wish to burden him too.

But when he drops you home, your facade slips away, the smile fading from your face as if it were never truly yours to wear. You are too tired to pretend so you don’t, and Hyunjin doesn’t let you, either. He brews you tea and orders takeout because he knows you lack the energy for cooking. He goes with you on walks and drapes you in pieces of his clothing— scarves and beanies and gloves because he knows you couldn’t care less about a cold when there is a frost coating your bones. He lets you sit in his room while he works on his songs, and while he paints. Sometimes you talk and often you don't need to. But he’s there. He's there with you.

But you also remember the good. You remember your movie night with the boys, Hyunjin building an entire fort for you, adorned with twinkling lights and the softest blankets. How you watched movies until 5 a.m. your bodies so closely huddled together that there was no room left for sadness.

You recall Hyunjin begging you to build a snowman with him at the crack of dawn, the two of you collapsing in fits of laughter as you threw snowballs at one another, your footsteps marking the fresh fallen snow.

You remember being so exhausted after one of your showers that you simply laid atop the couch, gaze fixed on the void, too drained to even untangle the knots in your hair. Yet, it is not the tiredness that you exactly recall, nor the salty tears you shed underneath the scorching water jet. But it is Hyunjin's tender hands as he brushed through your hair, his fingers tracing the nape of your neck, his knuckles ghosting over the slate of your shoulder. You remember whispering that it was a particularly hard day and Hyunjin understanding. You remember him watching many YouTube tutorials to prepare your favorite seaweed soup, only for it to end up being too salty. But you still ate it all, because he made it for you, to lift your wounded spirits. And that alone was enough for it to taste good.

You remember your heart hardening then softening again, breaking then stitching itself back together, closing off then blooming like flowers on the first day of spring. You remember smiling only to cry then smile again. And you remember liking snow, a bit more than you thought you would. Because Hyunjin was there, holding your trembling hand, steadying it enough for you to rewrite your memories with winter.

So, you want to say thank you.

You do not wish to spell it out, because there are too many things to thank Hyunjin for and too few words to do so. Instead, you drag him to the farmer’s market near your home, and you tell him to help you pick flowers.

“I could be in bed watching my favorite show and yet here I am bestowing you with my enchanting presence,” he sighs, not too modestly, as you both eye the array of colorful blooms.

“Okay, Shakespeare, are you done?” you roll your eyes, attempting your best to hide your grin.

“Done annoying you? Never. These are very pretty,” he adds, pointing to the white roses in full bloom, their delicate petals emitting a sweet fragrance into the air.

“I agree, what else should we add?” you ponder, picking out four roses.

“Mm, Hibiscus? The red in the center is so vibrant,” he suggests, taking out his phone to capture the flower.

“Cute. Baby breath’s would look good too,” you say as you gather the flowers, heading to the cashier with Hyunjin trailing behind, still admiring the delicate blooms.

“Can I write a note?” you ask the middle-aged man as he wraps the bouquet in a powder blue paper.

“Sure,” he replies with a smile, and you return the gesture, quickly jotting down your words.

“Are you done?” Hyunjin grins when you return to his side and you nod, exiting the flower shop.

“What do you think?” you ask, angling the bouquet towards him.

“It's beautiful.”

“It’s yours,” you smile, growing shier at the intensity of his gaze as it lands on you, then the flowers, then on you again. “Take it,” you hand it to him, your cheeks flushing like the hibiscus’s crimson core.

“Actually?” he says softly, his fingers trembling slightly as he accepts the flowers and you nod in response. You bite your lip as you watch him take out the note, his eyes softening once he reads the words inscribed in it— thank you for making my winter less cold.

“Should we go?” you say a tad too cheerfully, turning away, but Hyunjin grabs your wrist, spinning you around once more. His fingers trail up your arm, coming to rest gently on your cheek as he leans down to plant a tender kiss there.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, his lips lingering against your skin for a moment longer than necessary. You think that if his soft lips grace your skin a few times more, your nerve endings might forget the harshness they were subjected to. If his gentle hands remain on your cheeks, then maybe, your heart would heal quicker, better. Maybe your past self that you long for would emerge again, maybe Hyunjin would be able to unearth it.

Your hopeful thoughts disappear as quickly as they arrive, overshadowed by a sense of helplessness that crashes over you, all of the sudden. You sense him before you hear him, the familiar anxiety that is only synonymous with your ex’s presence.

“Yn?” the sound of your name feels harsher in his mouth, the syllables spat out rather than spoken tenderly, as they are when Hyunjin pronounces it. Your veins run cold as his voice pierces the air, your heart skipping three beats at once before plummeting to your knees. You wrap your hand around Hyunjin’s forearm instinctively, and he looks down at you, his expression morphing into one of concern.

You’re unsure of what he sees in you— whether it is your pale face, the quiver of your lower lip, or the fear that has coated all your features— but his eyes harden, his brows furrowing as he gazes at the man behind you.

You refuse to turn around, bracing yourself for his next words. “Yn,” he repeats his tone laced with anger, his fingertips grazing your arm as if intending to force you to face him. But before he can touch you, Hyunjin intervenes, swiftly stepping in between you and your ex, shielding you with his own body protectively.

“Leave,” Hyunjin's voice is cold, dripping with a venomous edge you've never heard from him before, his jaw clenching with barely contained fury.

“Is this your new shiny toy, Yn?” your ex taunts and his voice cuts through your being against your will, triggering a flood of memories you've tried so desperately to suppress. Memories of his cruelty, his manipulation, and the pain he inflicted upon you—using your love as a weapon to bolster his own ego.

“What's in it for you?” you find your voice again, though it trembles when you speak. He is the very embodiment of your pain and everything you loathe about yourself. You wish for the ground to swallow you whole, for a bolt of lightning to strike the earth, anything to spare you from facing him.

“It's only been three months, I didn't know you were a whore.”

Hyunjin's fist connects with his cheek before you can register his words. It all unfolds so rapidly that you barely have time to comprehend it. Your ex staggers back, blood trickling from the cut on his lip, while Hyunjin stands before you, his chest heaving with restrained anger, his right hand clenched into a fist, the bouquet still held tightly in the other.

“Fine, I deserved it,” your ex chuckles, his voice laced with mockery as he wipes the blood from his lip. His gaze meets yours briefly behind Hyunjin's back.

“You might not be a whore but you are unlovable, keep that in mind.” He spits out before walking away, crude words that tear at every scab covering your wounds, reopening them with a brutal force. Hyunjin moves to follow him, but you grab his shirt, pulling him back.

“He’s not worth it,” you murmur.

Your words seem to snap Hyunjin out of his haze as he turns to look at you, worry cast across his figure. He moves to cradle your cheeks but you step back, refusing to meet his eyes. He swallows thickly, clutching the bouquet in his hands. “Are you okay?”

You let out a heavy sigh, your shoulders slumping as you shake your head slightly. “Let's just go home,” you whisper, eyes fleeting to his for a split second. All the lights in your gaze are muted.

You’re crumbling before him once again and he cannot stop it, no matter how much he yearns to.

It's long past midnight when you find yourself seated on the floor of your living room, a bottle of red wine placed between you and Hyunjin. You exchange it wordlessly, taking turns sipping from it, the alcohol warming your insides but doing little to ease the ache in your heart. You don’t exactly recall when Hyunjin sat next to you, but you don’t mind. You were too lost in your own thoughts to even register his presence.

“Yn,” he calls out softly and you hum absentmindedly, memories of when your ex spoke your name haunting you, each time he yelled your name, uttered it in disdain as if it was the starting point of everything wrong with you.

“Talk to me, please?” he pleads, angling his body towards your own. But you refuse to meet his eyes and Hyunjin’s heart twists in his chest. He is afraid of all the ugly thoughts that must roam your mind. He wishes he could enter it, open the windows wide, and usher the light in.

“I'm sorry you were dragged into this,” you say, your gaze fixated on the bouquet placed atop the table. The crimson painted on the hibiscus’ petals reminds you of the blood that spilled from your ex’s mouth, and your gaze fleets to Hyunjin's hand, slightly bruised from the punch.

“Don’t apologize,” he whispers, “there is nothing to be sorry for.”

It’s as though you don’t hear him, your fingers trailing gently across his scraped knuckles, tears pooling in your eyes the more you stare at his hand.

“Does it hurt?” you ask, voice thick with emotion, and Hyunjin’s quick to shake his head. “No, don’t worry about it. He deserved it.”

“You didn’t deserve to be hurt.”

“Neither did you.”

Your disbelieving scoff that follows scares him. What if you’re slipping away into a dark place yet again, one void and barricaded, in which the only sound that echoes is your ex’s hurtful words? What if he can’t reach you again?

“If the only person I’ve ever loved says I’m unlovable then maybe I am.”

You’re drunk, you wouldn’t have said such an ugly thing otherwise, wouldn’t have allowed this sentiment to materialize into the air, to take a tangible form apart from your abstract thoughts.

“No,” Hyunjin says in a panic as though he’s trying to quickly pull the brakes on your free-railing thoughts. He cups your face between his palms, your tears falling freely atop his hands but he does not move away.

“No,” he repeats, more calmly this time. “How he treated you is a reflection of who he is. And how you see him is a reflection of who you are. And you wanted him to be loving because you’re full of love. You wanted him to be good because you are a good person. And he can’t stomach that, can’t stomach that you are happy without him so he’s trying to ruin you again.”

“Hyunjin…” you shake your head but he only inches closer to you, his thumbs gently caressing your cheekbones. “No, listen to me. Seungmin loves you so much he couldn’t eat properly for the first few days you stayed here, texted me all the time asking me how you were and if you were feeling better. He isn't good with words so instead he tries to make you laugh. He wishes he could give up parts of his happiness for you.”

A sob swells within you but Hyunjin presses on. “And Minho, he tried to memorize all your favorite recipes so he could cook them for you. It isn’t a coincidence that every time we go over to their dorm it is your favorite food that we eat. He takes more pictures of his cats these days so he could send them to you because he knows it cheers you up.”

“You told me Changbin doesn’t know you well enough to fight for you but when we saw your ex across the campus one day he wanted to get up and beat him. He always asks me if you are well and if there is something he can do for you, anything.”

He inhales deeply, tears welling up in his eyes as well. “And me…” a tender smile graces his lips as he gazes at you, “you make this house a home. I feel like my true self when you are around and loneliness doesn’t come to me as often as it did. Because you are here. You are like a beam of sunlight that lightens up every life you touch, mine first,” he’s baring his soul to you, vulnerable yet resolute. “So tell me, Yn, what’s not to love in you when you yourself are so full of love?”

“Hyune,” you speak the nickname for the first time, and Hyunjin’s heart thrashes achingly around his ribcage. “If you keep talking like this I might end up loving you,” you smile sadly at him as if it is a terrible thing to be loved by you.

“But I don’t want to love you, because I won’t know how to, not anymore. So I'll end up leaving. And I'll long for you, and I don't think I can stomach longing for you from afar.”

“So please,” you place one hand atop his own, wipe away the lone tear rolling down his cheek. “Don’t make me love you, hm? You deserve more than to be loved by someone like me.”

You leave Hyunjin in the living room, alone before the white flowers you gifted him. He doesn’t want to put them away in a vase, for as soon as he grabbed them from your hold, everything around you both crumbled. So he leaves them there for the night, the creamy white petals aglow underneath the moonlight. He spends the night painting the bouquet from memory, but the petals end up too tinged with red, perhaps mirroring the blood his heart refuses to stop spilling still.

He did not realize it before, maybe he blinded himself so he wouldn’t see what was before him all along. But it is all the clearer to him now— that in his attempts to make you love winter again, Hyunjin only ended up loving you.

A week later.

hyune [1:25 a.m.]: i miss you

You and Hyunjin spent the last seven days avoiding one another, well you more than him. He just understood your silent plea when you took a step back the one time he tried to talk to you in the kitchen, swallowing thickly before inching away, allowing you to move past him.

You did not know how to face him after what he said, partly because you were embarrassed by your own response, mostly because even in your drunken daze, his words etched themselves permanently into your memory.

It is his reassuring words that echoed in your brain for the past week, not those of your ex.

hyune [1: 26 a.m.]: and i miss sleeping on the couch

You giggle, shaking your head before replying.

yn [1:26 a.m.]: no you don’t

hyune [1:26 a.m.]: no i don’t ㅠㅠ

but i finished the song

wanna hear?

Walking to Hyunjin’s room feels as familiar as going into your own. And when your gaze finally meets his you can’t help but break into a relieved smile. It was foolish of you to punish yourself, enough people have done that for you already.

“Hey,” he greets tentatively, and you respond with an awkward wave, a moment pregnant with anticipation passes before both of you dissolve into laughter.

“What is this? Are we in middle school,” he teases and you giggle, settling comfortably on his bed once more.

“I know. We are so lame.”

“You are,” he corrects with a grin and you gasp, pretending to leave but he quickly catches your hand, stopping you. “No, please stay. I meant it when I said that I missed you,” he repeats quietly, as if afraid that his confession would make you run away once again.

Your heart aches, the knots in your stomach tightening and unraveling all at once. “I missed you too,” you admit softly, and he smiles, his thumb tracing a gentle path above your pulse before releasing your hand.

“So it's done then?” you ask and he nods, running a hand through his hair with a hint of anxiety. “How do you feel about it?”

“Good. I hope you’ll like it, mostly.”

“I'm sure I will,” you reassure him with a soft smile, and he nods once more, pressing a few buttons before his melodious whistles fill the air once again.

Nothing could have braced you for the sound of Hyunjin's voice that followed, its timbre soft as silk yet imbued with profound sorrow. It's as though he recorded the song on one of his loneliest nights, his honeyed vocals dipped in an excruciating nostalgia that seeps into every corner of the room, every corner of your heart.

In the faded photo, I come across a smile spread across a youthful face, overlapped with the seasons.

Your gaze flickers to Hyunjin as a shadow of recollection dawns on you. You remember telling him that you couldn’t stomach looking at pics of your past, ones in which you smiled so freely because you were blissfully unaware of what was to come.

The night’s so cold that it’s almost unreal.

Because you weren’t aware of the winter that will follow and the biting cold that it would bear, for everything that will go astray in your relationship, for your ex's facade to crack like a glacier succumbing to the pressure of lies and pretense.

I wake up in another silence, and I close my eyes.

You remember Hyunjin confessing that silence haunted him more than words ever could, and you had agreed, sharing how sometimes you shut your eyes, pretending that the reality you woke up to wasn't the one you were living.

The white flower we planted together has bloomed. I do not dare pick it. Now it withers away.

You gaze at the white flowers you brought him, now wilted in the vase placed on his desk, yet Hyunjin refuses to throw them still. You see the card you wrote for him hung on the wall, right next to the dried red rose. He kept it. Though it withered, he kept it all.

So I long for you. And I long for you. And I'll long for you.

You remember the longing you both spoke of, how he understood a feeling you felt so incredibly alone in. How he tried to reassure you when he too was caught in the webs of the past. How you longed for him in the past week. How you wished he longed for you just the same.

So I can keep loving you. So I could be loving you. And morе.

The violin swells and so does the emotion in your chest. You remember him asking you ‘What’s not to love in you’ and how you've spun those words in your thoughts ever since. You remember thinking that if he gave you a few more weeks, just a bit more time, you might have found it in you to believe them.

You see Hyunjin’s glimmering eyes holding yours, you see his heart atop a platter handed to you, and you see the resignation in his being. Don’t make me love you, you told him. You didn’t dare to tell him not to love you in return, deemed it too foolish of thought to entertain.

For he was Hwang Hyunjin, the quiet producer who paints in his free time and who wears his heart on his sleeve. Who remains hopeful, loving, and tender, despite the thorns pricking at his side. Who is beautiful, so much so that he allowed you to see beauty in the universe once again, through his eyes.

How could he love you?

How could you not love him?

“The song,” you whisper, the words barely escaping your lips as you stand, trembling, on your feet. Hyunjin rises too, meeting you in the center of his room.

“It is about you. For you,” he says simply as if his words don’t cause your world to burst at the seams only to mend itself once again, too eager to fix itself and exist in the same timeline as Hyunjin.

“I don't… I don’t know what to say,” you say earnestly, feeling your heart pound in your chest, its beats resounding loudly in your ears.

It is wrong of you to assume he wishes you to say something. He is Hyunjin, the one who finds words in your silences too, after all.

“I don’t need you to say anything,” he shakes his head, taking another step closer to you. “I don't want an answer, I don't wish to pressure you. I just wanted to tell you that my love is here, it is yours to take or to leave, to cherish or to discard. But it is yours, because this is who I am. I am someone who loves you.”

“So do not tell me to forget you because I don't know how to. And don’t tell me that you’ll leave because I will love you still, because you’d still be you, near or far, you are you. And you are someone I long for.” He pauses, his voice softening. “And I long for you, Yn, more than anything I've ever longed for. And I've spent all my life longing.”

His lips meet your forehead tenderly, and you feel your entire being grow limp at the chaste kiss, as if your limbs wish to liquefy and form a puddle on the floor. His touch is soft, and you miss it the moment he parts from you.

“There must be something in this room that keeps on making you cry,” he smiles and you bring your hands to your damp cheeks, surprised to find there tears you didn’t realize had fallen.

“It’s you,” you pinch his arm playfully and he squirms away from your hold, stabbing his toe on the desk in the process. A loud fuck echoes around the room, and your laughter dissipates the tension clinging into the air.

“Can you play it again?” you request softly and Hyunjin’s theatrics fade as a shy smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

“Is it good?”

“It's everything to me.”

“It's called ‘long for you’, by the way.”

“Long for you,” you repeat quietly. There has never been a prettier combination of words.

The title all but makes sense as you lay on the bed, your gaze fixed on the paintings hung on the wall, Hyunjin sketching quietly on his desk, the song resonating softly in the background. You've longed for many things in your life—the person you once were and the tender love you once craved—but amidst it all, nothing has weighed heavier on your heart than the longing for the man sitting just two meters away, almost in your loving grasp. Almost.

❁ ❁ ❁

It is an excruciating five days that Hyunjin spends apart from you, the both of you too caught up in your assignments to find a moment to properly speak. But you do not shy away from him when he greets you, and your grin is kind as it drapes across his being, and Hyunjin swears he has never seen a prettier sight than you smiling.

On the sixth night, Hyunjin completes the cover for the song— a figure wrapped around itself protectively, mirroring the way you hug yourself in your sleep. He hangs it on the wall, right next to your thank you card and the white bouquet he drew once again, wishing to properly immortalize its beautiful flowers, to purify that memory from the tumult that followed it.

On the sixth night, the house is quiet, the full moon high up in the sky, snowflakes falling softly to the ground. Hyunjin wonders if you too mimicked the snow’s descent— both of you falling apart with it.

But then, there’s a knock on his door.

His heart catches in his throat, his body freezing as if it forgot how to move. You are here.

“Come in,” he manages to say, his voice barely above a whisper. You push the door open, and Hyunjin's words wilt on his tongue as he sees what you're carrying—another bouquet, filled with white flowers, yet again.

“Hey,” you smile, standing by the door.

He remains silent, unsure of what to say, or how to speak. He longs for you when you are away, even more so when you’re before him.

“We shouldn't let these white flowers wither away too, right?” you smile slightly, placing the bouquet on the desk before walking to Hyunjin’s bedside. His voice falters, vocal cords refusing to move and overshadow your voice.

You sit beside him, gently pulling his hand so that you’d both lie on the pillows. Your hand doesn’t leave his own, instead, it moves to rest on his cheek, reminiscent of the many times he had cradled your face before. Inch by inch, you close the gap between you, nuzzle the tip of your nose against his own. “Hi, Hyune”, you say softly, and he swallows thickly, his voice coming out just as quietly.

“Hi, my Yn.”

“If we take care of the white flowers together do you think they’ll survive a bit longer?” you ask, your gaze never wavering from his, countless stars twinkling in the depths of your irises.

“I believe so,” he says tentatively, too aware of the warmth of your palm against his skin, of the sweet ache unfurling within his being.

“Mm, and even if they wilt we can always buy new ones. We can learn how to care for them better, with time,” you say, and he nods in agreement, laying his hand atop your own, tilting his head to bestow a chaste kiss on your palm.

“With time,” he echoes softly and you smile, vulnerable yet secure in his gray sheets, in his hold.

“Will you give me time too?” you ask, and Hyunjin reads in your eyes what you mean, understands in the shake of your voice the question you are too afraid to voice. Will he give you time to heal in order to love?

“As long as you need. I’m not going anywhere,” he reassures, pressing his forehead gently atop yours, and you both close your eyes, as a running warmth encloses you both, blooms a blush on both your cheeks.

His arms wrap around your back, drawing you close until your chests are pressed together, your head resting naturally in the curve of his neck. And it is long forgotten in your mind, all the nights you slept in this very bed alone. You feel safe, safe enough to long for love knowing that it patiently awaits you behind the door, once you find enough courage to turn the doorknob. You feel serene, as Hyunjin’s warm palms glide soothingly up and down your spine, as every muscle, every nerve, every atom in your being relaxes in his hold.

You are healing, slowly, with each fleeting second that passes in which Hyunjin’s heartbeat resounds within your chest, as its melody runs through your veins, melds with your own as if it was destined to be there all along. As you rest in Hyunjin, as you find a safe home within his soul to discard your worries at the doorstep and breathe.

“It did get better,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his shoulder blade. “Hm?” He leans back to look at you, and he’s so beautiful, so tender as he gazes at you, you can’t help but trace the contours of his face with your fingers, hoping to commemorate him with your eyes, with your touch.

“You promised me it’ll get better, and it did,” you smile, as your legs further intertwine with his, and his rose perfume becomes an indelible mark on your skin. “Too bad I can't hit your pretty face now,” you joke and he giggles, tipping his head back.

He's so beautiful, body and soul, and he longs for you, you alone.

“But I can still do this,” you murmur before finally pressing your lips against his like a boat finally reaching the shore after months of sailing. You both exhale, in yearning, in relief, as your mouths move together in a slow, languid dance, his hand finding the pulse on your neck, yours settling atop his jaw.

He would kiss you again, this intimately, in the coming months, when your heart expands enough to contain the love Hyunjin deserves. He would kiss you again, when your past comes to haunt you, and healing sounds like an elusive myth you’d never encounter in your life.

And he would kiss you again, over the kitchen table and under the fridge’s light, in between paintings and in supermarket aisles, while picking flowers and watching the first snow.

He would kiss you, this tenderly, in the next winter, and the ones after it, as if his longing for you never wanes. Till blow three disappears from your memory, till all you remember is the love, the true one, the kind one, the soft one Hyunjin alone could have brought you.

[mr-ys-phantasma]

🌙 Moon Phases 🌙

Agatha Harkness X Fem!Reader

Chapter 1. - Chapter 2. - Chapter 3

Chapter 4. - Chapter 5. - Chapter 6

Chapter 7. - Chapter 8. - Chapter 9

Chapter 10. - Chapter 11. - Chapter 12

Word Count: 1684

Chapter 12:

The slide was muddy, the water helping you all go down and eventually you found yourself laying on your back; almost forming a pile with the rest of the coven.

On the positive note, you were back to your normal clothes, but now they were wet; wet enough to cause you feel a chill going down your spine.

You pushed some wet strands off your face and groaned faintly at the rough stopping while your body was slowly coming down from the adrenaline rush you had.

"Ugh," you exclaimed and brought your torso to a standing position before working to loosen your black tie; feeling as if you did not get enough oxygen with all the stress from the trial.

As you did, you took notice of Agatha standing up and trying to walk away; purposely pushing and kicking the others out of her way.

You could only shake your head, and with a sigh, you managed to stand on shaky legs. Careful not to slip on the wet ground, you realised you were back in the forest; though you were unsure if you were at the same point on the road or further down ahead.

Of course, Jen and Agatha had to start bickering again.

"We're alive. We made it through the first test. Everyone is safe." Agatha argued, one hand on her waist.

You were about to agree with her, when Teen pointed out something that no one else had done so far.

"Not everyone." He argued, drawing everyone's attention. "Sharon's dead."

It was then you took notice of the laying body of the human woman, spread like a starfish. Her skin was a ghostly white and her eyes had remained open, forever frozen to whatever image she saw last before death claimed her.

"Oh, no," you exclaimed, not believing you lost someone so early; let alone the poor woman.

A part of you, the more realistic part, expected Sharon would not survive till the end but it still came as a surprise. At least you knew, she was in a better place; or at least you hoped so.

"Who's Sharon?" You heard Agatha exclaimed and as you stared at her, you could not really tell if she was joking or she was literally that clueless.

You took a threatening step forward. "The human you took with you on this road," you explained, your voice coming colder than she expected, while one hand faintly motioned for the corpse next to your feet. "The human that had no place here, Agatha"

You had remained quiet when you first saw Sharon being dragged by Agatha and even after she came with you through the door. However, you drew a line to innocent lives getting lost.

Agatha had this hatred about humans, this feeling of superiority, and it was one of the few things you often argued.

Ironically, it was where your nickname came from. For your respect and kind nature to humans, it was always seen as something too sweet in her eyes, and eventually, she found that fitting nickname.

Sure, humans did prosecute and burnt your kind, but not all of them were like that. Some were scared, others followed the crowd, and you would be lying if you said there were no witches out there who acted similar; toying and harming humans for sadistic purposes.

Agatha looked at you in surprise by your tone, evident by how her lips had parted at your words. She almost felt offended but then scoffed, hiding any sense of vulnerability she might have shown for that one second.

She should not be surprised, you always had a soft spot for humans; when the moon was full and you were in a good mood.

Yet she still did not expect such a reaction from you, especially for a woman you knew for a few hours at most.

She commented nothing, realizing you were not going to listen to her excuses. She knew when the waves were little too harsh to navigate, even for her, and she had learnt the hard way to not mingle.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the end, you all agreed to bury her; offering some sort of closure to her spirit.

Alice and Teen dug the grave, and you offered a silent prayer once the body was covered, the rest of the witches joining you; except for Agatha.

Now with that out of the way, one thing did remain.

You need a green Witch.

But before this could be discussed, another argument had to take place because what kind of testing would you all face if the coven bonds were not tested to the maximum.

"It's like the Ballad says... burn and brew, with coven two, and glory shall be thine" Agatha pointed out as if it wasn't obvious enough.

Apparently, it was not for Jen. "The Ballad clearly says... With coven true, glory shall be thine"

Agatha laughed. "Does it? It's Coven two"

"That doesn't make any sense"

You knew why Agatha was so persuaded it said Coven Two. It was because the last time on the road, a full Coven entered, and yet only two witches made it to the end; you and her.

So her argument was valid, for easily words had been misheard over the centuries; especially one as ancient as the Ballad.

However, something was telling you Jen was right in this case.

You chose not to argue, though, or enter this discussion. Instead you stood a little to the side with Lilia, who seemed to share your thoughts and maybe your migraine from all that arguing.

Jen stared Agatha right in the face. "How many witches left The Road with you last time?"

Agatha lifted a single digit but to the surprise of many, she added a second one; indicating the number two. Then with her thumb, she first pointed at herself and then at you; earning surprised reactions from the other witches.

Except for Teen. He already knew that little information.

"You were on the road with her?" Lilia asked, staring at you.

You nodded faintly but did not say anything or at least you didn't manage to because Agatha popped in.

"Yes, she did," she moved to stand by your side, one hand around your shoulders and pulling you closer in an awkward side hug, or at least it was meant to be a side hug. "See, coven of two," Agatha continued, trying to win thus pointless argument.

Jen looked between the two of you, trying to understand what kind of relationship you seemed to have.

The nickname was not that much of a help, at first, because Agatha had a knack for not calling people with their names. Now, it seemed you had a deeper connection with the former evil witch, but it was unclear what.

Plus, if you had survived the road once... why come a second time?

Now Jen was curious but chose to try and find an answer to that later.

For now, you needed to find a green witch though she was insure if it was possible. You were in the middle of the freaking Road; sort of locked in a very magical box that no one could enter or leave; let alone alive.

"We can summon one," you suddenly said, stopping the argument from continuing any further.

"We can?" Teen asked hopefully.

"Don't be silly," Agatha dismissed. "We can't. We are on the Road"

This time, you stood your ground. "We can. I know of a ritual that will open a door and summon us a green witch"

Agatha looked at you slightly betrayed, but as your gazes remained locked, you started to suspect her denial to the ritual was something more personal.

There was something Agatha was afraid or feared would come if you tried the ritual, and you doubted it was the Salem Seven.

No... this was far bigger.

"Let's do the ritual then," Teen said, earning nods from the others and leaving Agatha to huff silently; having lost the vote to the majority.

Had she mentioned she hated democracy and voted of the crowd?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It did not take long to prepare for the ritual, getting a few things from around like an obsidian stone, some herbs, and so on.

Then, you all stood in a line close to the grave; in front of you, the summoning symbol drawn amongst pushed away leaves and mud.

Well it was less of a symbol and more like the figurine of a person, made by pulled up mud and framed by the yellow and leaves all around it.

You had also managed to light three red candles that Teen for some unknown reason had on him, an extra to the ritual.

Standing in the middle of the group, you clasped your hands in front of you and started to chant in Latin; your voice coming heavy and powerful, echoing across the quiet clearing.

It surprised your coven, not having the quiet and simple you chant with some power, but now they knew better; especially if casting spells was the same way for you.

Once you finished chanting, you looked at Lilia at the very end of the formed line and motioned for her to lay the first object and acknowledge her intentions.

"May she be strong and wise, and the best at her craft." The old witch said.

Agatha followed next. "May she be smart and not annoying... and also, not super political."

You followed next, having chosen to place a Crysanthemum flower you had plucked from near by; ironically close to where Mrs. Davis was buried.

"May she be an ally, not an enemy," you manifested, earning a few head nods from the others.

Jen was next. "May she be pleasant looking."

Alice went last. "Can she bring some Advil?" She asked, earning a scoff from Lilia.

Once it was all done, you waited as in the next second, a strong ominous wind picked up and extinguished the candle flames.

Before any of you could question if it had worked, a hand shot out from the freshly dug grave close to you.

Chapter 13

[skeletondeerart]

Sacred Waters, Sacred Hearts Chapter 1

A Male OC! Metkayina x Fem Human! Reader | Word Count: 1722

Masterlist & join the taglist

A/N : Both Rukan and reader are in their mid 20's

" " = direct speech | ' ' = Metkayina sign language | Bold = English

Another night approaches as multiple moons emerge from the waves. I adjust my mask, ensuring it's sealed to my cheeks, as I shuffle off my light shawl, leaving just my wetsuit and waterproof tablet. The morning winds nip at my exposed skin, and I make haste into the reef, gracefully submerging myself and diving down to the reef bed to escape the chill of the evening.

I was one of the last marine biologists left on Pandora after the fall of the Omatikaya's Hometree, yet by the grace of Eywa I was taken into her embrace and was allowed to live amongst the flora and fauna. I now reside on the coastline a couple hours from the Metkayina settlements; respecting the ocean-dwelling Navi immensely, I made sure to leave them alone and stay in my small corner of the ocean; content with just researching and documenting the underwater flora and fauna. Though I may seem isolated here on my lonesome I do make frequent calls to Norm and Max to update their data files, ordering human supplies or just for a chat yet sometimes I yearn for someone else to share my experiences with...

Weaving through bioluminescent kelp, flippers boost me through the currents I glide to a halt and unsheathe my switchblade to harvest some vegetation and check on the coral's health. Happy with the healthy flora and the harvest I document photos for my log and bask in the temperate waters. I smile at the stillness from the ocean bed, turning onto my back and gazing up through the water's surface, mesmerised by the reflection of light shimmering across the lapping waves from below.

Eventually, my lungs begin to burn yearning for oxygen, and I move to breach the surface, breaking the water tension my mask immediately intakes the Pandoran air and swiftly converts it to plain oxygen. As I catch my breath, I watch Ilu ride the waves and birds dive into the ocean to nab up small fish for their dinner. My stomach rumbles at the through and my mind drifts back to the edible vegetation in my pouch, I paddle back to shore and squeeze the water from my hair before I begin stoking a fire to roast my own dinner.

Time gets away from me as I continue to do tasks onshore like chopping wood and transferring files into the databank. My thoughts are disturbed by a shrill ring, Norm's contact blaring from my tablet. I quickly accept it as Norm appears on the screen; giving a curt wave before he started speaking.

"Hey (Y/n), how are you? Hope I didn't catch you at a bad time, but I have a favour to ask." He rambles, arms gesturing awkwardly.

"Uh, nah I'm not doing much; how can I help ya Norm?" I say absent-mindedly as I continue weaving a new blanket, preparing for the cooler weather.

"Mo'at needs some specific medicinal herbs, but they can only be found in the deeper parts of the reef bed. Considering you're now quite an adept diver I thought to ask you first before connecting with the Metkayina traders."

"Oh yeah no problem, I'll duck out in a moment and get that heading your way no problem" I smile as I stand to pull my wetsuit back on from its drying rack.

Norm rubs his nape and bows his head in gratitude "I can't thank you enough (Y/n) just text me when you're done so I can send someone out there to collect the goods"

"Easy, I'll get back to you soon, but if you don't hear back by tomorrow afternoon assume I drowned" I laugh in jest.

I watch as Norm scrunches his face in horror "Don't make me come over there for a welfare check buddy, because I will! I swear it." Norm sighs exasperated by my words wagging his finger to the camera.

"Oh, I'm just kidding Normie; have some faith in me will ya." I giggle as I slip the thick fabric up my torso, Navi stripes adorn the fabric, mimicking the Metkayina's camouflage.

"How many times have I asked you to quit it with the 'Normie'…" Norm scolds but it holds no venom at all. "Look, you better update me straight away ok! I got to go; Max needs some help in the lab, see ya (Y/n)." He waves and disconnects as I wave goodbye myself.

I release a sigh as I take a final note of all the things I need and make sure my mask is free from damage as I set out. I walk out of the airlock to the edge of the mangroves and leap into the deeper portion, my vision is hindered by a myriad of bubbles for a moment before settling down, I begin the descent into the sandbank, I had no need for a flashlight due to the high concentration of bioluminescence, I glide through the waters and corals with ease and gradually letting some oxygen in through my air tank, I only used it for longer expeditions as I like to train my lung capacity.

I swim further from my base, lowering my altitude as I dive into a stunning deep cave. I spotted the herbs; it looked like sea moss; excellent in curing skin ailments when ground into a salve. I push faster through the currents and into the jagged coral formation that the moss grew on, not seeing the signature Metkayina markers for a protected area... I peeled it from its roots and placed it into a leather pouch, deeming it enough I turned to make my way back out, but I was stunned into silence as a massive shadow passed by the gaps in the coral.

It was an Akula…a massive shark-like beast who not even the Navi deem as a friend. My lungs constricted as I limited agitating the water around me. I waited with bated breath as the Akula swam circles around the exit, I peered timidly out as I no longer detect its presence. So, I make the decision to slowly rise to the entrance of the cave. I make the dash, but the Akula notices the disruption and flings itself in my direction, a terrified gargle escapes my throat as I weave hastily through the outcrops narrowly avoiding its snapping jaws.

In my adrenaline-fueled state, I didn't notice another join the fray. Until a muffled roar is heard from the Akula as it flees back deeper into the cave system. I burrow myself into the coral hiding from my painful death as I go to release more oxygen into my mask, my hands fumble with a pierced tube and my eyes widen in realisation.

My oxygen supply is drained and I'm so far from the surface.

My panic only spikes further as piercing blue eyes peer down at me cuddled up in the coral like a child.

It was a Metkayina patroller, he was mounted on an Ilu as he scowled in my direction, his rapid signing not going unnoticed.

I gingerly raise my hand and sign 'I mean no harm. I'm with the Omaticaya, gathering medicinal herbs for our injured, but can you help me to the surface I need to breathe…'

He shook his head frustrated but for a moment I could see the disbelief in his eyes at my fluency. 'You do not belong here tawtute, let alone in a protected area, go back to the forest.' But his eyes soften when he sees me start to go blue, my eyes pleading as I point to the surface. He sighs exasperated as he snatches my arm and hauls me into his chest atop his Ilu, jetting to the surface. My vision gets splotchy as we break the water, my mask luckily taking in the air again with no issue.

As I fill my strained lungs again, I'm abruptly shoved off the Ilu and dunk under momentarily pouting as I surface and gazing up at the Navi with a smug look on his face. He points his finger at me.

"Do not touch tawtute, it is a protected site and you're too close to the village" he states, shaking his head. "Go" He states his finned arm pointing back to shore.

"Sorry I didn't see the marker, I'll stay away, promise." I put up my pinky finger momentarily before realising he wouldn't know what it meant. He leans back, a hairless brow raising in suspicion.

"Silly tawtute…" He mutters under his breath before urging again "I'll accompany you home just to make sure that Akula leaves you be. I don't want your pitiful death on my conscience." He states "But you're swimming yourself…"

I laugh "Fine by me" I say before setting back on course. I paddle on the water's surface beside the Metkayina on his Ilu, swimming in silence for most of the way. I'm broken out of my thoughts as his words pierce the silence.

"What are those on your feet…" He questioned, with an ounce of curiosity evident in his tone. I gaze back for a moment checking for any foreign matter.

"Flippers. Helps me swim faster and easier, kind of how your feet and tail help you through the water." I say casually, lifting one from the water to flaunt it with a smile, his face scrunching up as water flicks him in the face.

"I see…" His words were cut short as my home was spotted over the water. Nestled into the mangroves and covered in my hand-woven cloths and netting.

"Well, here's my stop" I sigh as I pull myself up into the mangroves and onto the net platforming.

A curious hum leaves his throat as he gazes at my abode. "Looks somewhat like our villages… yet so tawtute." He mumbles scratching at his nape.

Honestly, over the past hour, I have grown fondness for this Navi. I can't help but blurt out "(Y/n)." His eyes shoot to me confused. "My name… it's uh (Y/n)" I state my cheeks flushing.

"(Y/n)…" He takes a moment letting my name digest "Rukan…" he replies before abruptly diving on his Ilu and swimming off in the direction of the village.

"Rukan…. What a nice name" I smile before heading inside to preserve the moss and notifying Norm of a successful expedition.

Enjoy the next chapter in my Masterlist! & join the taglist

[l1vchuu]

resentment. part five

part one. part two. part three. part four.

!! warnings: strong language and themes, you know the rest :)

Simon was lying down on his bed, staring at the wall. His brown eyes scanned the ceiling, searching for something to take off his mind. Something to drive him far, far away from all this mess. The mess he had created.

It was unusual, unusual for him to be the reason for someone else's suffering.

He stopped meeting with Amelia.

'Nonsense. You were the one who stuck to me, I never wanted any of this. It is not okay.' were his last words to her.

She nodded and walked away, it's not like love existed in the military anyway.

Look, it wasn't like his teammates drifted away from him or something, they continued to treat him the same- but the atmosphere was slightly different when he was around. It was heavier like the oxygen slowly escaped through the window when he appeared. It was an uneasy feeling, and Price didn't like any bit of it. He talked to him about the situation when you first left, but with your absence, there was nothing to look for in terms of progress.

You were a soldier for years, and have never taken a break since. You have a few honor medals here and there. You for sure were respected on base- that was the reason why you were in the 141. Every recruit adored you.

Captain Price didn't know if Simon had sent any letters before that, and he didn't have the right to see if he had in the first place. It was absolutely Simon's responsibility to fix this, but how will he approach it? It's not like he is not a full-grown adult, he can fix it all by himself. He will send a letter, of course. But he never wrote any letters, what will he do?

Simon was too afraid to ask for any help, he was always like that. Afraid that people will know that he is uncertain, that he doesn't know what to do.

He tried to sit down to write something multiple times, but he never got to anything. There were pieces of paper scattered all around his room all scrunched up, all of the attempts to contact you. It was hard for him to express his emotions, so there was absolutely no hope left.

He closed his eyes, trying to give peace to his mind in order to figure something out. What could he write in this situation?

Hello, how were you?

Hey...

Look, I know...

Good day, isn't it?

Everything seemed so stupid to him. Every word he tried to come up with sounded worse and worse. It felt like he was going to write a business email by reflex. It was like every syllable scraped his tongue like sand. The ideas in his mind were flowing at a rapid pace, like how Formula 1 cars chase each other for victory. Every word felt like a plead. Please come back, please, I need you.

His eyebrows furrowed, physically showing his irritation.

'What do I do?' Is all his mind repeated over and over again

He finally opened his eyes, his pupils adjusting to the darkness in the room. It was the end of fall, the start of winter, and the breeze flowing through the windows got colder and colder as time passed. The outline of the trees colored the walls, letting the light create all types of shapes. His eyes trailed to the window, which was slightly agape. He looked at it for a while before sitting up in his bed. The hesitance was growing in his mind, but he chose to ignore it all as he walked to the window, opening a pack of his old cigarettes- a habit that he tried to quit. There was no one to hide his packs anymore.

He grabbed one cigarette and lit it up, leaning his arms on the windowsill. The guilt in him was growing bigger with every puff he did, but he couldn't focus on that.

'She will get so mad if she sees me.'

But, she won't.

The smoke traveled with the wind, glazing through the wood as the smell faded away. He looked up at the sky. It was past midnight, so the full moon glowing down at him. All big and round, shining at him, making his eyes squint slightly.

He wondered if you were looking at it at the same time- and you were. God forbid, you were looking at the moon every night, hoping for change, hoping that the following day will bring you peace.

In the following moment, the pen was in his hand.

"The moon is pretty bright tonight, isn't it?

You said that when you were feeling unwell you would look up at the moon, and the thought of other people looking in the same direction as you made you feel less lonely. I see you in the moon every night.

Remember that one time we were on night duty? When it was another full moon, and you were looking at it. I could see every star reflecting off of your eyes, like a whole universe, at that moment. The wind blew your hair in front of your face, the pleasant smell of it hitting me in the face with every breath I took. You do smell really good.

This moment alone made me realize that maybe there was a calmness in this whole chaos. The first time where the silence didn't make me suffer. You brought peace into my life, and I took it away from yours.

Letters won't hold up all the things I need to tell you, and no punishment in hell would be enough for the things I've done. You have every right to not forgive me, because I will never forgive myself.

S."

Simon wasn't an award-winning writer, but that was all that he could manage to write. He couldn't bring himself to write more, it would take him days just to finish it. His mind was full enough, and the fact that he had mastered the courage was impressive.

-

You sat in your kitchen again, a cup of tea on your side as you held the paper in your hands, letting it scrape your fingers. A slight smile on your face as your eyes twinkled in the morning sun.

"Hello from the other side!

How are you feeling? We hope that home welcomed you nicely, (I would kill for a swig of scotch right now- J.)

Base is just as boring as it always was, even more boring without you around. We found these sketches at safe house 132, they are probably yours, they are pretty nice ones. We decided to draw you something as well. Don't you dare sell it to an art gallery, we know it's so beautiful, but it is for you! Unfortunately, that is all are allowed to send in, you know how it is :(

We bet it is freezing in your area, England can be cruel like that in the winter.

Anyhow, we wish you a peaceful break. And don't forget to bring gifts on your way back! Hope to hear from you soon!

All is well,

J, K, A :)"

You saw the small pieces of paper in the envelope- ones you drew on when a snowstorm hit on the way back from a mission, causing you to crash in one of the safe houses. There were drawings of all kinds of sea creatures- whales, sharks, and types of small fishes. Over them you wrote small passages of poetry- it really wasn't anything serious, just small words with big meanings.

The letter also included one piece of paper full of small doodles from your teammates. There were animals, faces, and flowers. It was amusing really- imagine three grown men sitting together and putting this up for you. This small gesture alone made you smile, the first genuine smile in a long time. You left the paper on the table as you took a sip from your tea, the warmth healing your throat. It has been a long week- it started snowing in your area, which you thought you would've liked, but you really didn't.

The thoughts in your head were just as confusing. What the hell was happening? You were a grown soldier, you had discipline, you had a strong heart... what was wrong with you??

It was like everything started melting slowly. You didn't have enough energy to go to the supermarket to do groceries, you barely kept yourself awake, and you couldn't even run a mile. You felt your fingers tighten around the mug, did you really want to open that last envelope? Your heart started beating rapidly, making your head slightly dizzy. You felt your limbs fall asleep, and suddenly your head weighed what seemed to be 100 pounds heavier. Soon enough, you were fast asleep on the table. You had fainted again.

Fainting was a coping mechanism your body was used to before when you were a teenager. Not only because of your eating disorder but also because of the stress you put yourself through. You were troubled at a young age. You forced yourself to suck up all the pain like a sponge. That was the reason you were like that at the moment.

You knew that holding in your emotions wasn't the resolution to your problems, but it was easier. That was why you became severely attached to the first person you shared your problems with. The first person who gave you a taste of what comfort felt like. You were reminded that, indeed, people had their own lives. But you were so... scared. What if you weirded him out? What if he had lost interest in putting up with you? What if he lost interest in you?

You cried so much, you wanted to feel his touch- his fingers up and down your back, his sweet voice in your ear, his dumb jokes, all in order to make you feel better, all while he was suffering from himself.

You missed this attention. Feeling like you mattered in someone's life? Feeling like you were finally valuable? And not just a dirty rag full of pain and emotions??

Were you going to feel like that again? After causing all this fuss... all because you felt bad. You wanted to bang your head against a wall, why did you do that? You should've sucked it up, to forget about everything. But now you were in your old apartment, passed out on the table, the cup of tea- now cold, just sitting over the papers.

A wave of shock went through your body as a thought struck your head.

'What will happen if you return? What if I acted like nothing had happened?'

'What kind of fucking idea is that?!'

Years ago, when you first decided to see a therapist, there was something she had told you about. You couldn't remember the correct name- but it was something along the lines of 'fake it till you make it' sort of thing. It was entirely possible for you to return... to forget about it... maybe change your whole personality- no, cut that- you could try to talk with Simon, you know? Instead of running away from your problems, like the little girl you were.

Running won't save you, not when you are running from yourself. Make yourself known, talk to people, let your anger out, let yourself feel. Instead of cutting yourself in order to feel something external, share a hug from a friend. Pretend like you were bigger than your own problems... because you were.

-

John Price went into his office, closing the door behind him. He sat in his chair, sighing. It was a long day for him and the coldness just made it a hell lot harder. There was a long pause until his radio went off, which he immediately rushed to turn on. It was a thing that rarely happened, so he became a little cautious.

"..."

"Captain... it's 2104 (your code), do you copy?"

He sighed in relief. It was just you.

"Yes, Sergeant. What is the matter?"

"I would like to request a time for return. Approximately in a few days."

He stared at the radio in slight confusion.

"Affirmative... is there a particular reason?"

"No reason, sir."

You and your reasons...

"Return as soon as you can, I'll inform the team."

You froze for a couple seconds.

'I'm really doing this, aren't I?' you thought to yourself.

"Sergeant? Do you copy?"

You blinked, immediately replying.

"Yes, sir."

There was a slight pause.

"Have a safe travel, Sergeant."

"Thank you, Captain."

There was a bleep, symbolizing the end of the conversation.

It took time to settle in... three, two, one

...

"WHAT DID I JUST DO?!" you whisper- yelled, your hand on your forehead. You stood up, pacing around in your room.

"No, no, no. This is not happening right now."

"What do I do? What do I say?... I should leave the military."

Definitely not doing that.

"Now people are going to think I'm crazy!"

Not far from the truth.

"Why is this happening to me?!"

Girl, you did this to yourself.

"Do I just get in and be like, 'Hi, guys! I'm sorry for leaving without telling you all, probably making you think I passed away! I've missed you!', and pretend like nothing happened?"

Most precisely, yes.

You packed your stuff, leaving the envelope on the bed. You can't just read it now.

The next day was your flight to the base...

What did you get yourself into?

.⋆｡⋆☂˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆.☆.｡.:

I am SORRY for making y'all wait for this long. I accidentally wrote this part way longer than it was supposed to be, so the other half would be in the next part (which is going to be the final one), and then my mind went blank. The ideas just went outside my head!! Anyway, I really hope you forgive me! I love you all, sending a lot of hugs and kisses &lt;3

[soapoet]

how are you, october?

+3 Taylor Swift songs each because she's striving and so should you.

like & rb if it resonates ♡

Soapy scribbles: I already did a general energy reading for this autumn season here, but there's quite a bit of energies at play this autumn, so I felt the need to look at October specifically as it feels very important.

01.

Shufflemancy: Taylor Swift ‐ Don't blame me, I did something bad, Red.

How long have you kept the light on? Sitting there, staring at the door, waiting for someone who never seems to come? The radio is on, playing two stations at once. The flower petals all say maybe, not he loves me, he loves me not. You are frustrated and confused, yearning for clarity but outside the sun just won't rise and the only light is the one lit outside your house. Have you given your time at a discount, or is the free trial still running? Someone needs to draw the line in the sand further from the waves that keep washing them away. You want more, and for love to not feel like agony. Red is the colour of passion, both love and hate. I see you wearing their white t-shirt, your heart bleeding and staining it red as you watch them sleep. Safe and sound, whilst you howl to the moon. You're growing territorial. A desperate act to ward off the wolves that prowl your prey. You saw them first, but they don't seem to see you.

It seems as though your thoughts and feelings are silly until somebody else echos them, word for word, and then they're liquid gold. You're not a ghost, but you feel your outlines blur. Where do you end and where do they begin? You haunt their halls, but they're fast asleep and never notice a bump in the night. You've felt powerless, like the quietest poltergeist, unable to move and shake the silverware, never able to rattle the cupboards or the picture frames. Somebody treats you like they would give you their last name, yet make no such commitments, not a single step in that direction. It is all up in the air, and you feel like the rug beneath your feet will get pulled at any moment. Is it not tiring to lie awake, watching the shadows, wondering what beasts may strike if you let your guard down in slumber? Without certainty, you're the one in fear under the covers, certain it wasn't just the wind. Because in your experience, it never really is.

Do not sign the dotted line without examination of the fine print. Better yet, do not sell your heart and soul to someone who will keep you on a shelf, saved for a rainy day, but will not puncture breathing holes into the lid and care for you truly. Do not let yourself be kept for a season, wings clipped and left to asphyxiate in a jar. You have given enough benefits of the doubt, but nobody is so daft, so oblivious, they would not embrace love they find worthy and good. Do not let yourself be kept as an option or as something good enough until something better, new and shiny, comes along. Close up shop and demand full subscription for your time and effort. If they won't pay the price, you'll find better in no time whilst karma chews them out. Especially if you feel like you can't do better, or have felt like love keeps avoiding you and you're somehow faulty and too broken to be loved, there really is someone around the next few corners who won't play you like a game or stick around only in fair weather but your storms too. So don't settle, you deserve better than okay and fine and good enough. For a select few, there really is love here, but may be drowning in addiction or fears of some kind. Remember that you can't help someone who doesn't want help, because change is made when they want change. This change may very well be coming up in the near future, and wrongs may be made right slowly. If this is somebody you love, whether romantically or platonically, even in a familial sense, make sure you keep your head above water and put your own oxygen mask on first before helping another. You can extend a helping hand, but do so when they ask, not because you're expected to do it because you always have. New beginnings in old relationships are possible if you want it.

Additional details: Amethysts, Ayurveda, moths, mixed signals, love languages, uquizzes and other such tests, purple, blue, red, bus rides, tattoos, job offers, writing, poetry, thesis, message in a bottle, missing an ex, addiction, healing, birds and squirrels, starting over, second chances, reminiscing, old photos or journal entries or ig posts, synastry charts, girl in red, Phoebe Bridgers, Noah Kahan, Bishop Briggs, YA book series, maladaptive daydreaming, BPD, lighters, short trips, parties or other get togethers, double dates, life path 8, birthdays, sanrio, studying, Scorpio/Aries/Virgo/Capricorn/Pisces, 3H/4H/5H/12H, Saturn/Mars/Uranus, Lilith/Chiron, 25/89/222/555.

02.

Shufflemancy: Taylor Swift - Gorgeous, Paper rings, I think he knows.

Luck seems to be on your side, or it soon will be. After a long drought, you have stumbled upon an oasis. Prayers whispered in the dark, sometimes choked out by tears, are now proven to have been heard after all. Endless night and harsh winter is over, even though seasonally speaking it's right ahead of us in the northern hemisphere. In your life, however, you're coming out of a very long and hard winter. You have felt cold and lost, sometimes frozen in place, as though your icicle bones and frosted skin wouldn't let your body decompose when you thought you were dead. You were stuck up to your thighs in snow. Every step was a challenge, and harsh winds threatened you like frail branches bending and snapping in storms. Now the snow is melting, trampled into slush beneath your boots and making way for spring flowers to bloom.

Forward movement is happening in many areas of your life. New beginnings are popping up like wildflowers in a meadow for you to frolic in. You're making changes and changes are making you. Immovable objects begin to roll down the hilltop where you've felt stranded like a lone celltower sending and receiving signals. You may have felt in your heart and soul that the winds are changing. Your intuition has been wide open and receptive for some time now, hasn't it? But rooted in place unable to move you have felt unable to take action. That is changing now as not only can you move forward, but things you have wished for begin to arrive like ships to your shores. You sowed and nurtured the seeds and it is time to harvest your crops. If you have dealt with mental terrors and grief, you should see those slowly begin to heal, circumstances improve, and help becoming available to you and you finally feel ready and able to take it.

If you've been engaging in some good old fashioned yearning, know that it's a case of mutual pining. Someone whose freckles, birth marks, or scars you have mapped out like an astronomer the night sky in stolen glances has stolen just as many of you. Either one of you, perhaps both, have been closing doors as of late, gone through endings and made space for the new and found the keys to the doors once shut and chained and locked. There is a distinct sense of leveling up here, like entering a new region in a game at last when the requirements have been met, and you're now free to explore new and unknown territory. I see unwavering eye contact where before it was a game of cat and mouse. I see a church, two people side by side in the pews sharing quiet confessions. Words previously only thought find a voice and get spoken, not to the moon but the heart they were meant for. There can be some secrecy involved, but less like the tragedy of Romeo and Juliet it's keeping something sacred between two souls, keeping each other like an oath. Sheltering a flame, for some of you one rekindled, between four hands and promising to meet in the woods at night. This secrecy is not one grown from shame, but one of dedication. A solid foundation, a home and sturdy fortress is being built or rebuilt in the dark of the night so its eventual beauty and intricacies may be admired by all in the sun. You may have manifested this, or simply known this was inevitable. All you really had to do was accept it as fate and wait for it to unfold. This is a cozy kind of love, but also devout like two souls looking upon each other in reverence. It feels as close as it feels free. There's something to lean on but also room to grow. You hold each other tightly, but loosen the grip as needed, and always ready to catch the other if they fall. For some of you this marks the end of a third party situation, an entirely new love, and for others this is reworking an existing or past love with a new set of rules and making magic together after tough challenges.

Additional details: Full moon, abundance, sudden income, lottery luck, gifts, receiving or giving flowers, dancing, swimming, guided meditations, listening to higher frequencies, therapy or counselling, lists and plans, entrepreneurship, editing, finishing tasks, cats, rabbits and ferrets or rodents, pancakes and waffles, sunflowers and dandelions, espresso, heavy rain, holding hands, nostalgic scents or environments, coughing, PTSD, neurodivergence, artificial intelligence, fidget toys or stress balls, colouring books, arts and crafts, dainty jewellery, body language, law of assumption, dreams, blue, green, black, glasses, kpop, punk, indie, Stray Kids, Ateez, Dreamcatcher, Daft Punk, Sabaton, Avenged Sevenfold, Korn, Virgo/Leo/Cancer/Aquarius/Sagittarius, 1H/3H/5H/11H, Jupiter/Moon/Mercury/Pluto, North and South Node/Ceres, 12/13/33/555/888.

03.

Shufflemancy: Taylor Swift - The archer, Mean, Anti-hero.

Narcissus and Echo, a tragedy of old. You may have been at the mercy of fluctuating between the two. This can be a dance between you and another, or you and your own reflection. You may have pushed someone away. A friend, a family member, yourself, or an authority figure of sorts. Demanding they leave you alone, left them on read or never bothered to open their letters at all, after so long of clinging to their every word. Certain of your independence, a need to put yourself first, desperate self love wholly unrequited. Or perhaps you fought viciously for yourself, but your voice was never heard. As though you always needed someone else to speak your words for them to be taken as right and true. Perhaps you were sent on a glitched quest, "ask your mother" only met with "ask your father", leaving you in the uncertainty of the in between, alone and filled to the brim with unanswered questions and no sense of direction.

You have sought help, asked for assistance, asked all the right questions and really pushed your own cart forwards though it has been uphill. And something or someone always cast stones on your path forward, shoved stick between the wheels to make the process feel so hopeless. There are wounds that you bear that have been left unhealed for years. Still raw and bleeding you dry whilst you try to keep yourself together like cupping water in your hands as it spills through your fingers. But though your path is full of traps and spikes and is uncertain and winding, you know the way forward all within yourself. Because you carry with you the only light you need to find your way. You may cross paths with kind advisors who unseathe their swords to fight for you, and some of them may already be in your life. Those who see the injustice and tear down the thicket ahead to make way for you and protect you whilst you stitch your wounds and ready yourself for battle yourself. Accept the help, encouragement, and follow these kind mercenaries when you get lost. Allow them to carry your burdens when as Atlas you need a break from carrying the world upon your shoulders. Soon you'll be strong enough to do what you need to do. Be better, stronger, healthier, if not for you right now then for those who need you and cherish you and want you by their side in the quests of life. Eventually your actions will prove to be the best for you, and a faint portrait of a future you smiles upon your present self for your decision to keep moving forward.

If you need to put your foot down, do so in earnest. Shoo away guilt and shame, and let go of the idea that you must suffer in silence and weather unnecessary storms, speak when spoken to and follow another's commands so often not in favour of your own well-being. Fight your inner demons, but know you need not fight them alone. Dip a quill in ink and rewrite the rules. Break into the library which holds the book of life and black out that what does not serve you, and take ownership of your own story. If Narcissus treats you poorly, trample him under your foot on your way out the door. He is only a flower now and seasons change, and he will wilt and wither away as you no longer shine upon his petals.

Additional details: Violins, literature, art galleries, sisters and fathers, divorce, babies or children, psychotherapy, CBT, law, changing your name, lgbt+, jazz, classical music, Regina Spektor, Kate Bush, Tori Amos, Fiona Apple, borzoi, dog videos, playing instruments, writing a book, storytelling, unknown address, exotic animals, spiders, ED, OCD, teddy bears, squishmallows, studying for a test, doctor's appointments, funerals, chill covers/lofi, slowed/reverb/acoustic versions, subliminals, affirmations, lace, fuzzy socks or woolen socks, bruises, house plants, monstera, ivy, pothos, tea collection, cold hands, Taurus/Gemini/Libra/Scorpio/Capricorn, 2H/6H/8H/10H, Saturn/Pluto/Neptune/Venus, IC/MC, 17/23/95/11:11/000/444.

[moonrisecoeur]

soothing - leon kennedy

a/n: (PLEASE READ) hey! this is moon! this post would not show up in the tags with the long and detailed warning i put on it, so i made that a separate post. please read this post first before you even look at this one (that post will have the normal info like what content is it and word count along with more notes).

—

leon knows you’re… obsessive. he’s noticed your harsh glares and you possessively holding his waist when you’re both out together. he doesn’t miss the way you talk to other people, especially other people you know would theoretically be leon’s type. he assures you that he’s yours, he belongs to you, that no one will never get to have him the way you do, but it doesn’t make those feelings go away for you; it only mellows them for a short while.

he can’t say he planned for his partner to be so insanely obsessed with him, but it does make him feel better sometimes. especially when he’s having really rough days. when he feels worthless, like the only purpose of his existence is to be a weapon for the government to apathetically throw at problems, you’re there. you remind him, in your own twisted little way, that he’s valuable to someone. even if it’s in a “i need you like i need oxygen so no one else can ever have you and no one else deserves to lay a finger on you i will cut their hands off if they try” kinda way.

the world is fucked up anyway, who’s to say he gets to judge moral character? you make him feel desired and wanted, so what if you’re not a good person?

he’s rather introverted anyway, so it’s not like he’s going out every night and meeting new people. combine that with low self esteem and trauma from, well, being leon, he’s drained and can’t be bothered to care if you’re a little too obsessed.

hell, his last ‘relationship’, if you could call it that, was with a girl who tricked and betrayed him time after time and yet he loved her despite it all. maybe he has a type for the bad ones.

he loves you now. he knows he loves you. he knew he loved you when you once risked everything to save him, and he knew you loved him when you got very brutal revenge on his behalf. he kinda likes your violent side when it works in his favor.

but he still tries to keep you from doing the worst that he knows you’re capable of. he knows if he said more than a few words, or god forbid smiled at any of his friends who you thought ‘wanted him’ (because why does literally everyone want to fuck him?) you’d lose it. he tries to keep your temper contained, so he plays nice, though it’s worth it to him.

to have someone want him so badly that they’d kill for him and do anything to keep him… the idea makes leon’s knees weak. he’d do anything to feel wanted and needed for you. the more you claim him as yours, marking your territory, the more butterflies he feels in his stomach.

you tell someone, “he’s mine, so either back off or i swear that i will fucking rip out your teeth one by one.” he watches them run away pitifully, before turning his attention back to you. you’re smiling at him, and bring your hand up to play with his hair.

“sorry you had to see that, know you don’t like it,” you say softly.

he brushes it off, because he always does. he knows you mean well (even if you don’t). he knows you only threaten others or act violently because you love him and he needs that love. besides, you’re so thoughtful for apologizing because you know he doesn’t like seeing this side of you (which is not entirely true but he did feel bad for that person).

one day, you stumble upon him in your shared room while he’s crying. he tells you it’s okay, it happens, he’s learned how to get through it by himself. you shake your head, noting that this obviously isn’t okay. you sit next to him on the bed, wrapping your arms around him, and you two sit like that for just a moment.

“you’re okay,” your voice stills the air, brings him back to reality, “you’re not in danger, and i’m gonna be here to protect you, okay? i’m here because i care about you, so let me care for you, baby.”

he nods with tears in his eyes, resting his head on your shoulder. he’s forgotten what it feels like for someone to really care, to hold him and tell him he was going to be alright.

after a moment, he’s able to get his breathing under control.

“thank you…” he whispers.

“of course, baby, i’m here for you. i’m always gonna be here for you, i care about you so, so much, leon. no one else will ever care for you the way i do, as much as i do,” you murmur, and he doesn’t seem to notice something glaringly wrong with what you just said.

he doesn’t notice the thoughts swirling around in your head, adoring how fragile he is right now, wanting him to always be like this so he’s always this vulnerable, this dependent on you. he can’t notice any of it. he just lets you hold him, and holds you back in return.

you hold each other until he starts to pull away first, rubbing his teary eyes with the back of his hand, “god, i- i’m sorry. jeez, nothing even set it off. one minute i- i was fine! and the next…” he trails off, and you tell him he’s okay. he’s allowed to be vulnerable and emotional with you. you like him like this anyway. or maybe you just like the way his blue eyes shine when he cries.

and you’re wayyy too overpowering just as a person for him to ever be in charge, especially in bed. sometimes it’ll be soft, just two lovers touching and fondling each other, gasping and moaning and kissing wherever possible. but sometimes your possessive side comes out. it happens the most when he does something you don’t like, i.e. ‘flirting’ with someone else (he was just talking and joking around).

he does like your possessive side though. he likes being pinned down, and if you think you’re not strong enough, trust me, you can put yourself in the right position to make it so he can’t get out from under you. or you could just handcuff him or tie him up, that always works, but there is just something about being physically held down and kissed until his brain shuts off that makes him into a perfect fucktoy.

he likes when you pull out a marker and write stuff like ‘mine <3’ or ‘property of y/n’ on him. especially if it’s with a permanent marker and in a place that people can easily see, on his wrist or neck. he feels claimed, owned, a sense of being property belonging to someone else, not himself.

despite loving your darkness, leon appreciates that you’re rather… soft on him. you take it slow so he has time to adjust, make his heart jump with love and affection every single time you praise him (which you do often bc how could you not? it’s leon, c’mon now) he knows you have it in you to be harder, to fully degrade and humiliate him if you really wanted to. you choose not to.

one day you come home, covered in what he can assume is not your blood. his stomach drops at the thought of what you did, and he goes through every possible interaction he had that day that could have made you do something so drastic, so terrible and cruel. he comes up with nothing.

“what… happened?” he asks, nervously. he tries to keep distance between his body and yours, but you’re closing in on him.

“killed two birds with one stone… literally…” you smirked as he takes a cautious step back, feeling what used to be butterflies in his stomach turn to this heavy sense of dread, “that girl that told you your eyes were ‘so pretty’ and… that guy that touched your arm like he wanted to fucking bite it. don’t worry, sweetheart. i took care of them.”

were you expecting him to thank you? for… committing murder? he’s… at best he’s disappointed and at worst he’s literally horrified.

and it’s terribly timed, but on a separate note? you look insanely hot covered in blood. maybe the feeling in his stomach is only half fear and half something else, or maybe one of his kinks is being afraid for his life. who knows?

you come closer to him, and he can’t find it in himself to ask you to stop approaching him, closing in on him like a predator does it’s prey, “baby,” you murmur to him, softly like you do when you’re soothing him when he’s crying, your hands both coming up to cup his face, getting blood all over his cheeks. your thumb brushes against his bottom lip and he swears you’re intentionally smearing blood on it, “it’s okay,” you say.

it’s not okay, dude. you just killed two people.

maybe you’ve killed more that leon doesn’t know about, and tonight was the night you felt like having him see you like this. you could have gotten away with it if you wanted to, and he would never have known, but you chose to let him find you like this, clothes ruined from how much blood splattered on them, that sadistic ass smile on your face.

you wanted this. you wanted him to see you like this. you wanted to take him like this.

you lean in, pressing a bloody kiss to his forehead (imagine whatever kinda scenario necessary that fits this height wise for u i’m sorry >.<) before leaning in to kiss his lips, both tasting the iron and feeling the wetness of the blood dripping down your chins as he touches you back gently, his hands caressing your arms as you hold him and landing softly on your hips, like he’s saying it’s okay, i accept you for the monster you are.

he knows it’s wrong, he knows he’s a good person and you’re not and there’s a clear line that you’ve brazenly crossed, but he can’t help the butterflies he gets when you’re the darkest, cruelest version of you. covered in blood and all, you want him. despite all his flaws, you want him. he can’t deny you, not when you’ve only ever soothed him when he has traumatized breakdowns and assured him that he’s more than just a weapon or a tool, that he’s loved and needed and wanted.

you press one of your legs between his thighs, forcing his legs open and he lets you, whining as you continue to kiss him, and your hand palms him over his jeans. he feels weak, cornered, and you know you’ve got him right where you want him when you lean to whisper in his ear, “mine.” and he whimpers pathetically, nodding fast as you kiss his neck just a couple times, gently and bloodily.

despite everything, you’re just so endlessly gentle with him that he can’t help but let you get away with this. maybe if he could just get the image of their faces out of his head, he could get over it. once you’ve made him cum three times in a row, his body on the brink of giving out on him, safe to say that’s when he finally forgets. he can’t really think much of anything.

“oh, sweet little thing, don’t you understand? i had to get rid of her, she wanted to get in the way of our love,” you say. and he’d just nod dazedly.

“o-okay,” he mumbles. his brain is foggy and your touch makes it hard to think, but if you say it’s true, then he’s inclined to believe you. clearly, you were doing the right thing by getting rid of her. obviously.

“and that poor boy, it’s too bad that he was a whore, wanted to grope your muscles so fucking bad, hm?” you smirk, “did you like it when he did that? when he touched you?”

“n-no, i-i only like when you do stuff like that to me,” he says he exactly what you want to hear, grasping onto you for support, knowing without you he’d fall apart, “please, i don’t care what you do or… or who you hurt because you love me! just please love me!”

“of course i’ll love you,” your tone softens, you take the victory with a smirk turned soft smile, brushing his hair out of his eyes behind his ear, “you’re so pretty when you’re obedient.”

conditional praise; truly the best way to manipulate him for example: “you’re such a good boy when you only look at me.” that’s his kryptonite, because leon thrives off of praise. being told he’s a good boy makes him giddy on the inside, even if he tries to control his reaction. praise is how you control him.

and after you’re done with him, you put your clothes in the washing machine, take a shower, and walk out like your normal self. he makes you both dinner and you cuddle him to sleep just like usual. though while you’re fast asleep, he lays awake, thinking about what just happened.

he’s always known this could happen, and maybe this isn’t even the first time you’ve killed someone because of him. he’s known for a while now that you’ve become cruel and violent when it came to his relationships with other people, but he can’t shake the feeling of fear deep inside his soul when he physically saw what you’re capable of.

even in your sleep, you touch is soothing to him, and he remembers that he doesn’t really have any better options. he’s convinced no one will ever love him as strongly as you do (not just because you’ve told him that but because again, he’s got low self esteem and you’re way nicer to him than he feels like he deserves).

does he just let you be? no, that wouldn’t sit right on his conscious. does he continue to try and curb your violent tendencies against his better judgement and morals?

or does he try to leave you? he thinks he knows you wouldn’t ever truly hurt him, and he wonders whether or not you’d let him leave if he tried. (he’s not going to, but he wonders...) he just… doesn’t see what else he would do. find someone else? they won’t love him like you do. be single? sure, and be miserable every day because all he can think about is your love, your touch, you.

“what do i do with you…” he mumbles to your sleeping form, resting his head against your chest, feeling the slow heartbeat pumping inside. he likes how it shows your humanity, your normalcy. the one thing about you that doesn’t feel so far away from him.

leon loves you. truly. he doesn’t want that fact to be overshadowed by how disproportionately and insanely you love him. he loves you, still cares about you, still wants to see you happy. you make him happy, in some ways, even if you really terrify him in others. you comfort him and soothe him, you assure him that he’s safe with he wakes up with nightmares from the horrors he’s seen.

he wants to care for you, wants to be the one to hold you when you’re sad and you’re having a bad day. somewhere deep inside his heart, he wants to protect you and keep you safe. even if he knows that’s absurd (because you’re a killer… god he can’t get over that..) he can’t help that his nature is to care for people. maybe that’s what drove you to such insanity in your love for him: in his heart, he never stopped caring about other people. he is the same selfless hero he always was. his softness and care for everyone around him is what made you fall for him… and what made you insane when it comes to your love for him.

despite how terrible you are, he remembers all that you’ve done for him, the moments where your softness and gentleness really showed. he loves that side of you the most. that’s the one he fell for, after all. but he’d be amiss to think that’s the only side of you, or to not acknowledge the other. your cruelty towards people other than him is a side of you just like your kindness towards him is a side of you. they coexist whether he likes it or not.

he comes to the conclusion that there is no sweet you without cruel you, and he must learn to love both or to love neither. he decides he’ll love both, but still maybe try to keep the evilness contained. maybe he can try to talk you out of killing more people.

and when he begs so pretty for you to focus on him and not on the girl trying to flirt with him at the coffee shop, how could you refuse him? if you pulling him away to suck dark, tender hickeys into his neck is the alternative to you killing that poor girl, then he’d say that’s a win-win.

[valiantphantomangel]

The vigilante

A/n: here it is! I hope y'all enjoy the read!

Oxygen inflated your lungs, adrenaline pumping through your veins as you ran through the streets of London, the sounds of fast approaching footsteps thundered behind you.

You were a vigilante who just moved with her parents to London and all was good... Until you met him tonight.

A silhouette draped in a white almost bandage like suit suddenly dropped down in front of you, the white cape following after the stranger.

"You're going to have to come with me" An American accent came from behind the mask.

"What do you want?" You asked from behind your own mask.

"Just the identity of a new vigilante in town"

You immediately knew that you couldn't let that happen, if he saw that you were still a kid he would never take you seriously.

"I can't give you that, I'm sorry" you said as you turned around to run away from him.

He however had predicted this kind of move and intercepted you halfway, throwing you over his shoulder and having such a death grip on your legs that you knew you weren't getting out soon.

"Let me down!" You yelled as you turned and twisted to try and get out of his grip but even with your enhanced strength you weren't a match against him.

"Calm down" The Moon Knight said as he carried you across a few blocks and into what seems like an apartment block.

He opened a door and quite literally threw you onto a chair before tying your arms onto the armrests.

"Come on man this isn't necessary" you groaned as you tugged on your wrists.

"Until you tell me who you are you ain't leaving that chair" he said as his mask disappeared.

"Wait a second I know you! I saw you at a gift shop in a museum!" You exclaimed.

"Well now it's only fair if you tell me who you are since you know who I am" he said as he walked towards you.

"Nope not happening"

"Listen here you wannabe vigilante, when someone who is stronger then you wants to know something from you, you listen" he growled as he put his hands on your shoulders to glare down at you.

But that glare dissolved as a shaky giggle flipped over your lips from when his gloved fingers fluttered past your neck.

He seemed to be listening to something before turning towards you with a smirk.

"Are you ticklish, little vigilante?" He teased as his fingers once again fluttered against the sides of your neck.

"N-no" you stuttered as you suppressed your giggles.

"No? That little giggle of you suggests something else" he grinned as he expertly ghosted his fingertips over the exposed part of your shoulders.

Giggles slipped past your lips before you could stop them and you looked up at him with wide eyes.

"That's what I thought" he smirked before suddenly tasering your sides.

Your body jolted forward as a howl of laughter ripped through your lungs, feet kicking against the floor.

"STOPHIHIHI ITHHAHAHHA" You screamed through your laughter, suddenly very grateful that your mask could only be removed by you otherwise he would have pulled it off a long time ago.

"Until you tell me who you are, I ain't stopping" he grinned as he spidered over your ribs. Blast you for having a skin tight suit.

You shrieked in laughter as you fought against your bonds.

"Come on, it's not that hard. I'll tell you my name if you tell me yours"

You shook your head and he immediately redoubled his efforts, every spot he could find was being mercilessly tickled, your sensitivity not helping one bit.

After minutes of unending torture you couldn't take it anymore "Y/N! AHHAHAHAHHAHA THAT'S MY NAMEHIHIHIHIHI"

He stopped slowly before grinning "Now was that so hard, I'm Marc"

"I would say pleasure to meet you but my mother taught me not to lie" you huffed with couldn't stop the stupid smile on your lips.

"You're a cheeky little thing aren't you?" Marc chuckled as he leaned against the wall opposite of you.

"Can't stop my personality now can I"

"Now take off your mask" he demanded after a short second. The playfulness leaving his voice but that wasn't the strange thing.

It was how his accent changed to a spanish one.

"I'm bound" you stated.

He glared for a second before coming over and cutting the ropes around your wrists.

You stretched your arms before slowly pulling off your mask.

His expression changed to a surprised one "maldito infierno your just a kid"

"I am not a kid" you bit back

He raised his hands in surrender but continued to look at you.

After minutes of you two just staring at each other it started to freak you out a little, his facial expressions stayed completely cold.

"Jake stop it your scaring her" A man with a English accent said and your head snapped at the sound.

There in the mirror was man, the exact copy of the solid man in front of you.

"What the fuck!" You shouted your eyes wide as you stood up from the chair.

Jake looked from you to the man in the mirror.

"You can see him?"

"Of course i can" you said as you mind started to think of a way to escape.

"No one else can see us except for us" The man in the mirror said as Marc appeared next to him "Shut it Steven!"

"That doesn't make any sense" you said as you inched towards the window. All three of them to busy discussing how you could see them.

"She shouldn't be able to see us" Marc said as he ran a hand through his brown hair.

"Yes i know that but the question is what are we going to do with her, she knows all of us now" Steven told the other two and as if on que turned to you where you just managed to get the window open.

"It's been great but I've got to go" You grinned before jumping out of the window.

Jake ran to the window and looked down, expecting to see you crash onto the ground but saw something else entirely.

A web shot from your wrist as you flung yourself into the air before disappearing into the busy city.

"We have got to catch that kid" Jake thought out loud as he turned to the other two.

Marc took control of the body and grabbed his phone, searching a number.

"And I know just the man for the job" He smirked.

The number of Peter Parker ringing.

[solargeist]

(So that void drawing, huh. I saw it and immediately went ‘I must write a thing’ so here!)

Grian took a breath and took Mumbo’s hand. The hole in the rocket ship by no means beckoned, but… something else definitely called. Or maybe it was just his mind supplying that it was the one way to escape the moon. He could hear Scar, Pearl, Mumbo, and Impulse talking and joking. They were all handling the certain destruction of their world surprisingly well, especially Pearl.

But he kept staring at the hole in the rocket, until Scar was clapping his hands and saying it was time to go. He looked up as Pearl took his other hand. Scar was on Mumbo’s other side, one foot already over the void. Impulse was at the end of them. Everyone looked so rigid. A faint voice at the back of his mind pointed out that they’d never lived in the void, and they didn’t know he ever did. So he squared his shoulders a bit to match.

And then the ship started rumbling as the moon started to tear it apart.

“Alright! Let’s go!” He heard Scar say, and then he was being pulled down. And down. And down. Seeing the walls of the Boatem pole fly past him, memories etched into each one. And up above he could see the looming moon. The void was slowly reaching, and grasping for him. And now he was certain it was something within it whispering.

Their descent slowed as they went past bedrock, the space suits fighting the complete lack of pressure or oxygen.

At some point he could no longer see the bedrock, or the Boatem hole. And a while after that they were floating. Everyone was dozing off, even Pearl who was trying to fight it with all her might. He had the faintest feeling that maybe she’d seen this before and he just hadn’t been looking. But nonetheless sleep claimed the rest of Boatem. The tethers of the spacesuits still, thankfully, keeping them together.

He was tempted to try and fly ahead and see if he could find their final destination, get them there early. But whatever voice was down there with them kept him firmly at his friend’s sides.

There weren’t all that many things that would be living in the void itself, not without islands floating just above its constant stretching. He couldn’t help but wonder if he’d see Aether down here. Probably not, the void was huge after all.

But he couldn’t feel eyes. And the whispers were sounding less like they were actual words, instead being rustling. Feathers maybe.

For some strange reason, with no clue what possessed him to do this, he looked back over his shoulder.

He felt his heart drop, his body frozen as he tried to take in the sight.

Something massive, with eyes that should not be there and feathers that didn’t quite fit, and a beak that was twisting. He could feel the eyes staring through him. Through his friends. As if they were all something it had seen before, were of no note. Or maybe they were looking at nothing and this was a long dead corpse, preserved by the void. He held that thought for moment, feeling slightly put at ease.

And then all their eyes flicked towards him. And it clicked, they were a Watcher. And they were very, very incredibly old with not a human characteristic in sight. No longer the player they once were.

It felt like time itself sped up as he clutched onto Mumbo’s arm, hoping that they would turn their gaze past them. That he would no longer have to be confronted with the future he could have had, or well… maybe still could. But their eyes stayed trained on him, so he instead stayed on Mumbo’s arm and tried to convince sleep to take him as well.

inbox fic !!

someone let this poor boy sleep so he doesn't have to confront the horrors

[academic-vampire]

What are your thoughts on love?

I have written over 300 poems, a dozen short stories, and a handful of books on the topic of LOVE. And to be honest, I don’t think I’ve come any closer to solidifying my thoughts on the matter quite yet. If anything, I have only realized how abstract love it.

Like art, love differs in definition from person to person. But for me, love is a bunch of random things. It’s everything, and yet, nothing. I don’t know if I can explain this very well, but I will try.

Love is the soft kiss on the back of their hand. Love is reading your favorite book. Love is that warmth in your chest when you feel pure empathy for a stranger. Love is looking up at the stars in the sky. Love is the stars in the sky smiling back down at you. Love is giving your seat to a stranger. Love is holding their shaking hands. Love is dropping the charges. Love is a child being carried to their bed after having fallen asleep on the couch. Love is leaving the light on for them at night. Love is a kiss, a hug, and sex. Love is a dog laying in the sun by the window. Love is kneeling before them in utter reverence. Love is that sweet shared smile between friends. Love is the swirl of cream in your coffee. Love is a warm cup of tea. Love is a crow finding a shiny new coin. Love is the beating of your heart. Love is forgiveness. Love is mercy. Love is holding them while they shake and cry. Love is the rain and the storm. Love is the memories we hold. Love is the tears we cry. Love is the wilting vase of flowers on the table. Love is a tree providing oxygen for humanity. Love is tracing patterns on their skin. Love is sharing an umbrella. Love is the moon and the sun and their eternal dance of desire. Love is a fervent, whispered prayer in the dead of night. Love is writing your favorite poem in your journal. Love is rubbing their sore muscles with a gentle tenderness. Love is listening to your friend talk about their day. Love is holding the sick and dying. Love is two children becoming friends. Love is finding a new, perfect sweater. Love is kissing their scars until they melt into tears of vulnerability and rawness. Love is aching. Love is the letter never sent. Love is meeting again, after all this time. Love is dying in the place of someone you love. Love is living for someone else. Love is living for yourself.

LOVE IS.

I used to think that love wasn’t for me. I have been told by many people through my life that I didn’t deserve love; That I was heartless and incapable of love. But love is everywhere. It is something I can witness, something I can give, and something that I am. It’s a gift, free and sweet and all we crave. Love is for everyone.

(I’m not sure that this makes any sense. I will try to have a more concrete conversation about this tomorrow, but I am feeling sleepy. So I hope you enjoy this, anyway. Thank you, anon. :))

[rambleonwaywardson]

Clegan Astronaut AU - Part 11

Masterpost Read on AO3

AU Summary: the boys as modern day NASA astronauts. Taking place in 2025, Bucky is about to head to the moon as mission commander of Artemis III while Buck is CAPCOM at NASA. Established relationship (obnoxiously in love).

Author's note: Issuing an apology for making people panic earlier this afternoon. Sorry y'all. It was kinda fun though. I promise if an MCD tag was needed it would be there (spoiler: It's not needed)

---

November 19 Nassau Bay, TX

“Buck?”

“Gale? We don’t have to go. Helen’s on console. We can stay here.”

“Maybe you should sit back down, take a minute.”

“Gale? Can you hear me?”

“I need you to breathe, Gale. Please.”

“Look at me.”

Hey doll, look at me. 

Gale’s eyes snap to Benny, who is watching him with the same wariness with which you’d regard a spooked animal. His hands are up, placating, as he sits on the edge of Gale’s mattress. Gale realizes that, at some point in the course of this conversation, he threw the blankets to the floor and scrambled out of bed. He’s on his feet, sheets wrapped around his ankles, and he’s stopped breathing again. Pepper and Meatball are standing beside him, whining. They know something’s wrong. He feels like he might throw up. His chest burns from holding his breath. 

He wants it to burn.

“I need you to breathe for me, Gale,” Benny instructs. He stands and reaches out to put his hands on Gale’s shoulders, but Gale stumbles backward, pressing his back to the wall. The only person he wants to touch him right now is his husband, and his husband is on the moon, unconscious and dying. He doesn’t know why he can’t stand the idea of someone else’s hands on him. His brain isn’t working right. His eyes dart from Benny to the dogs to his own bare feet and back.

Hell, he feels like a spooked animal. 

“Okay, okay.” Benny yields, stopping with his hands up in surrender. He’s acting calm, but Gale knows him. He can tell Benny is starting to panic, and it’s because of Gale. “Just take a breath for me, okay Buck? Breathe with me.”

Benny takes a deep breath in, watching Gale carefully. Then he breathes out. In. Out. In. Out. Gale is staring back at him, completely still. He watches the exaggerated motion of Benny’s chest expanding and contracting, and he knows he’s supposed to do it, too. 

His chest burns.

He flexes his hand and feels the metal of his wedding band dig into the skin. 

Breathe, he tells himself. Or, more accurately, he hears Bucky’s voice in his head. Breathe, angel.  

So Gale takes a breath. Benny sighs in relief, nodding his encouragement. Gale exhales. He forces the mechanical motion of his lungs, drawing in oxygen and exhaling carbon dioxide. He forces himself to keep doing it, even though he doesn’t know if his other half can do the same.

“We… we aren’t sure he’ll survive the trip back to the lander.” That’s what Benny just said a moment ago, sending Gale spiraling. The words ring in his head, back and forth and back and forth like a ping-pong ball trying to break out of his skull. 

We aren’t sure he’ll survive the trip back… he won’t survive. 

    We aren’t sure he’ll survive, 

Back to the lander… 

     the lander,

The lander.

Aren’t sure

      we aren’t sure… aren’t sure he’ll survive survive survive survive survive. 

Survive.

Won’t survive. He won’t survive. 

Benny handed the console over to Helen the moment she arrived, right as Curt was getting Bucky’s body back onto the rover. It was a hell of a bad time to change CAPCOMs, but it was understood among flight controllers and crew alike: Benny had to get to Gale 

Benny sighs, sitting helplessly back down on the bed. “Gale, we don’t expect him to… it would be nothing short of a miracle if he…” He can’t finish the sentences. Doesn’t want to. Can’t bear delivering this news to his friend. But it doesn’t matter. Gale knows, and the only thing he can hear is his own heartbeat, too loud in his ears. 

We aren’t sure he’ll survive. We don’t expect him to survive. 

“I’m so sorry.”

Bucky was alive when Benny ran out of Mission Control. But the seemingly infinite time between catastrophe and salvation is a no-man’s land, and no one can be sure what injuries and suit damage Bucky sustained until Curt gets him back through the airlock. All they know now is he’s unconscious, his suit pressure dropped far too much far too fast, and his vitals are too weak. 

And now Gale has to fight to breathe, too.  

What would you say differently, if you knew the last time you talked to someone might be just that – the last time? What would you tell them? Would you say things a little differently, use different words, speak in a different tone, express different thoughts? Would you try your best to shove every ounce of love you feel for them into every single syllable? 

What words can there possibly be for an eternal goodbye? 

Or is it not about the words at all? Maybe it’s about looking, touching, listening. So that when you let go, when they finally drift away, you can remember every trivial and yet crucial piece of them. Everything you loved and everything you hated and everything you wish you could hold close to your chest for just one more minute. One more day. One more lifetime.

How do you let go, though, when you know you’ll never hold on again? Do you let yourself drown in the sound of their voice, in hopes you never forget the exact resonance, the exact cadence, the exact rise and fall of their laugh and the way their smile twines through every word – the sound of how much they love you? Would you pay just a little more attention? Would you stare at them just a little longer, lingering on every feature that you want to etch into the canvas of your brain even though you know the picture will fade, leaving a hole in your heart and a pit in your stomach as you sob into their pillow and wonder why you’re not strong enough to carry the mantle of their memory for the rest of time. 

The human consciousness is not built to know which goodbye will be the last. Because that goodbye will burn you alive. It will pin you under the weight of grief until someone has to tear you away, kicking and screaming, because if you knew you were never going to hold the love of your life again, you wouldn’t ever let go. 

I love you.

Those are the last words Gale said to Bucky yesterday, when their goodbye was a when you come home, not an if you come home. How can there be anything more profound to say? If that goodbye had to be their last, what else is there? And yet here Gale is, wondering, obsessing, insisting that he should’ve said it better, said it more, said it differently. That he shouldn’t have let go. 

His husband. His best friend. The love of his life. 

Gale thinks there should’ve been something else to say. But he can’t think of it. He can’t think of anything. His brain is stuck. His body is stuck. 

John. 

“Gale?”

Gale is leaning with almost all of his weight pressed against the wall now, fists clenched tight at his sides beneath the cuffs of the too-big sweatshirt that smells, wrongly, like himself. No longer like John. He takes a deep breath in, and Pepper scoots closer to his side, nudging at his hand. Gale exhales and uncurls his fist so he can idly run his hand over the dog’s soft ears. She whines and pushes into the touch, eyes not leaving her person’s face. A good dog. A very good dog. 

“Gale?” Benny says again. “Are you with me?”

Gale nods slowly, but his eyes look right past Benny, out the window across the room, unseeing. It’s still raining.

“Why don’t you sit down,” Benny repeats. 

Gale doesn’t move, save for lips that he’s shocked are capable of forming coherent words. “I need to get to JSC.”

Benny shakes his head, reaching a hand out only to remember what happened just moments ago, and he leans down to scratch Meatball instead. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Buck. They’ll let us know when they know anything. I think you need-“

“I need to be there for my husband,” Gale bites out. “That’s my job. It’s my job.”

Benny averts his eyes, closing them tight. It’s a losing battle. Any other loved one, Flight would bar from being there. Any other loved one would have to wait for news. Any other loved one would only ever know exactly what NASA chose to tell them, no more, no less. But Gale isn’t any other loved one, and they don’t have a protocol for this, for an astronaut facing death while their spouse is working in Mission Control. He knows there was a long debate over whether or not to allow Gale to stay on CAPCOM for Artemis 3, but he insisted he could handle it, and Harding believed him. 

So Benny nods. “Okay. We’ll go. You gonna wear that?”

–

Gale looks at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, the harsh light highlighting every sign of exhaustion. His hair is messy, hanging limp and shaggy over his forehead. His eyes are red and swollen, dark bags beneath them. The sweatshirt had been discarded in favor of a fresh white button-up and a black tie that Benny had nearly had to tie for him. But Gale had swatted his hand away and forced his own fingers to quit disobeying him long enough to finish getting dressed. He looks at himself now, and he can’t reconcile his own reflection with that of a man who was just told his husband may or may not be dead by the end of the day. It’s wrong. 

It’s all wrong.

He forces himself to stand up straight, shoulders back, like a good soldier, and he stares at himself hard in the mirror. He reaches for his comb, for his hair gel, and his cold fingers freeze in the air above them. He envisions himself styling his hair, brushing it back in a neat coif. It’s what he does every day, even though he runs his hand through it about twenty times an hour so that it’s pointless by noon. It’s what he does every single day, so why won’t his hand move?

Bucky always liked Gale’s hair in the morning, when it was messy and unstyled. He said it was cute, sexy, perfect – that it was special because Bucky was one of the only people that got to see Gale soft. “No just leave it like that,” he would plead, grinning as he wrapped his arms around Gale from behind, trying to wrestle the hair gel out of his hand. Gale would roll his eyes and snatch it back, slicking the gel through his hair before Bucky could stop him. They’d stare at each other in the mirror, and Bucky would slowly reach a hand up towards Gale’s hair, threatening to mess it up again. But Gale would snatch his fingers in his own, shaking his head, and Bucky would pull Gale’s hand back to press a kiss to his knuckles. 

Gale feels phantom lips on the back of his hand, and he considers not styling his hair after all. It doesn’t feel right, all of a sudden. He wonders if he really has to style it ever again, and he only has half a second to think about how that question is just absurd before an unwelcome answer smacks him in the face.

For the funeral. Have to look nice for the funeral. 

Gale about stops breathing again. And for a moment, it’s real. For a moment, he sees in the mirror a grieving man. For a moment, it’s not early in the morning of mission day 13; instead, it’s the day his husband will be laid to rest, a mile marker for the rest of Gale’s life without the love of his life.

For a moment, Bucky is gone, no doubt about it, and Gale is an island, alone in this world, lost without his other half to hold him above water or tether his feet to the ground. He’ll be forever in limbo as a newlywed, because they never got a chance to be anything more.

He’ll have to fly to Virginia, where Bucky will be buried at Arlington National Cemetery as per his wishes. “If I die, make sure I get the whole nine yards,” Bucky had said to him once, long ago. Gale can’t even remember when; they were just boys, really, the first time he said those words. The first time Bucky looked at him with the knowledge that wherever he was going, whatever he was doing, there was a decent chance he wouldn’t come back alive.  

Even then, Bucky knew that the kind of life he intended to live may not be a long one. It’s a risk he took with no hesitation, sacrificing time for living exactly the way he wanted to. Gale fell in love with him anyway, followed him to the ends of the Earth, because they were two halves of the same whole. 

“If I die, make sure I get the whole nine yards,” Bucky had said to him again, just months ago. Gale can remember exactly when; they were engaged, their wedding soon, the mission looming over them, and Bucky was rewriting his will to reflect his new and rightful next of kin. 

Gale hadn’t wanted to discuss it, even though he knew they had to. A little-mentioned and not at all glamorized consideration of diving headfirst into the unknown – the what-ifs, the contingencies, the acknowledgement of putting your life on the line and what that will mean for the people who love you most.

“I know it’ll hurt,” John told him that day. “But if-“

“Bucky-“

“If things go south, Gale. I need you to know-“

“Don’t.”

“Buck,” Bucky sighed. 

“I don’t wanna hear it.”

Gale may never know what Bucky had been trying to tell him that day, and that thought claws at his throat. Why hadn’t he just let him say what he wanted to say? Why couldn’t he give him that peace of mind? Why had Gale been so selfish, in that moment?

If nothing else, he’ll give Bucky the whole damn nine yards, everything he deserves.

He’ll have to request a flyover. The request will be granted, he’s sure. The Department of Defense will spare no expense; Major John Egan, U.S. Air Force, the first man to die while stationed on the moon, will receive any honor Gale asks of them. Bucky would like that. He would be proud of that. 

Four jets will soar over his funeral right before the sun sets, friends and family looking on as they approach, the buzz of the engines rising with their love and grief. One aircraft will lift up and away towards the heavens, a missing man leaving the others to continue on without him, a gaping hole in the formation to match that which has been left in the lives of Bucky’s family. A symbol of the fallen, a symbol of the future he sacrificed, a symbol of a life lived and taken away. 

As an Air Force Major, Bucky will receive full military funeral honors. Lines of airmen will march behind his casket, escorting him to the next unknown. A color guard will carry the flags, rising and falling in the breeze as if they, too, are offering a final salute. A military band will wail down the hallowed paths between rows of gravestones. Seven riflemen will fire a three volley salute, and with measured steps and trained precision, the pallbearers will transport the casket to its grave. It will be draped with a flag, to be folded and given to the deceased airman’s next of kin.

How many times has Gale been one of those pallbearers? One of those unsmiling men charged with delivering an American hero to their final resting place. More than he cares to count, in any case. That’s just how being an Air Force pilot goes sometimes; a lot of good men and women are lost too soon. 

He never expected to be on the other side. Never expected to be the devastated loved one looking on, trying to decide if he can allow himself to cry, or if he should breathe through gritted teeth and act like a good soldier, as expressionless as the pallbearers carrying Bucky’s body in hands that never knew him the way Gale’s did. It comes so easily, playing the part of Major Buck Cleven, keeping the walls up and sandbagged against the flood threatening to drown him. 

Is he an airman, or is he a husband?

Or is he a widower?

Is it an affront to John’s legacy if Gale doesn’t cry for him as his body is returned to the earth, nothing but stardust and a memory carved into Gale’s soul? Gale can imagine him saying “don’t cry for me, angel” just as easily as he can imagine him saying “you better cry for me, babe,” and Gale is struck by the paralyzing panic of not knowing. He doesn’t know what Bucky would want. How can he not know? Shouldn’t he know? 

He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do. He doesn’t know what his husband would want him to do. He doesn’t know how to keep going. He doesn’t even know who he is without John Egan at his side. 

He doesn’t know…

He never expected…

He’s not sure what, exactly, he did expect. For him and John to go down together or not at all? That’s the way they’ve lived their lives for so many years, to the point that Gale is hardly sure where he ends and Bucky begins. They’re tied to one another, an invisible string in the form of a name, a silent and resounding commitment engrained deep in the blueprint of their life, as if their mutual coexistence is written into the laws of their universe. 

One cannot exist without the other. Buck and Bucky, it’s just how the world is meant to be.

Gale never expected to be forced to sit in the front row of a military funeral, clothed in the exact same dress uniform as the casket team committing his dead husband’s body to the Earth. He’ll sit, straight-backed and composed, in those uncomfortable chairs. He’ll stand and salute, Benny and Marge on either side, as other men hold the flag aloft over his husband’s casket, quiet and somber as the bugler plays Taps into a descending dusk that promises to surrender the fallen flyboy to a peaceful rest. The mournful, haunting notes will ring out over white marble headstones, calling home an extinguished soul, and Gale will have to use every last ounce of composure he has not to scream. He will watch, unblinking, as the flag is folded into a neat triangle, the crisp white stars facing the open sky like a final reminder that among the stars is where Bucky died. 

Gale will sit silently, unable to say a thing over the painful lump in his throat, and he will wonder if he’ll ever breathe easily again. He’ll wonder if the hands of grief will ever unwrap their chokehold on his lungs, or if that’s the price he has to pay for living when John couldn’t be afforded such luxury. He will resent the prospect of living this life without John’s hand on his, holding him close, kissing his cheek. He will fear the day he can no longer recall his smile from memory alone, his laugh, the feeling of his arms wrapped tight around him. He will grieve, and he will wonder if the grieving will ever end. 

How can it possibly end when a piece of you will be missing forever?

Gale will feel his heart break for the millionth time, a plummeting, debilitating feeling that will assault his entire being on repeat every single day. He will feel sick, tired, angry, alone. He will feel like he died in the same breath that his husband did, and he will have to force his lungs to keep working because if he doesn’t, he fears his body will simply give up altogether. He will bite his cheek until he tastes blood on his tongue to keep the agonized cry from tearing out of his chest. 

He will wish he’d gone down at Bucky’s side. 

And yet he will stare straight ahead as an officer kneels before him. They’ll hand the flag to him, unsmiling, eyes filled with an odd comfort and a shared sorrow that can never truly match the sorrow that is threatening to bury Gale alive. But Gale will take the folded flag in his hands, shaking fingers gripping the fabric far too tight because it’s the closest he’ll ever get to holding John’s hand one last time. The only reason Gale will remember what the officer says to him in that moment will be because it’s standard, because he’s heard these words time and again said to the distraught loved ones of other soldiers. 

He’s one of them now. 

“On behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Air Force, and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one’s honorable and faithful service.”

So scripted. So simple. And yet it will twist like a knife into what’s left of Gale’s heart. A finality. Those are the words that Bucky would want Gale to hear, if nothing else because they’re what Gale is prepared to hear. If nothing else, because they are the words that have been slated for his death since the moment of his birth, since the moment the universe put forth such an uncontainable force as John Clarence Egan. 

Gale will sit there, his hands clutching a tri-folded flag that he’ll have to find somewhere to display in a too-empty home as a final remembrance. Friends, family, fellow airmen will look on as he cradles it to his chest, bearing witness to a pain that they can only just barely begin to comprehend. 

And Gale will no longer be able to stop the quiet, anguished sob that rises from his constricted lungs and finally breaks through the facade of Major Buck Cleven. Because Buck Cleven can’t exist without the man who gave him his name in the first place. 

–

“Buck? Are you okay in there?” 

Gale blinks, and his head clears. Benny is knocking at the bathroom door. 

It’s November 19, 2025. Mission day 13. 

Bucky isn’t dead. Not yet.

As long as that remains true, Gale has no choice but to assume that he will survive this, because if he doesn’t… well, Gale doesn’t know what he’ll do. Bucky has kept him steady for so long that he isn’t sure he can relearn how to keep himself afloat in time to come out the other side.

He has to believe that Bucky will make it, that he won’t abandon Gale here on this beautiful, terrible planet. That he’ll find a way, somehow, because that’s what Bucky Egan has always done. No matter the damage, no matter the stakes, he’s always, always come home. 

So what the hell is Gale doing standing here imagining his husband’s funeral? 

We don’t expect…

Staring into his bathroom mirror, Gale bites down hard on the inside of his cheek until he can taste the blood, and he locks eyes with his reflection. He watches the expression of grief and fear on his face twist into an ugly disgust and self-loathing, eyes dark with an abject ferocity that threatens to tear this world apart.

How could he, even for a moment, imagine his life without Bucky in it? How could he so easily give up hope? John deserves better than that.

Gale doesn’t really know how it happens, but he’s winding his right arm back, hand clenched in a tight fist, and before he can even blink, before he can even process the course of his own anger, his knuckles collide with the mirror. He doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t feel it. His ears are ringing and he can still see the reflection of his narrowed eyes and his set jaw in the shattered glass, now stained with blood. 

“Gale?” Benny calls out in alarm. He’s pounding at the door. Gale looks down at his hand, torn and bloodied, red dripping onto the tile floor by his feet. He wonders why he can’t feel it. “That’s it, I’m coming in.”

The door slams open, and Gale looks into the shattered mirror, spiderweb lines breaking the image into jagged puzzle pieces that just don’t quite fit. He watches the sadness and pain and shock flash across Benny’s face behind him in a stop-motion of emotion. “Fuck,” Benny mutters.

Gale raises his hand slowly, so he can inspect the cut flesh, and he thinks that, surely, he should be able to feel this right now. Surely, it should sting and burn. He tilts his hand back and forth and watches the blood trickle down, but Benny grabs him by the wrist. “Come here you idiot.”

Gale doesn’t protest this time. He lets Benny shove his hand under the faucet to rinse out the blood, lets him painstakingly remove the shards of glass with tweezers from the medicine cabinet, lets him dab the mosaic of cuts with rubbing alcohol. Slowly, he becomes aware of the pain, of the fact that his hand is throbbing as his body tries to mend itself. He wonders how it can do that, when he feels like there’s nothing left to mend.

When Benny places gauze over his hand and starts wrapping it with a bandage, Gale finally has the sense to do something. He grabs the bandage from Benny’s hands and starts winding it around and around his own fingers, securing it over his wrist. When he looks up at his friend, Benny is staring right at him, assessing him. “I’m fine,” Gale mumbles.

Benny shakes his head, eyeing Gale’s liberally wrapped hand, blood still staining his fingertips. “Yeah, you look so fine.”

Gale grits his teeth and looks down at the floor. “I have to be fine. It’s my job to be fine.”

“As a flight controller or as a husband?”

“Both.”

“I think you should stay here this morning.”

Gale looks up, and Benny tries not to take the furious glare being leveled at him personally. “Like hell.”

“Buck-”

“I’m going.”

Benny closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Fine. I’m driving you.”

“You’re off shift.”

Benny tilts his head, giving Gale an unimpressed look. “I don’t give a damn. I don’t trust you right now.” Gale supposes that’s fair. “And I’m scared as hell, too.”

“Someone’s gotta let the dogs out.” Gale has half a mind just to take them, walk right on into Mission Control flanked by two huskies. Who would stop him? 

Benny sighs and runs a hand through his hair. Then he turns to leave the bathroom. “I’ll ask one of the neighbors.”

Gale nods. “Ask Jane, across the street. Her little girl loves Pepper and Meatball.” What he doesn’t say is that Jane has a husband in the Navy, currently stationed overseas. If anyone is going to understand this situation without being overbearing with their sympathy, it’s her. “Tell her what happened. She deserves an explanation for being woken up this early.”

Then Benny is gone, leaving Gale alone with a bloody hand, a bloody floor, and a bloody mirror. He flexes his injured fist as much as he can with the bandage on, feeling the sting. Then he takes a deep breath and turns off the light. He doesn’t put any gel in his hair.

–

Mission Control goes utterly silent when the door at the back opens and Major Buck Cleven walks in. Major Buck Cleven, dressed in his usual slacks, white button down, and a black tie, ever the professional. His jaw is set, his back straight, his eyes hard. There’s little to give away the fact that he’s living his worst nightmare, save for the lack of product in his hair. Instead, his hair hangs messily over his forehead in a soft and unkempt way that few in this room have ever seen, and they don’t know what to make of it. The strangeness of it is menacing in its own way, a symbol that something terrible has happened, and yet it makes each and every one of them want to hug Gale tight and protect their CAPCOM at all costs.

And then there’s the fact that there’s a thick bandage wrapped tightly around his right hand, the edge stained with blood. For those who can see him up close, there’s tell-tale redness around his eyes, but he doesn’t look away. Anyone who dares to look at him, he looks straight in the eye. 

Marge shoots to her feet at the front of the room, an unreadable mess of surprise and empathy and sadness and fear plain as day all over her face. The other flight controllers follow her lead, rising slowly, solemnly. 

Harding, who had been alerted of the situation immediately and arrived at JSC not long ago, steps in front of Gale. He reaches a hand out, and Gale stares at him, daring him to hold him back. 

“Chick.”

Harding’s eyes are sad – which Gale hates – and he takes a deep breath. Some of these younger astronauts are like sons to him. John Egan and Gale Cleven, especially. The dynamic duo. The partners in crime. The newlyweds. Some of the best pilots – some of the best men – he’s ever known. His fear for John and his empathy for Gale clash uncomfortably, almost unbearably, with his commitment to this program. “You shouldn’t be here right now, Gale,” he says, as gently as he can. 

Gale clenches his jaw and shakes his head. “It’s my shift.”

“Helen’s doing a fine job.”

“She’s damn good at her job,” Gale agrees. “But you need three of us.”

“We’ll put Macon on.”

“Macon doesn’t know this mission like I do.”

“He can learn.” Harding matches Gale’s insistent gaze, and he watches the expression on Gale’s face twist into resentment. It breaks his heart, having one of his boys look at him like that. But he knows that grief is no state in which to work through a life or death situation, and he can’t in good conscience put Gale through that or sacrifice the well-being of the rest of the crew. Gale doesn’t speak. Harding sighs again, softening his features. “Go home, Gale. There’s nothing you can do for him here. We just have to wait.”

Gale feels the rage fill his body. He hardly even knows what happened, hardly even knows what the fuck he’s supposed to be waiting for. For his husband to either die or not? 

“He’s alive, then,” Gale says simply. 

Harding doesn’t reply for a long moment. Then, “We’ll let you know when-“

“Bullshit,” Gale sneers and shakes his head. “No. No. You are not treating me like some astronaut wife with no choice but to wait around in the dark until you decide to tell me what you think I should know. No.”

“I’m not trying to do that, Gale. I’ll make sure you’re updated on anything that happens. But I can’t put you on coms. I can’t risk the mission.”

“The mission?” Gale scoffs. “The mission!” How about Bucky’s goddamn life?  

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Harding insists. Gale can see the pain on Harding’s face, and he knows very well what he’s trying to say: that Gale isn’t capable of doing his job right now. That he isn’t stable or focused. That they need someone with less investment to make sure his husband keeps breathing and the mission keeps going and nothing else gets fucked up. 

Harding puts a hand on Gale’s shoulder. “I don’t think it’s the right choice to put you-“

“I am fully capable- get your hands off me.” Gale shakes Harding’s hand away and squeezes his eyes shut. When he opens them again, he levels a hard, decisive stare at his boss. His voice is low and angry, carefully controlled. “I am fully capable of taking over CAPCOM. Don’t you dare act like I’m not. You know me, Chick. You fucking know me.”

Harding doesn’t say a thing, just watches Gale, evaluating the pilot and astronaut he knows Buck Cleven to be at the same time that he’s wishing he could make this better, take away the pain, save both of these boys from the unfairness of the universe. 

But these were discussions that were already had, months ago. They always knew this was a possibility, and Harding let Gale into Mission Control anyways. Granted, he hoped it would never come to this, but it was a judgment that he himself made. He decided that, in the event Bucky faced the worst, Buck would still be a reliable flight controller. 

Gale watches as these thoughts swarm through Harding’s head. “Let me do my job, Chick.”

“As a flight controller or as a husband?”

That damn question.

Gale feels his heart pounding, and he’s shocked to realize that his lungs are working of their own accord. Bucky is alive. So now Gale has to get to work. “Both.”

“Fine,” Harding agrees. “But I’m bringing Macon in to be briefed so he can take over if needed.”

Gale nods in silent agreement, and Harding squeezes his shoulder before motioning for him to go ahead. 

He looks out at the Red Shift flight controllers around the room, and he is keenly aware that most of them witnessed this entire exchange. They’re watching him warily, with varying levels of pity and empathy, but he just nods to them, too, and they track his motion as he walks past console after console towards the front of the room. The only people who don’t turn to look at him are Helen and Dr. Huston, who are laser-focused on working the crew through this.

Gale stops beside Albert Clark’s console, and the Flight Director reaches out to put a hand on Gale’s shoulder. He leans in close. “He’s sticking with us. Determined bastard.”

Bucky is still unconscious and relatively unstable, but Curt managed to get him inside the lander. Best they can figure from Curt’s account and the suit telemetry, the rover’s wheel broke going down the slope of Shackleton, and Bucky got stuck beneath the rover when it tumbled down. He hit his head pretty hard, and the oxygen regulator in his suit was damaged, causing both the pressure sensor and the mechanism that slowly decreases the pressure over a set period of time to malfunction. 

His suit depressurized from over 8psi to less than the minimum anticipated 4psi, which not only makes it hard for the body to take in enough oxygen, but the rapid depressurization can cause decompression sickness symptoms that vary in severity depending on how much nitrogen was left in Bucky’s body. He lost consciousness due to head trauma, but they remain concerned about the effects of hypoxia on the brain after being in low pressure for so long.

Since getting back to the lander, Dr. Huston, Helen, and Rosie have been in constant communication, monitoring Bucky’s vitals and guiding Curt through every step. He managed to get Bucky out of his busted suit, which he’ll inspect for damage later. He has Bucky breathing pure oxygen again, trying to get enough of it to his brain. EECOM increased the cabin pressure to nearly double the standard atmospheric pressure in an approximation of a hyperbaric chamber. Ideally, this will mitigate decompression sickness and assist with oxygen uptake in Bucky’s body. The external head wound itself was not serious, no doubt thanks to Bucky’s com cap softening the blow, but it did lead to a decent amount of blood loss. After cleaning away the blood to inspect the injury, Curt had to wrap Bucky’s head. He has no way of checking for brain damage on Starship as long as Bucky is unconscious. 

They’ve been running through abort scenarios, but with Orion at the furthest point in its orbit, it would take Starship almost as long to reach the crew capsule if they aborted now as it will for Orion to reach them on schedule. With Bucky unstable, they don’t think it’s a good idea to strap him into a launch vehicle until they know more about his condition, so he and Curt are staying put.  

After thanking Clark, Gale walks over to Marge’s PAO desk in the front corner of the room. He wraps his arms around her, and he can feel her trying not to tremble in his embrace. “I’m glad you’re here,” she whispers, hugging him tightly back. “You should be here.”

Gale squeezes her a little harder, and she squeezes back, before they both let go. She reaches across her desk and picks up a cup of coffee, extending it towards him. “I picked this up for you. Benny told me you were refusing to stay put. What’d you do to your hand?”

Gale takes the cup in his good hand and glances at his bad one. He bites his lip in embarrassment. “Punched a mirror.” 

Marge scrunches her brow and tries not to laugh or cry or say much of anything. “They’re trying their best for him.” 

“I know,” Gale whispers back. He takes a sip of coffee, letting the bitter taste burn his tongue. Then he walks to his own console, patting Croz on the shoulder as he passes, and he and Benny flank Helen on either side.

She looks up at them both, and Gale sees exhaustion on her face that mirrors his own. “Curt’s checking for other injuries, now that we’ve got the recompression and the head wound under control. He’s got a lot of swelling in his right lower leg,” she tells them, straight to the point. Gale appreciates that; he doesn’t need another person’s pity right now. “Curt was able to x-ray it. He’s got a non-displaced tibial fracture.” She points to an image on her computer monitor that Curt no doubt sent through moments ago. They’d tested the capabilities of Starship’s med bay their first night on the surface. They just never expected to have to use it like this.

The image shows Bucky’s tibia, a crisp line right through the middle. The separated pieces of the bone are perhaps just millimeters out of place. Helen hands Gale the second headset. Once it’s turned on, he finds that he’s tuned in to chatter between Curt and Rosie, who is trying to aid from Orion, thousands of miles away from the moon. “I need you to do this, Curt,” Rosie is saying.

Curt: “You have to be kidding.”

Rosie: “It’s not hard. Just tap it in.”

Curt: “I’m gonna make it worse.”

Gale looks at Helen, eyebrow raised. “Gotta set it,” she whispers. 

Well, shit.

Rosie: “You did it in training. You’re gonna have to do it now.”

Curt: “In training it was on a dummy.”

Rosie: “Think of it this way, it’s still on a dummy.”

Gale snorts, and he’s startled by the fact that laughter is possible right now. Helen smiles beside him.

Curt: “Fuck.”

Rosie: “Come on Curt. Just one little push. He’ll be pissed if he wakes up and learns I have to re-break his fucking leg to make it heal right.”

Curt: “Fuck, okay. Okay. One, two…”

Gale can hear Curt gagging as he presumably crunches the bone back into place, and he makes a disgusted face of his own as he nervously twists his wedding ring around his finger. The visual of Bucky’s leg, of all things, being unprofessionally set by Curtis Biddick, of all people, on the moon, of all places, makes him squirm.

Curt: “Okay, I think I got it.”

By the time Curt gets Bucky’s leg splinted and wrapped, Macon is there, making four CAPCOMs in Mission Control. Curt hasn’t identified any further injuries other than a mottled bruise-like rash on Bucky’s upper arms and abdomen, a symptom of decompression sickness that indicates Bucky still had some nitrogen in his blood when his suit depressurized. Rosie instructs Curt to monitor the rash closely for swelling and see if the recompression therapy alleviates it. 

Helen then alerts Curt that she’s handing the console over to Gale so she can find a nice cot somewhere in JSC and get some unrestful sleep before her actual shift starts later in the afternoon.

Benny decides to stick around a while longer, and the following couple of hours fall into a quiet and tense waiting game. Gale talks with Curt about his condition, Bucky’s condition, the lander’s condition, and EVA findings (which feel trivial now and yet remain necessary). He talks with Rosie and Alex about various observations and experiment results, including the behavior of certain medical devices and procedures in deep space (somewhat ironic). 

Around 7:00 GMT (3pm Houston time), Mission Control is uncharacteristically somber. A group of flight controllers that is usually focused yet friendly, collected yet outspoken, doesn’t feel much like talking at all. Benny left an hour or so ago to try and get some shut eye before Blue Shift takes over at midnight. At the end of their workday, Alex, Rosie, and Curt are all eating dinner, their coms off. EECOM had eased the pressure in Starship back down to normal, though if Bucky starts showing more decompression symptoms they’ll have to increase it again. For now, he’s as stable as he’ll get. 

Gale, Macon, and Croz are eating takeout sandwiches and playing I Spy, like children, in order to avoid thinking too much about the situation at hand.  

“Buck?” Curt’s voice sounds tired when he switches his coms on, a little wobbly with nerves. Gale has been through Hell today, and he can barely imagine what it’s been like for Curt.

“I’m here, Curt,” he says. There’s a long silence. “Curt?”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t-” Curt cuts off, like he doesn’t know what to even say. Couldn’t what? Prevent this? Stop this? Do better? Do more? Fix it?

Gale doesn’t want to hear any of it. “It’s not your fault.”

“It was that wheel,” Curt insists. “If I had… I dunno. Done a better job fixin’ it? Told him not to drive it up that incline? If I’d gone with him?”

Gale closes his eyes, running a hand through his hair. Macon and Croz sit quietly beside him, eyes downcast. “It’s not your fault, Curt. There’s nothing you could’ve done.”

When Curt is quiet, Gale turns off his mic so he can address Clark and Dr. Huston. “Fellas, where are we at?”

Dr. Huston studies his console, no doubt analyzing Bucky and Curt’s vitals. He looks up at Gale. “Tell him to rest. He should check on Bucky every hour, and we’ll wake him up if there’s a change before then. There’s nothing else he can do now.”

Gale relays the message to Curt, who predictably puts up a fight about it. “You’re no good to him or to us without some rest,” Gale argues. Curt finally, grudgingly, agrees. “And Curt?”

“Yeah, Buck?”

“Thank you.”

–

At 6pm, two hours after Gale was supposed to end his shift, Harding finally convinces him to go home. “No, Gale. Home. You’re not sleeping on a cot here. You’re going home.”

Since Benny left hours ago, Marge is tasked with making sure Gale gets home in one piece. He tries to tell her that she, too, should go home, but she insists on staying the night with him. No one trusts him to be alone right now, and he doesn’t really know what they’re so afraid of. As Marge pulls her car into his driveway, though, he looks down at his bandaged hand. With a frown, he realizes that maybe he doesn’t trust himself to be alone either. It’s dark, and he feels a loneliness and a fear creeping back into his head now that he’s not on shift, now that he doesn’t have any purpose other than to worry about John. 

He doesn’t want to be alone. So he tells her to go on in while he grabs the mail. 

As he closes the mailbox and glances through the flyers and envelopes in his hand – no threats, thankfully; that would probably about do him in – the front door of the house across the street flies open. He squints through the light of the streetlamps as Maggie, the little girl that lives there, comes tumbling out, red curls bouncing as she runs down the front walk. As if she only remembers at the last second, she skids to a stop at the edge of the road and checks both ways three times, even though their sleepy neighborhood street rarely has any cars going up or down its length. Like a game of red light green light, she goes from a halt to a dead run across the road, right towards Gale. 

“Mr. Cleven?” she says as she stops at his feet. There’s something pure and innocent about her voice that feels out of place in the dark turmoil of Gale’s mind, but it breaks through like the smallest ray of sunshine. He looks down at her. She hardly reaches his waist, and she’s grinning up at him, freckles dotting her little face like constellations. She told him once, when he babysat a few months ago, that sometimes other kids say mean things about her freckles. He shook his head and stood her right in front of her bedroom mirror. Kneeling down beside her, he pointed to a few of the freckles on her face, and he told her that she carries the stars with her everywhere she goes. 

“Space obsessed,” her mother, Jane, told Gale once. “Says she wants to be just like you.”

Now Maggie’s smile turns to a frown, and she looks at her shoes before slowly looking back up at him, as if she’s not sure that she’s allowed to. So instead he kneels down to her level, so she can look him in the eye. He motions to the piece of paper that she’s gripping in her hand, so tightly that there’s tiny, wrinkled, finger-shaped imprints on it. “What’s that you got there, Mags?”

He knows the smile he tries to give her doesn’t reach his eyes; it barely even reaches his mouth. But it’s the best he can give her, now. She juts the piece of paper towards his chest, turning it so he can see the drawing on the front, scribbled in colorful crayon. It’s an astronaut, no doubt, wearing a white EVA suit with a big helmet and the American flag across the chest. They’re standing next to a tall white triangle that Gale knows is a spaceship, and the ground – drawn as a straight line directly beneath the astronaut’s feet – is pockmarked with circles that he assumes are supposed to be craters. There’s stars in the messy blue sky. In what is unmistakably a child’s handwriting, the words “Feel Better Jon” are scrawled across the top in red crayon. The J is backwards and the h is missing, but there’s a little heart drawn at the end of his name. 

Jane must have told her that John got hurt up there – the reason they had to take care of the dogs today.

Gale feels his eyes threaten to well up, and he bites down hard on his lip as he takes the drawing from Maggie, willing his hands not to shake as he stares down at it. 

“It’s John,” Maggie explains. She rocks back and forth on her heels, watching Gale shyly. “He’s on the moon. And that’s his rocket, right there.” She points to the oblong tower that is Starship.

“So it is,” Gale says. He’s surprised by the small chuckle that erupts from his chest, and he’s even more shocked to see a drop of water fall onto the drawing, leaving a wet spot in the corner. He tries to wipe it away with his thumb. “Sorry ‘bout that,” he tells her, squeezing his eyes shut for a second, trying to compose himself. When he opens them again, though, Maggie reaches out with her small hand, and she wipes another tear off Gale’s cheek. 

“I know he’s not here,” she says, pulling her hand slowly away. “But I thought you could give it to him when he comes home.” 

Gale looks at her, and he feels like his heart has been shredded to pieces for the hundredth time today, simply unable to beat anymore. Maggie watches him sadly, and Gale hates himself just that little bit more. He’s the adult here. He shouldn’t be making this kid sad. He shouldn’t-

But then Maggie throws her arms around his neck, nearly toppling him over. “He’ll come home,” she says, not a single doubt in her voice. “He has to. He promised he’d teach me how to ride a bike.”

Gale can barely stop the gasping sob that tries to primally tear its way out of his mouth, but he winds his arms around the little girl and holds her close, clutching the drawing so tight behind her back that he makes bigger finger-shaped imprints right next to hers. “Thank you,” he whispers. 

He looks up, over Maggie’s shoulder, and sees Jane standing on the front porch. She lifts a hand in a wave. When Maggie lets go, Gale takes her hand in his and leads her back across the road, stopping to check each way. On the porch, Jane sends her daughter into the house.

“Thank you,” Gale says to her. “For watching the dogs. And for this.”

“That was all her idea,” Jane says with a small smile that doesn’t reach her eyes any more than Gale’s reached his. “I’m sorry to hear about John.”

With little left to say, Gale thanks her again, promising to update her, before heading back across the street. Inside his own house, Marge has the news playing on TV. Harding is standing at a podium in one of JSC’s newsrooms, explaining to the whole world that Mission Commander Major John Egan has suffered a near-fatal accident and is in unstable condition.

Gale stares at the television, his vision tunneling, as he stumbles backward until the backs of his legs hit the front of the couch.

Near-fatal.

Unstable.

If we’re lucky the fag will die up there.

Might not survive.

Nothing short of a miracle.

After Harding answers a small handful of questions from disgustingly over-eager reporters and walks out of frame, the screen shifts to a news anchor, who highlights what the director of the Human Spaceflight Program just said. As the broadcast ends, she looks gravely into the camera, and her words add to those that have been ringing in Gale’s ears on repeat all day. 

“Our hearts go out to Major Gale Cleven and the entire NASA community at this time.”

Gale doesn’t know if it’s those final words or the child’s drawing gripped between his fingers or the fact that the whole world now knows about Bucky’s accident or the horrifying realization that all of the hateful skeptics who prayed for his husband to die just might see their wishes come true… but that’s the moment his body gives out.

The room spins in slow motion, walls closing in. His throat closes up. The breath rushes from his lungs. His head is pounding, his fingers grasping for something, anything to keep him above water. 

John. 

“Gale?”

“Gale, honey, are you okay?”

“Can you hear me?”

“Gale, look at me.”

Gale barely comprehends the fact that, somehow, he ended up crumpled on the floor in front of the couch, his bad hand pressed to the floor and the other clutching the drawing to his chest like that damn tri-folded flag at an airman’s funeral. He barely comprehends Marge sitting beside him, but she pulls him into her arms. He turns to her, and she puts her hand on the back of his head, guiding him to rest against her so he can hide in the crook of her neck. He cries into the fabric of her blouse, and he has half a mind to feel bad about it, but his entire world is falling away too fast. Hiccupping sobs fill the silent living room and wrack his entire body as every tear he refused to shed, every emotion he refused to feel over the course of this entire mission, finally bursts out of him in an onslaught of all-consuming anguish. 

Marge shushes him and holds him tight, the only thing keeping him in one piece, telling him that Bucky's strong, that he'll find a way through. She rocks him back and forth like a child, and he just can’t seem to stop or to catch his breath.

His chest burns.

“I need you to breathe, sweetheart,” Marge says to him as she strokes his hair. “Breathe for me.”

He can’t. He can’t. He can’t.

He can’t breathe. He can’t stop. He can’t keep going.

He can’t.

His hands scrabble at Marge’s back, holding on for dear life. 

He needs his husband. He needs John. He needs-

“Take a breath, Gale. Please.”

Don’t cry for me, angel. Just breathe.

---

---

Part 12

[adrift-in-thyme]

Febuwhump Day 1: Helpless (Wild & Twilight)

Read on Ao3

And so it begins...

I'm super excited for another whump-filled month! Thank you in advance to everyone coming along with me on this wild ride! Your support means the world to me <33

CW for a panic attack

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

Wild looks down at his hands. Maybe, that isn’t the best idea at the moment, because they are trembling so violently he thinks that if he picked something up he’d drop it.

And that is not the only thing shaking either. His entire body is. Like the leaves on the trees in Hateno Village, blown wildly about by a hearty wind. 

He breathes in and gains no oxygen from it. This…whatever this is has been coming on all day, squeezing his chest and throat and turning his vision fuzzy at the edges. But now, it has broken free.

He is just glad that he made it to camp before it did. 

Why it even came, he hasn’t a clue. There’s some reason behind it, he’s sure. But it’s not often that he can pinpoint it.

This just happens sometimes, an outpouring of unpleasant emotion he isn’t expecting. A feeling so like the one that had hounded his footsteps throughout his journey to save Hyrule. The terrible, inescapable certainty that the world is going to end. 

But it’s not going to end…at least from what he can see. The sky is a calm, unassuming navy, speckled with stars. The moon glows a golden hue, innocent and merciful. The cheerful voices of his brothers drift to his ears from where they sit, bathed in the warmth of the fire.  

They are safe. He is safe. 

Yet, Wild feels anything but. He feels like a hinox has just sat down on his chest. 

Nearby, someone laughs. Warriors, he thinks. The sound is like a knife driven into his heart. 

Wild curls in on himself. He clasps his hands together, fingernails digging into calloused skin. Desperate tears spring to his eyes and slide hot and fast down his cheeks. Breathing feels useless now, impossible. He’s drowning even as he drags in air. 

His surroundings blur into shades of blue and green.

Get it together, Link, he tells himself, even as a rushing noise floods his ears, followed up by a high-pitched ring. He remembers that sound from before. He heard it so many times – during ceremonies and dances and every other stuffy royal performance that stuck him at the forefront of the people he would fail. When he kneeled before Zelda too. When Ganon attacked and all he could do was run.

You’re fine. It quickly becomes a chant. Everything’s fine. So, just pull yourself…

The sound of footsteps comes crashing through his tumbled thoughts. Whatever wheezing little air he had been able to drag in sticks in his throat. His pounding heart skips several beats.

Wild scrambles to his feet, eyes wide and feet unsteady. He reaches for his sword. But he doesn’t find it.

Oh, yeah. Because it broke the other day. Great. Just great.

The piercing blue eyes that gaze up at him, however, and the slender gray body that curves through the brush with the grace of a serpent are those he knows. A wolf sits down before him.

The panic that has reached a fever pitch dims slightly. Wild chokes out a half-breath.

“Twi.”

Twilight pads toward him, concern in his eyes. 

“Are you alright, cub?” He seems to ask.

“I—” Wild clenches his hands into fists. “I’m…”

Fine. Everything’s fine. Nothing for you to worry about. 

He shakes his head, defeatedly. Tears burn hot behind his eyes. In the next moment, his legs give way beneath him, landing him in a pitiful pile on the ground. 

“I’m not.” It’s a croak torn from a throat too tight for anything else. A truth that Wild wishes he didn’t have to voice and yet, is certain the rancher already knows.

He has never been able to hide anything from him.

Twilight steps forward, as silent as the moon gazing down on them from above. A cool, wet nose presses against Wild’s forehead, hot breath blowing his bangs. Blindly, Wild reaches out. Thick, soft fur meets his clawing fingers. He buries himself in it. 

Twilight smells of the forest and shadow magic — wildflowers and damp leaves and the dew that settles in the early hours of the night. Smoke and something mournful.

Wild breathes it in. His fingertips brush back and forth through the fur, feeling the warmth and fluff beneath them. 

Twilight inhales, and Wild can feel his chest move. His breath hitches. 

The rancher feels real, sounds real, smells real. His presence softens the blows of the terror thrashing about within him, drives aside the sensation that the ground is crumbling beneath his feet. 

He is here. Twilight is here. And they’re okay.

“Okay,” Wild whispers, hoarse and desperate, a plea for his words to be true. Tears streak in steady streams down his cheeks. “We’re o-okay.”

Twilight nuzzles him, gently. “That’s right. We’re okay, cub.”

For now, that traitorous voice whispers, the one that squeezes the air from his lungs and overwhelms him. Until the moment when it all falls apart. When you lose them all. Because you weren’t enough.

“Why?” He can only manage a murmur, strangled and hopeless. “I feel—I feel so helpless, Twi. Why do I — ”

Another sob tears his throat apart. He can’t see past the salty liquid cascading down, can’t feel past the terrible, inescapable pressure in his mind and on his chest. 

It’s too much. Everything is just too much. The noose around him tightens until the breathtaking pain of it is unbearable. 

If he hears one more sound, feels one more sensation, has to fight one more fight, he will explode. He is certain of it.

So trapped in the prison of terror is he that Wild hardly realizes it when fur turns to the soft cloth of a tunic. Arms encircle him and pull him close. A heart beats steadily in his ears.

He clings to that noise and the promise it contains, however temporary it might be. And he clings to the sound of Twilight’s voice washing over him like a wave, assuring him that it will be alright, that he is safe, that he is anything but helpless. 

…That he doesn’t need to be invincible to protect those he loves.

“You’re stronger than you know, cub. And you’ve made me proud. But you don’t have to be strong all the time. You can’t and that’s alright.”

And though Wild can’t bring himself to truly believe that — maybe he never will, maybe that horrible tightness will remain a permanent fixture in his chest — he curls into his brother and tries to trust. 

[onskepa]

Tstew ch 3

Helloooooooo everyone! Long awaited chapter! This, like the others, I had to re-write over and over. But! I have come to the conclusion that this will be the final chapter. Idk how long this will be but hopefully it shall satisfy everyone. Enjoy!

Ch1 , ch2 , Ch3

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

It has been a few weeks since tstew began using her avatar. Things were sooooo much better than before. She can climb better, faster, and farther lengths. Eat meats that tasted delicious on her na'vi tongue! Swim without the need to carry the oxygen filter, to smell things without the mask in the way. Truly the best thing tstew could have ever wanted.

And truly the best thing the boys every wanted too. Every smile, hiss, sound that tstew makes, the three boys just cant help themselves. If they already loved tstew in her human form well they are down for her na'vi form.

Spider, the amazing, adventure seeking sunny boy loves his dear friend tstew. Growing up together, the firsts human pandoran beings. Native in their planet yet foreign. Not being able to truly be with the people. While spider wants to be na'vi, he admires tstew for doing her thing. While she was given a avatar, he admires she doesn't use it to greedy advantage. Still not wishing to connect with the Omatikaya clan but still connect with the fauna around her. Strong, flirty, and loud, spider knows her better than anyone else. They grew up together. He finds that it is only fair he should have her affections.

Lo'ak, trouble seeking, trouble seeks him, and breaks the rules rather than follow. He sees himself in tstew, and he sees her in him. Always pranking, causing chaos where ever they go, not being sorry for who they are. Lo'ak could never get bored with tstew around. She is just that fun! Always making games, cracking a few jokes, or even just scare others for laughs. Every time lo'ak looks into tstew's emerald eyes, it is like a window to a new world. He could never get tired of tstew. She always has something to show, new change and experience. Something lo'ak wants to have in his life.

Neteyam being the oldest of his siblings, wise and calm for his age. But with tstew? he is a melting mess. Tstew is like the sun to his moon. Bringing warmth, life, and color. Her little remarks and quick snaps makes him want to laugh. Not in a bad way. Her witty humor is always so refreshing and welcoming. What he lacks, she provides. When he is with tstew, he can easily drop his "big brother" role and just be a kid like those his age. When he sees her, be it human or na'vi form, he gets those tingling feelings deep in his stomach. Those fluttery feelings when you see someone you like. That is what he gets every time he sees tstew. He loves her for who she is all that is all there is to it.

Kiri wasn't dumb, she knew the attempts her brothers are trying to do. Gift giving, cracking specific jokes only tstew will understand, make things tstew will like. Or even mention something about an animal she likes. Tuk was thankfully oblivious to those things. Best to stay that way.

Tstew on the other hand noticed the boys change of....perceiving things. "lo'ak, not that I am complaining buuuut....I think I have more than enough fruit" she tells him while pointing to 5 baskets full of her favorite fruit. Lo'ak was just ready to fill a sixth basket. "Perhaps its best you give at least 4 baskets to your family? you found some really ripe ones" she continues. Lo'ak puts down the fruits he was holding into the basket before turning to her. "But they don't like them very much. So that is why I am giving them to you" he replies. Tstew holds one in her hand and takes a bite, savoring its yummy taste.

"but it will seem like I am greedy. I can take one basket and share it with the others back at the post. If your family doesn't like them, give some to the people. We cant let these yummy fruits go to waste". That is another thing lo'ak loves about tstew. Her genuine care for others, better to give than to receive.

"yeah lo'ak! just a sad waste to see all those fruits-"

"spider you either take those stones back or I am throwing them at you" tstew says without even turning around. "yes ma'am" spider quickly replies and turns back.

Neteyam was observing the whole thing and took metal notes. Tstew doesn't like it when she is being over gifted, ok so something minimal can do.

"neteyam! that bow better be for yourself or for someone else because I am NOT hunting!" she shouts at him. Ok so the bow was not a good idea. Got it.

Tstew loves the animals too much to kill them. Yes she eats their meats but will do a small thank you for the deceased animal for their sacrifice. She may be tall and a bit athletic, she draws the line on pandora's precious fauna.

Trying to impress tstew sure is a challenge. She either wont accept it or when she does, wont think too much on it and go on about her day. The boys think she is that blind or turning her head away. Despite her flirting, no one knows if she was genuine or just playing around.

"boys will be boys" kiri says as she weaves a simple bracelet. Tstew sighs as she sits next to her. "you tell me, I don't know what made to act so.....gifting? so weird, if only they put the same effort in DOING THEIR ACTUAL SHIT AND NOT PROCRASINATE!".

Tstew looked to her surroundings and noticed tuk wasn't there with them. "hey kiri, where is tuk? I didn't see her leave?" she asks, kiri point to a direction to her left, "she said she got bored and went to play with her friends over there".

What no one knew.....was tuk making a collective BANK.

"two green stones and 5 arrows for neteyam confessing"

Tuk was having a large bet meeting with the other omatikaya children as they are betting on which boy will confess first.

"ok next!" tuk shouts.

Another child steps up, "10 arrows, 20 beads, and 5 feathers on spider!"

Tuk hopes neither confess so she can keep her hoard.

And that completes this tstew tribology! no more of this cause idk where else to go but! either way! I hope you all enjoyed it! until next time! see ya!

[siberat]

Dinner Date

Chapter 2

“Don’t just gulp it down,” Wi.ng chided whimsically. “This engex is to be enjoyed.”

“Ah, if you’re not supposed to drink it, how are you to enjoy it?” Br.awl paused with the glass nearly to his lips.

“Use your senses.” The red and white flyer lifted the glass and gently swirled it. “I rather enjoy its distinctive earthy and spicy smell.” The glass was brought to his nose, and a deep whiff was taken. “Reminds me of late-night dinner celebrations with Di.a At.las back in New Cry.stal City.”

“Hmm…” Bra.wl imitated the other, swirling his drink gently before sticking his nose over the top. He snorted. “Kinda smells like pencil shavings and cherries to me.”

“That’s an interesting way to describe it. Now, have a taste, but just a sip.”

“So, why are the glasses so large and shaped funny?” The Combat.icon pressed the glass to his lips and tilted. The deep red liquid ran across his lips and onto his tongue, filling his mouth with a bold, oaky flavor. While rather intense, the taste was rather pleasant.

“What do you think?” Wi.ng asked, his optics turning to half moons as he sipped his own beverage.

“Good…. Different.” Treaded shoulders were shrugged. “Glad it don’t taste like pencil shavings!”

“I don’t imagine that being very pleasant. But to answer your question, dear, the glass is shaped like this to allow for proper oxygenation, therefore releasing its bold taste and aromas much better.”

“Ah… to be fully enjoyed.”

“You got it, baby.”

Just hearing his date call him such cute and endearing names caused his cheeks to warm. Slag, he was once known as such a terror on the battlefield, such a contender to go up against, and here he was getting all flustered over pet names. What has happened to him over the past few vorns?

Bra.wl shuttered. He knew what had happened but did not wish to dwell on past events. Namely the creeping grasp of death….

“Is something not to your liking?” Wi.ng’s glass was set down, optics full of concern. “Would you like another drink?” His helm turned, and servo raised, ready to hail down their server.

“No, no, the drink’s fine.” The grounder sucked in a deep breath, then exhaled. “Just… you know. What we’ve talked about before. Ah. The reoccurring thoughts…”

“You’ll be alright-“

“I know, I know… I just… ya know, don’t know why it popped up now…”

“What happened while combined as Brut.icus was traumatic, Bra.wl.” W.ing reached his servo across the table, silently beckoning the other’s hand. “Feeling the life force being sucked out of you and your comrades must have been an ordeal.”

The tank carefully reached his hand out, gently placing it into the flier’s grasp. The touch was awkward and strange. Being all close and open was new, and the tenderness of this action felt scary, but only at first.

That servo gently held his hand in a gentle caress. Wi.ng’s other servo soon covered the top, gently brushing over his chubby digits. The touch alone was sweet enough to cause tingles through his frame, but something else pulsed through his plating: feelings of safety and protection soon swelled through his frame, banishing the anxious, bad thoughts plaguing his processor. Maybe the eng.ex was too strong?

“But that is over now.” The red and white mech cooed. “You are safe now, here with me. Ready to take a new journey in your life, right?”

“Yeah.” His own servo gently clasped back. “I suppose so.”

“I will guide you through this.” A soft smile appeared on the winged mech’s face. “Help you live your life to the fullest.”

This time, his rounded cheeks turned red. It’s amazing how having someone care about you makes you feel. True, his gest.alt cared, but it wasn’t the same. All five of them silently endured their miseries. The jet had no qualms talking with him, patiently waiting for him to be able to choke out the words and making sure to bring him back to reality.

That didn’t involve getting piss-ass drunk.

The servo gently patted the back of his hand. “Oh, our appetizers are here! Look how tasty they look!”

Two plates steaming with hot food were set down, and Bra.wl’s belly immediately grumbled in anticipation. He was hungry, and just seeing the food put him in the mood to devour. However, one dish contained a dozen colorful shells drowning in a seasoned liquid.

Dear Primus, were they snails?

master post

[mykneeshurt]

Field of Tulips - one

Synopsis - You’re Special Sargent Dunn, having been off on medical leave for quite some time Captain Price has someone he’d like you to meet. He wants you back in the field.

Master page - please read all content warnings on this page before proceeding.

- - - -

There it was again, that familiar sound that pulled you from your sleep. Night after night. The strangled cries of your teammates as the plane fell to the ground. The sheer terror on their faces as they knew this was it, the sweet embrace of death. Martinez clutched his family photo. Adam’s said a silent prayer. Smith let a tear fall from his umber eyes.

The pilot shot dead, the engines blown to shit, the orange glow of flames lit up the night sky.

But you? You accepted your fate. In fact your welcomed it. What did you have to live for? No family. No significant other. No friends. You sat with a disturbingly calm expression on your face. You pulled Adam’s into your chest as he sobbed.

You woke up at the same point in the dream.

Every fucking time.

Shooting upright in bed sweat adorned your skin, the bed sheets sodden with a mixture of tears and sweat. As you tried to catch your breath, a snore from next to you broke you from the dangerous hold the images in your head held you in.

Fuck.

That’s right. James. Your fuck buddy. Or was he a form of self-harm? Impulsive promiscuous sex to make you feel better Though you’re pretty sure he thought it was more. Shoving him awake he met your gaze. Confused. ‘Out’ you demanded. No warmth in your tone in the slightest. He rubbed his eyes ‘what?’

‘You fucking heard me. Out. Get your shit and go.’

‘It’s nearly 4 am?!’

‘Sounds like a you problem. Get the fuck out.’

Rolling over he muttered under his breath. Feeling rage burst within you, you clambered over the bed and pushed him. ‘What the fuck did you say?!’ You face was screwed tight with pure anger, resentment even. Grabbing your wrists he pinned you to the bed, ‘I said you’re a crazy fucking bitch. No wonder no one wants you’ he spat. He gripped you tightly as he lowered himself to your face, his voice low and harsh. ‘Maybe it would have been better if you died in that crash. No one would miss you.’

Standing up he released you, his dull foot steps marched from the bedroom to the living room. Just as soon as he’d shut your apartment door a glass smashed against it. Meant for his head. Oops. ‘Fucking prick!’ You yelled, expelling all oxygen from your tired lungs.

You could feel the tightness in your chest slowly take hold of you. Your heart rate increased by the millisecond as a thick haze descended over your body. Running to the freezer you grabbed an ice block and placed it in your hands, a feeble attempt at grounding.

But the thoughts wouldn’t stop.

He’s right … you should have died … you shouldn’t be here … everyone else had families … yet you survived … pathetic … look at you … disgusting … no wonder no one loves you … you’re a shitty person …

Over and over and over. You tried to breathe. Tried to distract yourself to little avail. The ice block stung your clammy skin, burnt your veins as desperately tried to think of a field of tulips. Your safe image. An image of a happier time when you were a child, before everything went to shit.

After what seemed like an eternity you chest opened up, releasing itself from the clutches of anxiety. Slowly you dropped the ice block into the sink, it fell with a thud onto the beaten up metal. Bent over the sink you looked up into the clear sky through your window. The moon was full, it shone through your blinds casting a shadow in the kitchen. The night always seemed more calm than the day, but it always gave room for over thinking.

Over analysing.

Analysing everyone of their faces as the plane fell. It had been a year. A year on medical leave, a year of going to psychology appointments. A year of lying through your teeth so you could get back to work. A year of living, unrelenting hell.

The blue hue from an advertisement board cast a calm but dim light against the wall of your apartment. The latest skin care you had to have. To stop you aging. The usual capitalist bullshit. It cast thick shadows into the room, fighting against the moon. The shadows danced in your living room, shimmering a long the neglected dusty surfaces.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been stood at the sink, that happened a lot. Slots of time that you couldn’t recall, ending up in places you couldn’t remember getting to. Your phone buzzed to life in the bedroom, taking in a deep breath you walked over to see it was Price. Fuck did he want at 5am.

Reluctantly picking up the phone you pressed it to your ear. ‘Hello?’

‘Hey kid, sorry it’s so early’ his voice was calm and warm, serene even. ‘No, no it’s fine. I was up anyway.’

‘Dreams again?’ He pressed, concern laced in his voice. ‘No I was up anyway.’ Liar.

‘Hmm ok, well come to base for 10am, I want you to meet someone. We want you back kid.’ A small smile tugged at your lips, finally. ‘I’ll be there sir.’

‘Good, lookin’ forward to seeing you.’

With that he hung up the phone, you knew he could read you like a book. He was the closest thing you had a to a father. You’d served under Captain Price many times, forming a close bond with him. No one had had your back like he did after the accident, he’s the only reason you weren’t honourably discharged. Taking a deep breath you meandered your way to the shower, anticipation bubbled in your stomach.

- - - -

Walking down the clinical corridors your boots squeaked with every step. Whispers and murmurs from fellow soldiers and personnel who recognised you. You kept your head down, eyes to the floor, wanting the earth to swallow you whole. While you wanted to come back, you couldn’t be bothered with the shit that came with it.

As you approached Captain Price’s door you heard loud but muffled voices. One Price, the other you didn’t recognise. A string Scottish accent met your ears, his voice was deep and gruff. The voice of someone who demanded respect, but, they’d have to earn that from you. You weren’t about to roll over saying ‘yes sir’ to anyone.

‘… you’re mad Price. She ain’t ready, not even close. I’m not having her on my team.’

You heard Price sigh, ‘Soap you’re havin her. She needs to come back. She’s a damn good sergeant. She’d be an asset to your team and you know it.’

Soap? Not someone you’d heard of before. Either way he was gonna get an earful from you, who does he think he is? He doesn’t even know you. Prick.

‘She may be good at her job sir, but she’s damaged goods.’

That was enough to make you see red, but, you’d always promised Price you’d always try and keep calm. Your mouth had gotten you into trouble on multiple occasions. Pushing the door open you entered his office. The familiar smell of cigars and cedar wood filled the air, it smelt like home. Prices eyes widened, knowing you’d heard everything, he looked tense. Clearly wondering if you were about to chew Soaps ear off.

Looking over to Soap sweetly you offered him a warm smile and held out your hand. ‘Special Sargent Dunn, sniper and demolitions. Or, I guess my preferred name, damaged goods.’ Soap took your hand firmly and shook it. He was tall, easily 6’2, bulky stature, the most captivating azure eyes you’d ever seen and a very distinctive Mohawk. He chewed his cheek as he watched you take a seat.

As he opened his mouth you raised a hand, silencing him. ‘No need to apologise sir. I’m sure it was just a misunderstanding. Easily done, wouldn’t you agree?’ Price struggled to hide a smirk as you eyed up the Captain. He was pretty sure he saw him take a small step back. Soap flashed a look to Price who merely shrugged, leaving him to fight his way out of the grave he’d dug himself.

‘Aye. Just a misunderstanding.’ He eyed you cautiously, unsure of what to make of you. Clearly headstrong and someone who wouldn’t take any shit. Something Soap felt he could work with, you’d be able to handle your own well. He just needed to make sure you didn’t lose your head. Nodding, you have him another sickly sweet smile, borderline psychopathic. ‘Good. Glad to hear it. Now, what am I helping you with sir?’

Soap looked down at the floor and took in a deep breath, his huge shoulders rising and falling. ‘Gotten wind of one of the most dangerous terrorists known to date. Putting together a team to track him down. You bein one of ‘em. Price speaks very highly of yah.’

You glanced over at Price who was sat behind his desk, watching you both intently, ready to break you up at any second.

‘Oh he does, does he?’ You say smiling at Price, you shifted in the chair, crossing your leg. ‘And what do you think of my record sir?’ Soap wasn’t overly used to being pinned like this, but he knew you had him in a vice courtesy of the comment he made. ‘Top in your class for sniping, impeccable skill and kill count. Not to mention your efficiency with demolitions. You’d fit in nicely.’

‘Hmm. Well, as long as you think so.’ You stoop up and brushed off your trousers. ‘Captain, you can count me in. It’s been a pleasure.’

As you turned to leave Soap coughed, grabbing your attention. ‘Training starts Monday. Just a refresh, you’ve been off for a while. Block B. 8am. Got it?’

You nodded ‘McTavish.’

‘Dunn.’

- - - -

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[whatacaitastrophe]

Is It Over Now - Chapter 2

Previous Chapter

Chapter Song Inspiration: "Don't Speak" - No Doubt

Chapter Warnings: Panic Attacks, Hurt/Comfort, PTSD, Blood Drinking

Spotify Playlist: Here

Chapter 2: You're Letting Go

She’s standing back on the docks again, watching quietly as the sun begins to rise over what’s left of Baldur’s Gate. All of her companions are there, and everyone is happily discussing the celebrations they intend to have. Everyone, except Gale.

This time, though, Fallon is not in her own body as the scene unfolds in front of her. Instead, she's off to the side, watching as Gale paces in small circles, talking mostly to himself about what it would mean if he succeeds in reforging the crown and wielding it for himself; watching herself slowly realize where this conversation is going.

“Say something.” Fallon tells herself, but her past remains stunned silent as Gale tells her that he’s made his choice.

“SAY SOMETHING!” She yells to herself now, but someone may as well have cast a silencing spell on Fallon, because nobody reacts to the fact that there are two Fallons, and one is pleading with the other to stop her lover from making the biggest mistake of his life.

Panic flares in her chest and bile churns in her stomach as Fallon listens to Gale promise her the moon and the stars again. The window of opportunity to stop him is closing swiftly and Fallon’s past self is still standing there. Doing nothing.

“YOU STUPID WOMAN, FUCKING SAY SOMETHING!! HE'S GOING TO LEAVE! STOP HIM!” Fallon tries to run to herself, to Gale, desperate to intervene but there’s an unknown force holding her back. She thrashes against the force to no avail, screaming at herself over and over to stop her lover from leaving. At the very moment that Gale is about to take his leave, a sharp pain jolts through Fallon’s body, and the scene drifts away.

Fallon returns to consciousness with a start. Her breathing is heavy, she’s covered in sweat, and there’s something wet trickling down her arm. Fallon looks around wildly as she tries to get her bearings, and she’s almost instantly met with Astarion’s face. It doesn’t take long after that to figure out why her arm is wet; she’s bleeding.

“Sorry,” the vampire apologizes as he wipes his mouth on his arm. “You wouldn’t wake up, and you were thrashing about. I was unsure of what else to do, and I figured I woke you up from a dead sleep when I tried to bite you once before, so maybe it would work again?”

In any other situation, Fallon would laugh at the memory of the night she found out Astarion was a vampire, but any notions of humor are dead on arrival because Fallon is too busy trying not to have a panic attack. The suite around her feels like it’s getting smaller and making sure her body receives oxygen takes all of her strength. Even then, it doesn’t feel like enough. There’s an owlbear sitting on her chest and no matter what she does, it won’t move. Fallon closes her eyes, doing her best to shut the entire world out, instinctively curling into herself with her arms wrapped around her legs and her forehead on her knees.

Fallon can hear the sound of Astarion shuffling around. Not that she blames him, she wants to get as far away from herself as possible, too. The weight shifts on the mattress and, somewhere in the recesses of her mind, Fallon realizes that Astarion hasn’t distanced himself from her at all; on the contrary, he’s moved closer so he’s sitting on his knees in front of her. “Fallon?” He speaks her name gently. The last time she can recall Astarion speaking to her with such gentleness was after she convinced him not to complete The Black Mass once Cazador was defeated. Her friend gave up the sun and true freedom in favor of what was left of his humanity, humanity that one could argue he found again after spending time with Fallon and their companions, and Fallon had never been prouder of someone before.

The irony was not lost on Fallon that when she met Astarion, he was power-hungry, revenge-focused, and those around him were objects to be used as he saw fit so long as he survived. Whereas, he was the group’s moral compass most of the time who often disapproved of Astarion’s decisions.

Now, if you were to ask Fallon which of the men she’d traveled with had more of a moral compass than the other, he wouldn’t even make the top three. Scratch was higher on the list.

“Fallon, look at me.” His words are soft, but there is still the underlying tone that this is not a request. An order only amplified by his cold hand reaching forward, tucking his fingers under her chin and forcing her to look up. Fallon does as she’s told and stares back at Astarion, his red eyes full of concern for her. “I need you to breathe for me, darling,” Another soft statement that is not a request. “Don’t focus on anything else. Look at me, and breathe.”

It takes effort, keeping eye contact with the elf in front of her as she focuses on her breathing. Even direct eye contact feels too intimate for Fallon’s liking these days. Even so, the rest of the world falls away as she stares back at Astarion, trying to regain control. The stillness he exudes can only be described as preternatural. He never removes his fingers from under her chin or really even moves at all. After several attempts to breathe in through her nose and out of her mouth, Fallon regains control of her breathing, and she can feel her heart rate slowing as her body exits flight mode.

Fallon’s shoulders relax, and Astarion only moves when she is ready to uncurl herself from the fetal position. Even then, he does not go far, only shifting so he is sitting directly next to her on the bed, their thighs and legs still touching. The silence remains between them while Fallon relaxes, and several minutes go by before Astarion speaks. “How often does that happen?”

Fallon swallows hard. For a moment, she considers lying to her friend. Fallon is not really in the mood to receive more pitying looks from Astarion, but he’s already seen her at her most vulnerable, so there’s not much of a point.

“Every night,” She admits quietly, so only quietly someone with enhanced hearing (such as Astarion and herself) could hear her. “I was back on the docks.” Fallon explains, grateful that Astarion did not need any additional context to understand. After all, he was there when her life fell apart. Fallon forces herself to look at Astarion. His jaw is clenched, and the silent anger radiates off of his body as he lets out a long breath through his nose.

“We should have let him blow himself up when we had the chance.” The vampire’s words are cold and unforgiving, and Fallon flinches. The last time he spoke so coldly about another person in her presence, they were discussing Cazador.

“I was never going to let him.” They both knew that. Falling in love with him happened as naturally as breathing. By the time Elminster showed up to deliver Mystra’s orders, the inevitable had already happened. Fallon hated thinking about the moment she fell for him now, but that stupid wizard had her at the first “Hello!” after she pulled him out of that stupid portal.

“Do you regret it now? Not letting him go through with it?”

It is yet another moment where she could lie to Astarion, but it would be pointless. “You have no idea how much I wish I could regret it.” As much as Fallon wants to be filled with hate and regret when she thinks of him, she’s not, and that’s probably the exact reason he haunts her dreams so thoroughly. She glances over to the window of her suite, and it’s still dark out. Her best guess is that it’s not quite the middle of the night, but the sun can’t be more than an hour or so from rising.

Astarion looks like he has something else to say on the matter, but Fallon can’t talk about it anymore. Her attention is drawn to the now dried blood on her arm and she lifts her arm to Astarion. “When was the last time you ate? Might as well finish what you started, yeah?” If the vampire senses her deflection, he doesn’t push her, and Fallon is grateful for that. His expression softens and he offers Fallon a small smirk. “Just like old times.” He carefully takes her arm in his hands and positions his mouth over the open wound and bites down again.

Fallon closes her eyes and embraces the pain, her mind drifting back to the moment she offered to be Astarion’s personal buffett every couple of days; back when they were little more than acquaintances, and Astarion viewed her as someone to be used to ensure his survival.

”I wondered when you would come back for more.” He smirked at her.

Fallon stared at Astarion with a puzzled look on her face.“What do you mean?”

“Your offer. I’m surprised it took you this long to suggest it.” His answer only furthered Fallon’s confusion, so she just stared at him in silence, waiting for Astarion to elaborate. “Because you liked it, didn’t you? I felt the way your pulse quickened, I heard the way your breath hitched in your throat. The little moan you tried so desperately to suppress.”

Fallon raised her eyebrow at the vampire. “I think drinking my blood might have made you a little bit delusional.” She lied. Fallon barely knew Astarion, and from what she could tell, his ego was already quite inflated. Fallon had no intention of making it worse.

“Whatever you need to tell yourself, darling. I’ll come find you later tonight.”

Even now, Fallon has no plans to admit to Astarion that she enjoyed the sharp, icy pain that occurred when he bit her. There is no denying it’s an intimate gesture, willingly letting the vampire feed on her. It requires a level of trust that Fallon didn’t offer other people, and those other people were not actively partaking in an activity that could kill her if Astarion went too far. When Fallon feels herself becoming light headed, she reaches forward with her free hand and taps Astarion twice on his shoulder, just like she used to do. The vampire (thankfully) hadn’t forgotten their signal, and he pulls away from her instantly.

Astarion leans back against the headboard and offers her a sideways smile. “I’d forgotten how good you taste.”

Fallon snorts. “You don’t need to flatter me,” There’s an apple in her bedside table, she remembers, and she leans over to open the drawer to retrieve it. “I’ve already agreed to help you with whatever it is you came here for.”

“Oh yes, I’d almost forgotten in all of the…excitement,” Excitement was certainly one way to put it, Fallon thinks, and she stares at her friend expectantly. “As you know, I’ve been out traversing the Sword Coast in search of a way to get the sun back. I have a lead, but it’s not exactly local.”

Fallon sits up a little straighter. “Go on…”

“According to my sources, there’s a vampire coven in Asha, and they’re sunwalkers.”

“Asha?” Astarion nods in reply and Fallon lets out a low whistle. “You weren’t kidding when you said it’s not local.”

When Astarion said it wasn’t local, Fallon assumed he was going to drag her to Cormyr or Amn. It never even occurred to her that Astarion could be asking her to leave Faerun altogether. Asha, The City of Starlight, was located in the easternmost tip of the Faerun’s neighboring land to the northwest, Velrea. Though calling Velrea “neighboring” was a bit of a stretch, seeing as nearly a thousand miles of ocean separated Velrea from Faerun. Fallon dug through the archives of her brain to try and picture where exactly Asha was in relation to Faerun, and where the nearest port in Faerun to sale to Asha would even be. Though her highborn education was extensive, Fallon’s memory of geography was not the best. Though she did not need to be an expert in geography to know that it would take much longer than a month to get to Asha and back.

“I guess we’re not going to the Winter Solstice ball at Wyrm’s Rock then, are we?” She muses.

“Oh please, I don’t plan on leaving until after the holidays are over. You know me better than that. A full slate of soirees where people are guaranteed to worship the ground I walk on because I saved their lives? Like I’d miss that.” he laughs, and Fallon can’t help but laugh a little too because he’s right. She does know him better than that to assume he’d miss a good party.

“I remember a time when you once told me you hated being the hero.” Fallon teases, shaking her head.

“Yes, well, people can change you know,” he shrugs. “Besides, based on what I’ve observed, you my dear are in no state to depart for another adventure.”

Fallon scowls at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“What do you think it means, darling? When was the last time you went more than a day without nearly drinking yourself to death? Don’t bother lying to me either, because I do hear things from the others…I believe you referred to it as us “gossiping” about you last night.”

Fallon opens her mouth to argue, to tell him that she has absolutely gone more than a day without drinking herself into oblivion every night and their friends are wrong, too. Truth be told, she can’t give him an answer because she legitimately doesn’t remember. Fallon closes her mouth again with a huff, and Astarion smirks at her. “That’s what I thought.”

“So what do you suggest we do for the next month, then?”

“Well first of all, you need to sober up. Then I imagine we need to get you in the sparring ring with Wyll, because your sword is looking quite dusty in the corner over there.” Astarion nods in the direction of Fallon’s most prized possession: the sword she inherited from her father when he passed. Astarion was right. She hasn’t touched it since the day they saved the city. There hadn’t been a need for it. Not only has her living situation since saving the world been entirely gratis, but so has the food she ate and the alcohol she drank; and she rarely left The Elfsong unless one of her friends dragged her out. Needless to say, the pile of gold Fallon was rewarded a year ago was sitting in her vault at the bank, almost completely untouched.

“What about you? Don’t tell me that you’re battle ready, Astarion.” Fallon challenges.

“I’ve spent the last four months traveling across Faerun looking for answers, and it definitely wasn’t a walk in the park,” He counters and Fallon frowns again because, once again, Astarion is right. He’s probably seen battle much more recently than she has. “Besides, you don’t need to ask me to spar if you want me to put you on your back in a matter of seconds, darling. You only need to ask.” The wink he shoots her is gratuitous, but it makes Fallon smile nonetheless. Many things have changed since she met Astarion, but the vampire being an insufferable flirt? That was apparently forever. Fallon rolls her eyes. “Fine. Tell Wyll I’ll train with him.”

As if on cue, a sharp knock rings out against the wood of the door to her suite and Fallon nearly pulls a muscle in her neck at the speed with which she looked to the door and back at Astarion. The smirk remains on the elf’s face and Fallon just stares at him incredulously. “Did you fuckers plan this?”

“In a manner of speaking. I may have mentioned to Wyll that I was coming to see you, and I may have mentioned I had plans to get you out of this godforsaken tavern, and that it might be useful to me if you were in battle-ready shape. Wyll was all too happy to assist. You know how those hero types can be.”

“Bastards.” Fallon mutters to herself as she gets out of her bed and heads for the door, not even caring in the slightest that her legs were completely bare, or that she’d apparently slept in Astarion’s shirt. Wyll is far too cheerful when she opens the door for the hour of the morning it now is, and between the lack of sleep and her hangover, Fallon almost shuts it in his face. Still, she accepts the embrace from her friend anyway, because she missed him.

“Now Fallon, I’m not sure how much Astarion told you about why I’m here, but you will need to put on trousers before we proceed.” Wyll grins, and Fallon can’t help herself when she throws up her middle finger in Wyll and Astarion’s direction as she stomps towards her dresser to find pants.

“Nice to see our girl is still in there somewhere.” Astarion calls after her, and Fallon can’t help but smile.