#the storm i described? there was rain in the first few days of the month so i stuck it there

[quaranmine]

okay i know i have gotten a lot of comments about the level of detail in firewatch au! (and im kissing all of you who have complimented me on that on the mouth)

but there is also just. insane extra detail in here that Nobody will get. for instance there is a scene in chapter five that i am writing at night, and i initially wanted it to be a dark night, but i literally looked at the calendar for 1989 and saw that during the approximate time of month i needed this scene to be in, that it was a full moon, so i changed the description to account for that. literally nobody would have known this but me SDLFJSFKLSDJF

[jazzyoranges]

Late nights - drabble

Tara Carpenter x fem!reader

Summary: sorry anon, i accidentally deleted the request 😓 but they asked for me to write a fic with tara in fem!reader’s hoodie (aka cuddly tara strikes again)

Words: 0.9k

A/n: hopefully a lil something to get me out of my writing slump. let’s hope this isn’t too bad considering i haven’t written in a few months 😅

You really didn’t mean to be out for so long

First your boss asks you to do one favor, then another, and next thing you know you’re at work for 4 hours more than you’re supposed to be. The asshole didn’t even pay you for all the extra shit you did! You made a mental note to go job hunting this week.

Maybe the gay club was looking for a stripper? Nah. Your girlfriend would get jealous

So you were angry. Angry about your paycheck

Next a few storm clouds roll up that night. Of course you forget to bring your rain jacket that day. Not to mention, rain feels like hail stones when you’re on your motorcycle. Apparently it’d be a cold day in hell before you dressed right for the weather

So along with being angry, you were cold and wet. Shitty might’ve been the lightest way you could’ve described your day

At least you could come home to your wonderful girlfriend in an apartment of your own. It took lots of convincing and hundreds of game nights to convince Sam to even accept the idea of you and Tara being alone together. Fortunately you were blessed with patience and homosexuality — two things that could withstand Sam’s will to protect her sister

Was the older Carpenter’s place on the floor right above you and Tara’s?

…

Yes. Yes it was.

But if it made your girlfriend and her sister happy, you had no reason to not be as well. Other than the elevator that never fucking worked but that was out of their hands

Your shirt and hair were absolutely soaked in rainwater by the time you reached your apartment door. The was a small trail of water behind you from where you walked but that might’ve been the least of your concerns. Fishing around in your damp pants for your keys, you fortunately find them without much effort

Opening the door with as little energy you can, you lock the door behind you and triple check you locked it just like Sam told you

Not wasting any time you slide off your wet shirt in the middle of your living room, throwing it on a chair and missing the younger Carpenter waiting on the couch for you half asleep

“Baby?” Tara rubs her eyes. You stand in the middle of your hallway like a deer in headlights. You were awfully vulnerable while wet and almost naked. Who knew.

Before you can respond, there’s shuffling behind you then something weighted and warm on your back. Tara’s leaning into you with her arms around your torso while you’re wet and almost naked in the middle of your hallway. What a sight.

“Why were you so late? You’re working tonight…” Your girlfriend’s hand dips a bit below your waistband and you have to resist the urge to shiver. From the cold? From Tara? Only god knew

“My boss had me do extra shit. I’ll find a different job that doesn’t have me out so late” You turn around to face Tara while her arms were still around you “I promise”

The younger Carpenter only hums into your chest without any sign of moving. So you don’t. It gives you the chance to really soak in the moment along with the rainwater on your skin. You only pull away when your girlfriend also starts to shiver

Of course she’s wearing nothing but a hoodie

Specifically, Tara’s wearing nothing but your hoodie

“How long have you been fighting sleep? Go to bed, love” You pick up your girlfriend with her legs wrapped around your waist and her arms loosely thrown around your neck

“Since you decided you hated me” Tara mumbles into your shoulder

“When was that?”

“When you didn’t come home on time”

“And I gave you a reason why I was late”

“Which doesn’t excuse you, because you could’ve hurried up” Tara plays with your bra strap as you stop walking toward your shared bedroom

“What I’m hearing is, you don’t want to take a late night shower with me? Even after a long day of work, where you could help me de-stress?” You say with a certain smugness in your voice

Your girlfriend whips her head up at your offer but you’ve already made it to your shared bed, not wasting a second to plop her down

“Waitbabypleaseididn’tmeanit-“ You’re already in the bathroom as Tara’s trying to scramble to you

“What? Sorry, love! Can’t hear you over the shower”

You had a childhood cat that always followed you around when you were younger. Tara reminded you of when your cat would scratch at the door whenever you went to the bathroom. Your girlfriend even had the scratching down just like your cat

When you were about to hop in the bath for a quick shower, something stops you from getting in. The imagery alone that Tara is probably leaning against the door waiting for you to get out is enough to pull at your heartstrings

You weren’t mean. You missed Tara as much as she missed you. It’s why she always wore your hoodies and you always took her shirts that fit you

So against your better judgment and the water bill you’re going to have to take Advil for, you unlock the bathroom door but you don’t open it

You’re both in the shower and you’re in Tara less than a second later

[myladysapphire]

My Lady Strong (I)

Aemond had always been protective of his neice, obssessed even, insiting on keeping her sheltered, and purley his, he never let her stray far and following the incident at Driftmark, Aemma was rarley without Aemond as her shadow. How will the kind, sheltered girl fair in the dance of dragons?

word count: 1,645

CW: childbirth, Aegon being Aegon, Bullying, child abuse, fear of the dark, refrences to torture, loving parents, oc is described to have brown hair, streaked with silver and purple eyes

Fem!oc x Aemond Targeryen (can be read as x reader)

Masterlist | series masterlist | next part

disclamer:  i do not own any of claim any of the A song of ice and  fire charecters, all rights belong to GRR MARTIN, all charecters are his  except for my OC          

When Rhaenyra fell pregnant for a second time, she knew it would be different.

For the birth of Jacaerys, her pregnancy was followed with mass celebrations, house Veleryon showering her with gifts, proud that a child with Velaryon blood would sit on the iron throne. But after his birth, the celebrations ceased. Whispers swept through the court, questioning his birth. But after a few months, many came to the agreement it was his grandmother Rhaenys Baratheon’s blood shining through, she once looked more Baratheon than Targeryen and the child was merely taking after her.

But then she fell pregnant again, and though she was once more greeted with celebrations, the court held its breath.

One child born with the Baratheon looks was one thing, genetics was a mystery and it was pure chance he had brown hair and eyes.

But if this child too had the ‘Baratheon looks’ then it would all but confirm the rumours queen Alicent spun.

But that was not why Rhaenyra felt this pregnancy to be different, unlike her first pregnancy, she had different symptoms, morning skinniness, new cravings, and where before she had always had clear skin she was getting pimples and spots. She hoped for a girl, having always wanted a little sister, and now she would have a daughter. She had only ever imagined having girls, and though she was not disappointed at having a boy when the masters spoke of their predictions of it being a girl, she got a little jump in her step.

So, when she went into labour, whilst the court held its breath waiting for the legitimacy of her children to be confirmed, she held her excitement over having a daughter.

The day of her labour was not cheerful, the skies were grey and cloudy and when her contractions began rain fell from the sky, a storm from Stormsend having reached KingsLanding.

With the wind rattling against the windows, and thunder striking down from the sky, the family waiting outside, Viserys pacing the halls. Alicent biting her nails. This labour was tough, though Jacaerys birth had been easy, this had taken double the time his had, her screams, louder than even the storm raging outside. And when it all stopped the family feared the worse.

The young prince Aemond, only eighteen moons old had awoken, screaming insisting he is with his mother. Only to arrive just in time to hear his niece's screams and his eldest sister's laughter.

He rushed into her room, not even allowing time for his father to check on his daughter, before jumping up (as well as a toddler could) and sitting next to his sister insisting on holding his niece. Tired from the labour Rhaenyra agreed.

When her father and Alicent finally entered, they were quick to approach. Alicent caught a glimpse of black hair streaked with silver.

“A girl?” Viserys questioned, smiling down at the babe in Aemonds arms.

Nodding, Rhaenyra smiled “Aemma” she declared, causing a delighted laugh to leave Viserys mouth.

“She looks just like her, the Arryn genes are strong with her it seems, she even has your mother’s eyes.” And she did, Arryn blue eyes, not violet, as she had dreamed, but perfect.

She had attempted to take Aemma back from  Aemond, but he had not let go, simply smiling and babbling to his niece, his Aemma.

As the years went by Aemond continued to stay with Aemma, scarcely letting her stray from his sight, his hand always holding hers. Where one was, the other was always near. Being the only two without a dragon, his never hatching, and her own destroyed along following the storm on the day of her birth, they had the same lessons, with no dragon lessons, they were very rarely apart.

Aemma had grown into a sweet, beautiful, and intelligent girl. Her looks compared to that of her great-grandmother, Daella, alongside her sweet nature. She had an innocence around her, being the middle child and only girl of her mother, her mother wished to preserve the child-like wonder for her daughter, wishing to grant her daughter the childhood of being the heir and the only child of a king stolen from her. Aemond was all too pleased to keep her like this, wanting to preserve her wonder, her need for him. Though book smart, the sheltered life she lived kept her from the real world. She was even protected from rumours, though they still were whispered, all desired to keep her from them.

She was a kind girl and underserving of the cruelty of court, but even that did not protect her from her family. Alicent had always been fond of her, always allowing her near her children, being kind, braiding her hair and even commissioning gifts for her. She was close to Heleana, the pair, whenever Aemond left her alone, often found each other’s company. Aemma was one the few people to share her interest in insects, even going out of her way to collect any that she thought Heleana might enjoy. But Aegon and her brothers were another story. Aegon was a jealous person, envying his niece for the kindness his mother never found him, so he took it out on her.

When Jacaerys let slip Aemma’s fear of the dark, an idea struck him.

The black cells.

Aemma rarely slept alone, with Aemond often sneaking in and sleeping with her, hating the moments apart even when they sleep. When he was sick, they often slept apart, his fear of catching his illness, however little or contagious it was. And her chambers always had candles lit for when she did sleep, a reassurance that whatever lurked in the dark was stopped by the glow of a candle.

Aegon waited for Aemond to fall ill, for a time he knew she would be alone. And snuck into her chambers, her brothers by his side.

It was the dead of night, the boys aged 9 and 6 tired but willing to please their uncle, snuck into her rooms and carried her through the keep down to the third level of black cells.

Being a deep sleeper, she didn’t wake once, not even flinch when Aegon picked her up and then dumped her in the cells.

They had run off giggling, thinking it a brilliant prank, and a way to cure her of her fear, as Aegon put it.

They had thought it would be overcome morning, that she would wake in the dark before finding the door and leaving.

None of them expected her to be locked in there for a week, they did not know the doors were locked and only opened from the outside.

The keep was in disarray searching for her, neither boy spoke up, fear of their punishment keeping them.

Aemond was driving everyone mad, ordering and screaming for her to be found. He was normally a shy quiet boy, unsure of himself. But with his Aemma missing all that was left of him was a madman.

The rest of the keep was in disarray. All guards were on the lookout for the princess, searching high and low. She had completely disappeared, without a trace.

The boys were growing nervous, they couldn’t admit to what had been done and they feared the black cells too much to return and retrieve her.

Aemma had woken in complete darkness, she could even see her hand it was so dark.

She could hear screaming as if they were her own, but she didn’t notice, she didn’t even notice as she crawled forward in her small cell and pounded on the door, begging to be let out. Or as she threw her guts up after hours of screaming and pounding.

She did notice when it all went quiet. When even her screams stopped when the screams of the criminals being tortured turned quiet.

She didn’t know how much time had passed, there was no way to tell day from night.

She slept when she collapsed, her tears lulling her into a tormented sleep, her stomach empty and churning.

She had no food nor water, the dungeon master had no clue she was down here, and no one did.

 Not until a week had passed and Aemond dreamt of the black cells. She had refused to rest till she was found, but collapsing from exhaustion lead to his dream, leading his startling awake, and his racing to the cells. Ser Criston Cole was quick to follow him, though he did not care for the girl he still had a duty as a kingsguard. She was found after three hours of searching, three hours of Aemond shouting and ordering guards to search every cell on every level.

Ser Harwin Strong found her, he and her mother had, like Aemond, not stopped, fearing the worse, had not rested. When he found her she was sitting in the corner, head between her legs, rocking back and forth, tears streaming down her face. She was thin, with chapped lips, her face red and puffed with her never-ending tears.

She screamed when the light poured in, shuffling back into her corner.

“Aemma” Harwin breathed, before alerting the rest of the guard, Aemond came running over, taking her into his arms.

“Aemma” he cooed, taking her hand, she had flinched back from Harwin when he took her hand, but with Aemond she took it, and jumped in his arms, tears falling from her eyes once more. “it’s ok…it’s ok… your safe now” he spoke softly, stroking her hair.

Maesters were quick to attend to her, she was weak and dehydrated. And her mind was still in a panic. She refused to let go of Aemond, using him as a shield when her brothers and Aegon paid her a visit.

She never said who had done it, but her distance and new timid nature around her brothers and uncle was proof enough for Aemond.

But he couldn’t do anything, he was a victim of their bullying. Though they never did something similar or remotely as cruel again, Aemonds crazed state was enough for them to leave Aemma and him alone, at least until the pink dread.

a/n more of an intro chapter, half edited

next part

[iaminfourthwing]

The Generals Daughter

a/n: finally the first chapter is here and the next one is almost ready for upload. I apologize in advantage, because I am still a bloody beginner in terms of writing. still, enjoy!

Chapter I

Conscription day will forever be one of the deadliest every year, right before Threshing. Ever since the first time I witnessed this from afar I hate it with all my heart. All year I have the same “privilege”, how my father would call it, to watch the candidates, that passed the entrance exam six month prior, fall to their death. And those who survive the Parapet either graduate or going to get killed – due to other cadets or dragons. One wrong move and all you will be is dead meat.

Today is possibly my last day on earth. I have to cross the Parapet myself to get into the Riders Quadrant but according to the General, I will just do fine – I am a Melgren and I have ten years of training in my bones after all. I am still not so sure about this, but I have no say in this. Not anymore.

Somewhere in between these masses of candidates must be a certain other general daughter and I really fucking hope she survives this. Even though she doesn't look like she could kill a fly, I believe wholeheartedly in her. She is strong and if someone can do this, it's her, even if she doesn't knows it yet. I tried to talk to her mother but she wouldn't budge, nothing would change her mind. Even Mira tried it more than once and if the General isn't listening to her, then she won't listen to anyone.

The orders from my father five days ago were clear – wait till the end, when everyone else is done, then I'll cross the Parapet alone. On the other side at the entrance to the quadrant will wait a third year that'll bring me to formation into the Dragon Rotunda. Commandant Panchek is informed that I'll join the Quadrant and which wing.

And with that I am waiting, and waiting, and waiting.

I have a good spot to observe these kids, trying to survive this death trail and see some of them already fall. I don't understand how some of them want to become a rider after all. So many of them volunteer to join the quadrant while others don't have a choice, like me. Malek lingers at every possible corner and no one is safe from him. Having a dragon might be “thrilling”, how many officers describe it, but till you possibly get to this point you could be dead, or worse.

These dragons are terrifying, like that beast of a dragon my father bonded all those years ago, long before I was born.

The weather isn't in anyone’s favor today – the storm took a turn at some point. Even though the sunrise was beautiful, it left a bitter aftertaste as the dark clouds covered the sky. For some of them it was their last sunrise ever.

It's been more than two hours since the first one entered the Parapet and there aren't many candidates left. I make out a figure striking over the stones like they own this place and – did they just threw another candidate down?!

My heart starts racing, my breathing becomes uneven, and I feel like I'm having a panic attack. Shit, now?!

`Take a deep breath, Arya. You`ll do this alone, no one can throw you down and no one will interrupt you.’

I just really hope I`ll never have to meet this asshole. I may look tough and have more fighting experience than others, but those people are unpredictable. And I certainly don`t have my father’s signet to see if I could win a fight against him, so I really want to avoid this guy.

A knock on the door interrupts my train of thoughts and when I turn, one of the officers from infantry stands at the door. “It's time” is the only thing he says. Shit.

Around fifteen minutes later I find myself lingering at the edge of the Parapet. No one else is around, the officer walked away the moment, I stepped foot into the tower.

Only a few centimeters separate me and the abyss. Just a few centimeters left and then I'll be out in the open while the rain thankfully eases into a slight drizzle.

`Okay Arya – you`ve got this. Take a deep breath – and step forward.’

Well … it takes me about three minutes, with stumbling and cursing the shit out of every person that crosses my mind, to reach the other side and I am nearing the entry to the famous Riders Quadrant. Just like father told me, a third year is already waiting for me, looking annoyed. But it's not like he can disobey a direct order from above. “Finally, they are about to start” he grumbles. Hello to you too, grumpy, but I know better than to aggravate him, since he has a dragon that could incinerate me before I even have the chance to hide.

We make our way through the empty corridors of the college while I try to sort my thoughts. I really survived the Parapet and now I am allowed to call myself a cadet. Still alive and can't fucking believe I am now part of this hellhole. I already imagine the way the General will stand in his office and rant about how it was predictable that I would succeed. “She is a Melgren after all and it would have been a waste of time if she didn't survived.”

Faint voices in the distance interrupt my thoughts, which get louder with every step we take but before we can even walk out into the biggest courtyard one has ever seen, the chattering grows quiet.

“Three hundred and one of you have survived the Parapet to become-“

The third year, I have yet to know his name, and I interrupt Commandant Panchek, who stands on the dais in front of the cadets.

“I apologize, Commandant, but it's three hundred and two.”

There is a heavy silence that spreads over the rotunda. I stand behind the tall rider, most of the curious glances immediately find him, only a few of them spot me behind. Great.

[mayasaurusss]

Day thirty: Search for me in the night. Sweetpea masterlist

A/N: a few things. First, I have not yet watched the show, so this version of Rhiannon is what I gathered about her from other fics I've read. This might have some errors about her personality or the show all together. Secondly, I haven't proofread this :')

Contains: light smut, description of wounds, not proofread.

How much time has it been? One week? A month? Years? You don't even remember why you kept on following, but you know it's your only option, it's your duty. Your boots sink in puddles of water, grimed by mud and fallen leaves; the harsh cold autumn wind bends the trees and hits your face, making an uncomfortable feeling rise from the tip of your nose to the end of your cheeks. What the priest had told you was that there was something that you'd have to take care of, something that "Your kind surely knows how to handle". You hadn't liked how he said it. Still, you continue, searching and asking around for your target: a young woman with brown hair. That's all you knew about her, despite the fact that she was described as begin an outgoing person and that she had a mole on her right cheek.

You were closer to your target by now: during your travels you met a vendor, a woman who had pinpointed you to where the woman went, as well as telling you tales of the creature that roamed the forest in the dark dead of night. You knew nothing more than this, and you thought to yourself that "Maybe, next time that priest gives me a job to do, I'll ask for more details".

The road is winding, difficult to walk on through the slippery mud and vines poking at your legs. You are short out of breath, and the road just keeps on going. You have been walking on this hill inside the forest's heart for a while now, maybe twenty minutes, and the rain has begun to fall down on your body heavily, making your journey less than pleasant. If you only could, you'd fall to your knees and hit the ground, giving up on your research. But you can't, you won't. Just as you were about to give up, you see something in the distance: a path that unravels to an old manor, much bigger than any you've ever seen. It looks old, like it has been there for centuries, but has been well maintained through time. You can see the dancing reflection of fire from inside one of the rooms, giving you the urge to run inside and dry yourself in its warmth. But as much as you feel relieved to have found shelter, you know not of letting your guard down. No, the difficult part has just started.

You let five minutes pass, eyes vigilant to see if anything weird happens, before you make a bee line to the manor's door. You know on the heavy wood door one, two, three times before they're swung open. A brown eye peers at you, sizing you from head to toe. Whoever is behind the door is silent, waiting for you to talk first and tell them your troubles. "Good evening ma'am! I have-" you swallow your saliva, watching how the stranger's eye is suddenly very interested in your neck. "I am sorry to have disturbed you, but I've been caught by a storm. Is there any chance I could ask for shelter?".

As if just now understanding the meaning of your words, the stranger's eye lids up and you hear her voice for the first time. "Sure, come on in!".

The manor looks huge inside; darkness seeping into every corner, high walls that seem to continue on forever and a grand staircase that leads to the first floor. You are so awestruck in admiring the room that you don't notice the woman who has been standing near you all this time. "If I hadn't seen the strength of the storm outside, I would have thought that the only reason you came in was to take my home away from me!". You feel the heat of embarrassment creeping on your cheeks and turn around to see the most beautiful woman you've ever seen smiling at you.

She has an aura to her person that makes you want to fall down and worship her. You are so enraptured by her beauty that you don't immediately notice the mole on her right cheek. Your target.

You quickly clear your throat, hoping she didn't notice your strange behaviors, and put on your facade quickly. "I am sorry miss, I hope I'm not too much of a bother" she simply hums, looking at your state, "Not at all, and please call me Rhiannon".

"Follow me" with that, you follow her to the first floor of the house, making your way through the darkness. "This manor is centuries old," she explains, "my family has never intended to install any light system, so during winter most of the rooms are dark. We'll have to walk using this" she lights a candlestick and takes your hand, walking you through the hallways. "Why don't you light some oil lamps then?" you can't see her but you hear her laugh, suddenly sounding much more sinister in the dark. "You never know. I wouldn't want my house to be set on fire, it's best if I can see it directly".

Finally she stops at a door and walks inside, leaving you in the dark hallway. You feel shivers run along your spine, the unnatural silence getting to your nerves. You are not sure if those whispers you hear is the wind hitting against the windows or a figment of your imagination. Sooner than you expected she comes back with fresh clothes and a towel. She roughly dries you off and hands you the clothes. "Dry yourself then get changed and come back to the living room. We wouldn't want you to get sick would we?".

She hands you the candlestick then walks away, heading to the living room once again. "Wait!" you call out to her, "Don't you need this?" you ask, gesturing to the candlestick. "Don't worry" she says "I can see in the dark just fine".

"Besides, you'll need it more than me" her voice gets lost inside the house's hallways, stopping abruptly. You enter inside the room she just came out of and change yourself quickly, trying to pay no mind to your crippling fear. When you come back down she's in the living room, resting on one of the armchairs. "About time you came down" she gestures to a chair she put beside the fire. "Sit down, dry yourself by the fire".

You sink on the armchair, feeling the warmth of the fire on your skin. "Have you eaten?" she asks, standing up and moving to walk to the kitchen. "I haven't" you hear rustling from the other room and she comes back minutes later with some cookies and hot tea. "I don't have anything else, I'm sorry" you just smile in return, not making any comment. You spend the evening chatting, listening to the story of her life and telling her yours. By the time the fire needs to be fed again, you fell asleep. You are so deep in your dreams that you fail to hear the scraping of a chair begin moving against the floor. As autumn and winter come, it's been harder and harder getting anything under her teeth. The storms are too strong, the snow too heavy and nothing that is alive walks those hills. She has been waiting a long time for this. She can already taste blood on her tongue, swirling inside of her mouth. From behind the chair she stands above you, bending over to reach for your neck. With one hand she supports your head while the other tightens on your shoulder. It looks so inviting, she thinks and bares her teeth, getting ready to bite down.

Just as she's about to sink her teeth in, you wake up. "R-Rhiannon? What's going on?" as if her skin was burnt, she quickly retreats. "I am sorry to have woken you up. I just wanted to tell you that I have a spare bedroom for you to sleep in. "You just hum groggily, "Actually, I'd rather sleep here by the fire. If that's okay with you?".

She tries to shove her anger down her throat, biting her lip. "Sure, rest well" she smiles and with that, disappears into the shadows.

The morning after you hear Rhiannon walk down the stairs, her steps heavy against the steps. "Good morning, have you slept well?" you just hum in response, stroking the sleep out of your eyes. "Has the storm passed?". Rhiannon looks outside to see rain pouring down and obscuring the windows, "Not yet. It's best if you stay here a bit more " you notice she's putting on a coat, and ask her "Are you going out?" .

"I need to buy some food if you stay here" she opens the door, letting the cold wind speed inside, "Don't steal any of my things! I'll know".

That last part sounded more threatening than you'd like, but you just wave at her goodbye and wait for the door to be closed again. As soon as you see her figure disappearing into the trees, you scour the mansion. You explore, study its hallways, search for any incriminating things that may pinpoint if she's indeed the target of your search. "A monster, that woman is" the priest had told you, "a leech. Your kind surely knows how to handle them".

A 'leech', a vampire. It was hard to believe that woman was one of them, but there was something to her that you knew was wrong. Curse the fact that you fell asleep yesterday's evening, who knows if she let a side of her sleep out of her control while you were sleeping. You search but don't find anything, only books containing her family's history. Before Rhiannon comes back, you make sure to hide the tools you had hid in your clothes in one of the corners of the house, in the first room Rhiannon had gone into. You hear the door open downstairs. "Shit!" you hide the stake in a closet underneath a pile of old clothes, before hurrying downstairs.

"Exploring much?" you hear Rhiannon ask you from the kitchen and you draw in a sharp breath, "Uhm, yeah sorry about it". "There's nothing to be sorry about. This place is big, it's best if you know it's halls". She has bought many things: meat, vegetables, bread and some sweets. "For today's afternoon snacks" she says, noticing at how you're eyeing the cookies, "Just a little treat for my sweet guest". You heat up a bit hearing how she called you. 'Sweet'. That is a good compliment, but slightly creepy coming from a suspected vampire.

You spend the afternoon watching the rain fall down, chatting and reading from Rhiannon's stash of books. "The storm seems to never stop" you mutter into your hand, watching the pools of water getting more and more full by the second. "You are unlucky. During this time of the year here, it always rains or snows". Great, you're trapped here with a stranger who presumably is a vampire with no way out.

"Oh, I get it".

As the days go on, the storm doesn't stop. With the rain falling down more and more harshly, Rhiannon becomes more and more furious. She lashes out at you out of the blue, inconsistently. You try to not let her words affect you because you know that they hold no real meaning behind them.  You have noticed how she becomes paler by the day, and despite consuming an alarming amount of meat, barely cooked, she looks like a starving woman.

"I'll go to my study" she tells you, putting on a smile which you know it's just a fake to hide her distress.

"Don't follow me" it's all she says before disappearing into the manor's shadows. You move behind her, as quiet as a mouse, following her through the maze that is her home. Hallway after hallway, turn after turn you move inside the house, trying to keep up with her pace. Since you've been following her, it seems she has begun to move faster and faster, unnaturally.

The chase has been going on for so long that you think she's testing you, secretly just moving in circles to drive you mad. She stops abruptly in front of a door and enters the room, leaving the door open and the opportunity for you to quietly sneak behind.

You steal a glance at the room, sizing it up: dark, bigger than you'd thought, no escape other than the door.

Rhiannon is leaning on a desk covered in books and lit candles, mumbling something under her breath, distracted. If she truly is a vampire, this is the right moment to strike.

You grip the stake in your hand, shaking, a trickle of sweat falling from your brow. Every step you take is meticulously calculated, not one bit heavier than needed, not one second faster. You stalk, moving closer to your target, so close that you can taste the smell of her perfume on your tongue. Inadvertently, your attention is caught by a corner of the room. You notice how just that corner's stones have been painted sloppily, like whoever painted just gave up and left it to dry. It was coloured with the most deep red you've ever seen, beautifully haunting. A shame it seemed to start blackening under time's passage, forming clumps in the cracks between the bricks, following down to a stain on the floor.

You can vaguely make out the shape left by something that had been left there for a while, bloody hand prints tinting the gray stones.

"You are too slow, hunter" your blood runs cold and in an instant your body is slammed against one of the walls. Rhiannon is above you in mere seconds, gripping at your wrists with an inhuman strength. You can't make out her face, shrouded in darkness, but you can hear her breath, heavy and slow.

"Rhiannon! Let me go!" you struggle against her, trying to slip away from her grip. She grabs your stake and throws it away, "Why should I do that baby? You were the one that put yourself into this" she descends on you, breathing on your neck slowly, savoring the smell of your fear.

"Snooping around my stuff, spying on me..." you feel a cold sensation spread on your neck when you see her teeth bared, reflecting the candle lights.

'No... I want to live!' you use all your strength to kick her in the stomach, making her fall on the floor with a groan. You grab the stake and move to face her, ready for her next move.

"I thought you might be different!" you yell, readying your body for combat, "But you're just another blood sucking fiend!".

A bone chilling chuckle echoes in the dark, its owner's face made of shadows. "Just another blood sucking fiend? Oh baby" she delivers a strong blow to your chest, making the air escape from your lungs. Another blow on your jugular and you're falling on the floor, momentarily incapacitated.

She pushes you with her boot, holding you firmly between its sole and the floor.

"I am not just another blood sucking fiend. I have noticed how you look at me" she slowly descends down on you, stroking at your arms, silently admiring the strength behind them. "How you steal glances at me when you think I'm not looking" she squeezes one of your biceps with her hand, then twists the skin painfully, making a trickle of blood escape your veins.

"I bet you've thought about it for a long time" her hands reach for your neck and the stake. "How you've dreamt of taking me by the neck, sinking that thing you call a weapon in me, watching life fleet from me", the sexual innuendo is not lost to you and it makes heat travel up your body.

The stake is broken into billions of pieces in her hand, splinters falling on your face and in her flesh, faint traces of blood coloring her hand.

"But it didn't go as you planned, did it? Now you are the hunted one, and I will enjoy eating you alive".

She starts to kiss down on your jaw, taking time to take care of every patch of skin before her. "W-what are you doing?" she doesn't answer, too focused on traveling beyond the nape of your neck.

"You are enjoying this, aren't you?" her smirk is to die for, making you want to strip away your pride and just let her take you already. "As if" you mutter, trying to act cool, but the facade is broken as you feel her press teasingly against your crotch.

"Let's see about that" in a moment, your pants are stripped away, leaving you bare in front of your predator. "As far as I know about this, you're enjoying it way too much".

As she sinks her fingers deeply inside of you, she comes back up, leaning in to kiss you. Lips clash against one another, teeth bare and biting at the skin. She pushes her tongue past your lips, savoring every single one of your tastes. Meanwhile, her fingers speed up, hitting that spot inside of you that makes stars bloom behind your eyelids.

"Rhiannon!" you gasp, hugging her shoulders close to you. Her face is scrunched, focusing on the rhythm of her fingers plunging inside of you. You want her to talk to you, to tell you how good you've been for her, or how naughty you were. Rhiannon rolls her hips in the air, trying to mimic the feeling of trusting inside of you.

"You know what, my dear hunter?" she moves so that her hips rest against her hand, moving them in time with her trusts. "I think you don't put yourself in other's shoes enough", her breath fanning over your skin.

"Let me help" and as you reach your peak, she bites down on you, hard, drawing blood. She drinks from you, red blood tainting her lips. Her tongue pursues your blood, swirling it inside her mouth, savoring every single one of your tastes.

She sighs contentedly, feeling euphoric after finally feeding. "See, it wasn't so bad, was it?" she gives you a deadly smile. You notice how her blood is dripping from her wrist, almost seeping into your wound. Cold fear blooms in your chest, the reality of your situation setting in. She laughs, "Relax, love" letting go of your wrist.

"I'd love to turn you, but I'd much rather keep your blood warm for a little bit" you feel your heart sink, suddenly much more aware of the situation you are in. "Don't worry dear, it won't happen unless you ask me to" she stands up and brings you up with her, hugging your body close. "Come on, lover" she inhales your scent deeply, licking over the wound she gave you, "let's take this somewhere more comfortable".

[underforeversgrace]

the electricity within me surrounds me

DannyMay 2023 Day 8: Electric Core AU

(No I'm not over a week late what are you talking about???)

title: the electricity within me surrounds me

words: 1456

Summary/Excerpt? I don't really know how to describe this one so here's a singular line: Why was he having so much trouble controlling the static today?

~~~~~~

The surge under his skin made him grimace, deftly hiding the sparks that fizzled from him. Why was he having so much trouble controlling the static today? It had been months since the Accident had fried him like an old fuse. He hadn't had to deal with this since the first month or so. Yet today every slight brush of fabric on skin or gentle contact with anything metal made the sparks dance down his skin.

At least it wasn't painful like it had been those first few weeks, trying to hide the aftershocks of surviving through fatal electrocution.

He forced himself to ignore it, to ignore the now-familiar tingle of the electricity always surging beneath his skin, the hypersensitivity to it in everything around him.

Danny could feel the electrical current in his body, the shock his body created for every pump of his heart, the pulses of his thoughts. That alone was overwhelming and the fact he could feel the electricity traveling in the walls, in the ceiling, in the powerlines, had nearly driven him mad in the beginning. So much new sensory input, combined with his new naturally heightened hearing and vision, had been too much.

The portal beneath his bed sounded like a scream he couldn't escape.

Like all his new… everything, he had gotten used to it. Mostly. He’d adjusted. Still, that didn’t mean he was happy with the fact he felt like he was constantly licking a battery.

Still, Danny struggled to focus on the math test in front of him as pulses ran down every nerve. He almost wished he had Sam or Tuck in this class with him, they’d let him cheat off of them (after all, it’s not like him cheating would cause the death of everyone he loved and tragedy of world-ending proportions, that’d be too insane even for him). He did his best, answering questions with hopefully some modicum of success. This teacher gave partial credit for at least trying, so it wouldn’t be a flat out zero like all of his other classes at this point.

When the bell finally rang and he turned in his definitely-a-solid-attempt of a test in, he headed for his locker and promptly banged his head against it in aggravation. Which, considering he was basically a live wire today and the locker was made of metal… was not one of his best ideas.

“Ouch!” He said, jerking away and glaring at the locker like it was Skulker fucking with him at 3am again.

“Hitting your head against solid objects tends to hurt, I’ve been told.” Sam said, leaning against the lockers with a grin on her face.

Danny just grumbled something incoherently under his breath.

“Is everything o- ow!” She asked, trying to pat his shoulder comfortingly and getting shocked for her efforts. “The hell?”

“It’s been like that all day,” Danny whined. He glanced around the hall and made sure no one was looking their way before turning his hand intangible and shoving it through the locker to get his book for next class. He was not interested in getting shocked anymore than he had to. You’d think having what seemed to be a ghostly heart of electricity would give him some immunity to static shock but, nope, still hurt.

“Think it has to do with the storm?” She asked, keeping her distance from him now.

He’d never admit how much it hurt him that she had to do that when all he wanted was comfort yet all he was able to do was hurt her if she got too close.

“Storm? What storm? It’s just raining.”

“You really do miss everything, don’t you?” She teased. “Big storm is expected later today, it’s all Lance Thunder has been talking about for the past three days.”

It took everything Danny had to keep from slamming his head against the locker again. “I’ve been busy!”

“I know. But…” she trailed off, frowning slightly as she thought. “The storm is getting worse. Maybe you should go home if it’s already affecting you this bad? There’s not lightning yet, but…”

He groaned. “But if there is, I’m basically the pointy metal bit on the top of skyscrapers.”

“Bingo.”

Figures. He’d made it through half the day without leaving a single class to fight ghosts but now his own body was forcing him from the school. “Let Tuck know?” He asked, resigned.

“And make sure we take notes to cover what you missed. I know the drill by now.”

…had he really left so much that there was a drill to follow?

“Thanks.” He grumbled, intangibly shoving his books back into his locker.

“What’re friends for?” She teased and moved to bump his shoulder with hers, but caught herself before she actually made contact.

“Killing each other on accident?” He shot back, grinning. As traumatic as dying was, he refused to fixate on it. Even as it was trying to claw its way back through his skin. Maybe this was denial, though. Or just being used to pain like he was in now was just something he was so used to he managed to separate himself from it.

…even more reasons to never tell Jazz about his accident, then, because he was sure she’d have some very big, very complicated psychology words to describe him with.

“You’re fine, shut up.” She rolled her eyes and laughed. “Get outta here.”

Danny threw her an exaggerated salute then ducked towards the bathroom, sequestering himself in the last stall as he listened to boys enter and leave for the next several minutes until the tardy bell for the next class rang.

He felt when the first crash of lightning pierced the air outside, shortly after the last student had left the bathroom. Felt it charge through the air for less than a moment before fizzling away again, despite also for some reason being able to tell it had struck miles away. There was no pain, mercifully, but he suddenly felt more hopped up than that one time the summer before the Accident when he and Tuck had each downed ten energy drinks (that had been a wild night).

Yeah, Sam was right, he needed to go, and he needed to go now. He easily shifted into Phantom, the electric rings around him seeming brighter and more erratic than ever before. He was up and out immediately after, keeping hold of his intangibility as rain and wind buffeted through him, an odd sensation of cold going through his being.

He felt the next strike of lightning, though he saw this one, too, as it struck directly through him, cracked and jagged through the sky. Again, the feeling of way too much caffeine, though multiplied tenfold as the lightning seemed to go through that odd little ball of power Danny always felt in his chest.

If he was feeling that through his intangibility, maybe he should steer clear of large power sources. Like his house. Or… any forms of man made electricity. He quickly turned, changing his direction and blasting towards the edge of town, where woods surrounded Amity Park.

By the time he made it there and landed - still intangible - he’d been struck three more times in ten minutes. He had definitely made the right choice in getting far from civilization. He was so hopped up on power that electricity cackled from his every footstep, pools of energy left behind like footprints as he walked.

Danny grinned as he walked. He was amazed the continuous direct shocks of lightning didn't hurt but he so was not about to complain.

He pulled off his gloves, morbid curiosity taking hold of him. The Lichtenberg figures danced on his hand, glowing with pure white light, pulsing to a beat Danny couldn’t identify.

When lightning again struck him, he simply laughed and threw his arms out wide, absorbing the energy that made his scars glow brighter.

Right now, he felt no pain, no doubt, no fear, none of the emotions that had plagued him since he hit that button. All he felt was power, was control over the power. For something he had been so weary of for so long, he felt no concern now. His entire being was electricity, was power. And Danny wanted to get closer to it, to the sky, to the energy in the clouds only he could control.

So, he did. He flew, he ensconced himself within the storm, laughing with every powerful surge that went through him, until he was so full of power it almost felt like he was made of it.

He couldn’t help but wonder, as energy surged and soared within him, is this what it feels like to be a god?

[imtrashraccoon]

Writing Patterns/First 10 Lines Tag Game

I discovered @emeraldhazeart 's post on this but I'm afraid I don't know who started this game. It looked fun though so I spent like an hour digging up old links and writing this out lol

Rules: list the first line of your last 10 (posted) fics and see if there's a pattern!

I didn't realize I'd actually posted ten but here we go! Order is from oldest to newest and only includes the Undertale works I've posted on the internet.

Siren Call 2017 (Classic Timeline feat. my first Undertale OC. Currently abandoned but I have started to rewrite it.)

A catchy tune resonated from the speakers all over the grocery store.

The Hand We've Been Dealt 2019 on Quotev or 2023 on AO3 (Underfell Timeline feat. another OC. Still in progress.)

The sunset certainly was beautiful from up here.

Crazy & Cold 2023 (A Horrortale oneshot ten years post-surfacing.)

Most people probably would've called you crazy.

Nomadic Love 2023 (A post-Echotale oneshot.)

The sun glinted off the clear ocean waves as they lapped at the sandy shoreline before receding back into their bed.

THWBD: Rihanna Lives 2023 (Alternate timeline of The Hand We've Been Dealt.)

You walked carefully through the snow, cringing slightly from the loud crunching sound it made, interrupting the otherwise quiet winter morning.

The Nightmare of Apathy 2023 (An Undertale multiverse fic in progress.)

"Don't forget to refuel your lantern before you leave!"

Nightmare Cuddles 2023 (A semi-canon oneshot for The Nightmare of Apathy.)

The soft pitter patter of rain on the bay window had lulled you into a deep slumber hours ago but now had picked up into a torrential storm.

Have Some Empathy, Dear 2024 (An Undertale multiverse fic.)

It was a dreary day today, yet despite the overcast sky and brisk breeze that often whipped snow into your face, it was the nicest it had been in days.

The Shopping List 2024 (A Classic Timeline oneshot feat. Papyrus.)

With a heavy sigh, you shut your locker and locked it with the combination lock.

A Gentle Soldier 2024 (An Undertale multiverse oneshot.)

You were simple person, just doing what you could to get by in the world.

Conclusion: I am a very descriptive/visual writer and most of the time I start out my stories with describing where the characters are or what's going on. There are a few outliers of course but I generally go for this route and apparently have the entire time I've been writing Undertale fanfiction. I think there's always places I could improve of course but I can see that I have gotten better, even in the last couple of months.

[raeuberprinzessin]

Making Amends - Hazy - Prompt 18, Chapter 5

@felixmonth, @stainedglassm

Summary: For Felix Month 2021 - beware, the chapters are not in chronological order^^

When Felix loses a bet with his cousin, he has to make amends with Adrien’s friends. Well, at least this provides a good excuse to spent a lot of time with Adrien’s “very good friend”, a certain designer, who may or may not be described as tolerable … or cute. This may not be so bad. Yeah, not bad at all.

AO3 | Masterlist

Prompts: First | Previous | Next

Chapters: First | Previous | Next

"Nevertheless," continued Poirot, "in view of what has happened, the police there would like to have another look at the anonymous letter I received. I have said that you and I will go down to Andover at once."

An ear-piercing thunder outside the bay window made Felix jump. He looked up and realised to his surprise that he hadn't even noticed the dark clouds that had claimed the sky. When he had started reading The ABC Murders, one of his favourite Poirot novels by Agatha Christie, only a short while ago the sky had been a cerulean blue, dotted only by a few soft-looking clouds here and there. Now it seemed like the apocalypse had come, another great flood hell-bent on drowning all of Paris. The city lay almost abandoned in the darkness of the overcast sky, which was quite unusual for this hour. Strong winds ripped through streets and alleyways, jolting the shutters of the windows and shaking, no, nearly bending the trees lining the streets of the posh neighbourhood he lived in. The window pane was cold enough that his breath left a small spot on the glass. Another bolt of lightning illuminated the world outside the window for a few moments soon accompanied by its roaring thunder. Heavy drops of rain pounded against the window forming small rivulets as the water ran down the glass.

To be honest, it was the perfect weather for an afternoon reading session with his favourite detective novel. And still, the sudden change in weather didn't sit well with him.

Felix pulled out his phone to check the news. Maybe this was the result of an akuma attack? If he remembered correctly there had been an akuma with weather-based powers in the past. Weather Girl or Storm Witch or something like that. She, like practically every akuma victim, looked nearly as bad as every poor model who had to wear one of his uncle's creations. That was the one relevant information he took from Marinette's rant over text back then. The rant had started with her disappointment over her losing the chance to model with Adrien to the girl she babysat that day, although she was happy the girl had a good time. Felix deliberately forgot this detail and selectively remembered the complaint about the design of the one akuma he heard about before he caused three of them at the same time.

There had indeed been an akuma battle earlier but the victim hadn't possessed any weather powers. In the end, the hero duo won the battle with some safety pins. Felix was confident that the local heroine was well-versed in this item's utilisation.

The lights in the den suddenly turned on and Felix looked over to the door where his mother had just stepped into the room. “Felix, how often have I told you to turn on the lights and not read in the dark? You’re ruining your eyes by doing that,” she reprimanded him, but her voice was gentle. “I just noticed the storm when I heard the thunder. But thank you for turning on the lights,” he answered and looked out again, watching the spectacle for another minute before he wanted to return his attention to his novel.

“It’s really coming down now,” he heard his mother mutter. She had stepped to the window next to him and looked out with a frown. And as much as Felix would like to return to his book, he had a feeling that his mother actually wanted to talk to him about something. Of course, it could also be that she just didn't get the hint that the still-opened book in his lap was

“I just thought how a storm like this is the perfect weather for an afternoon with my favourite detective,” Felix told her and glanced back down to the pages of his novel. "The ABC Murders again?" she wanted to know. There was a slight smile on her lips when she looked at him, but Felix could read the worry in her eyes. He closed the book, showing her the cover to let her know that she was correct, and placed it next to himself.

"What's wrong? I can see that you are worried. Is it Gabriel? What did he do this time?" His mother shook her head. "No, Gabriel doesn't have anything to do with this. At least as far as I know. It's just …" She fell silent and turned fully to him.“Have you heard anything from Marinette?” she asked after a moment of silence.

Felix froze. Why would his mother ask about Marinette? He felt a bit queasy the more he mulled over her words. Was she just trying to make conversation? Or did she have another reason? There had been an akuma battle. Had his mother figured out who Ladybug was as well? Or did he give something away? He could have sworn he didn't change his behaviour after he found out. “Not since school today. Is there a reason you asked?” he carefully probed, trying to seem nonchalant about it. His mother turned back to the window and watched the storm, but her frown had deepened.

“I called Sabine earlier and asked her if we could get something delivered. Initially, she told me that the delivery man had to leave for an emergency, but right at that moment Marinette came back from babysitting the daughter of a friend and she said she would send Marinette to us,” she explained and finally sat down next to him.

“Mrs Cheng sent her daughter out into pandemonium?” he questioned in disbelief and gestured at the apocalyptic conditions outside. His mother shook her head. “That was before the storm. I guess Marinette had to take shelter when that akuma attacked. The battle took place right between the bakery and our building. And right after that, the thunderstorm started. I had hoped she might have sent you a message to let you know she would be late. But if she hasn’t …” His mother fell silent once more, visibly perturbed by the thought of a young teenager running an errand in a storm like this.

Felix picked up his phone again to take a look at his messaging app, but when he couldn't find a text or a voice message from his friend he tried to call her. He had no success, so he put his book down and stood up. “Felix? Where are you going?” He turned at the door back to his mother. “It’s not like Marinette to worry others. If she could, she would let us know she's late. So, I’ll go out to find her,” he declared.

“Felix, look outside! You can’t be serious! We can call the police-”

“I am perfectly serious, mother. If I’m not back or haven’t told you where I am in half an hour, you can still call the police. But I will go out and look for Marinette. After all, if anything happened to her it’s because you asked for a delivery when you could have sent someone. And I will also let Mrs. Cheng know not to spring more responsibilities on Marinette. She already seems to drown in all the burdens people just load on her.”

With that, he got a coat and decided with a look out another window against an umbrella and instead took a rain poncho to go out. The strong wind would have just ripped the umbrella from his hands.

Outside he could only see as far as a few meters. The rain came down heavy and shallow rivers ran down the streets. He tried to walk around at least the bigger puddles, but he couldn’t avoid them all and soon his feet felt wet and cold. He wasn't really angry and immediately regretted his harsh words. His mother had no idea about everything Marinette was juggling. It was his own worry that had made him react harsher than he usually would.

The streets were pretty empty. Most people probably took shelter when the akuma attacked and stayed there when the storm followed after, but he was pretty sure that wasn’t what Marinette had done. After being held up by the akuma she would have felt guilty for being late, so she would have tried to make it as fast as possible through the storm. The thought of her out here all alone gave him another freezing shiver which had nothing to do with the cold rain or the biting wind that found its way under his coat.

It only took ten minutes to find her. Felix had held his eyes open and when he found a person with black hair lying on the pavement he recognised the girl immediately. “Marinette?” Felix gently shook her shoulder and when she wouldn’t react he shook her harder. A groan stopped him. “Marinette?” he repeated with slight trepidation. “Felix?” she slurred and closed her eyes again. Felix looked at his phone to check the time. He could call an ambulance and wait with her, but he could bring her back to his apartment faster than the ambulance could be here. It was only a few minutes, he had taken longer to get here because he was searching and had to be sure since the visibility conditions were quite poor. But he could call his mother and have her call for a doctor and he could bring her to the apartment. By doing this he could try to get her warm and dry while waiting for a doctor.

Decision made he pulled the rain poncho off and draped it carefully over Marinette. After that he called his mother and let her know about his plan then he turned back to Marinette. Felix left the box with the bakery’s logo that had spilt next to her where it was. That stupid delivery was the reason she was in this state. Well, maybe one of the reasons. The pastries were soggy anyway, so nobody would eat them anymore.

The boy tried to pick up Marinette carefully. He made sure to cover her with the poncho as much as possible, so she would be protected from the rain for now. He also held her close to his chest in a desperate effort to share his remaining warmth with the sogging wet icy bundle in his arms as he made his way back to the apartment at a hurried pace.

“Felix?” he heard the girl in his arms rasp after he started walking back to his apartment. “Shhh, Marinette. Everything will be fine. I’ll bring you back to my apartment and we’ll get you dry and warm and comfy there, alright?” he reassured her, but he wasn’t sure whether she could hear him over the thunder and the rain pattering against the material of the poncho. Still, Marinette seemed to relax at his words. “Ev'ything's so hazy. 'don’ like it,” he heard her complain and he felt how she snuggled her face against his shoulder. “We will make the haze disappear,” he promised her after a moment he took to take a deep breath. Marinette just sighed and didn’t stir again until he was back at his building.

The lift couldn’t be fast enough and at the door, he rang the bell and knocked against the door. With his arms full of a bundle of unconscious designer he couldn’t unlock the door on his own. His mother opened, the worry and guilt written across her face. “You found her!” she exclaimed in relief. “Ines has prepared the guest bedroom for her. Ines? Can you help to get her out of her wet clothes? Felix, could you go and get some of your lounge attire? It’s probably still too big, but not as big as my clothes would be.”

Although Felix was loath to leave Marinette for even a second, he agreed that Marinette wouldn’t want him there when she was changed into dry clothes, so he left. In his wardrobe, he looked for the softest, comfiest clothes he had and soon returned with them to his mother. While he was waiting to be allowed back in he heard the bell ring and answered the door. It was the doctor his mother called. He allowed the woman in and led her to the bedroom. His mother came back out and waited with him in front of the door.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” she finally admitted. And Felix knew that. He wasn’t truly angry with his mother. Of course, she would assume it was fine if Marinette’s mother said so. He couldn’t blame this on her. He was just worried and his mother was there.

“I know,” he replied and offered her a hug which she accepted. “I’ll still need to have a serious talk with Marinette’s parents and with Marinette. She was lucky. Who knows if she would be as lucky the next time? She needs to take things slower or she needs someone to keep an eye on everything she does, so she won’t overdo herself.”

Actually, this wasn’t a bad idea. He was brilliant at planning and organising. Maybe Marinette would agree to have him manage her schedule. It would give him the perfect reason to spend more time with her as well. The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. He would approach Marinette about this when she felt better and not a moment earlier.

"Felix?" He looked away from the door to the guest room to his mother. "You're drenched. Go, take a hot bath or at least change into dry clothes as well. I'm sure Marinette wouldn't want you to get sick. The doctor is with her and Ines and I are here. It's going to be fine. You can take care of your own well-being now." She was right. Felix took a deep breath and let it go slowly. He felt the tension slowly leave his body and exhaustion settle in. If he took a bath, he would only fall asleep there, so he decided to just change his clothes. "Thank you, Mom," he croaked and turned away. The worry didn't leave him altogether, but the queasy feeling he had was barely there anymore only to return with a vengeance when he came back in lounge attire to see the doctor talk in a hushed and severe voice to his mother.

“-After enough rest, she should be fine,” the woman ended just as he arrived at the door. She couldn’t tell them more but would inform Marinette’s parents about the details. Felix wasn't satisfied with that, but there wasn't anything he could do. The doctor told them enough to properly take care of Marinette, any more information about her health would be reserved for her family. And after all, this was another way to let them know how dangerous the situation was, by a medical professional no less. He stepped into the room and sat down next to Marinette. No matter how tired he was, he wanted to assure himself of her health condition. Carefully he took her hand in his and gently stroked it. It pained him to see his fiery friend this vulnerable and fragile and he swore to himself, he would never allow anything like this to happen to her again. He would have to be there to prevent a repeat!

“Felix?” he heard Marinette mutter once more. Said boy felt his heart beat a bit faster and stronger. He changed his position so he sat down next to her on the bed and his fingers clasped her hand with a bit more force. “I’m here, Marinette. I’m with you.” The girl smiled a bit. “‘s not hazy an'more. ‘s comfy. Like promised,” she slurred and pulled his hand next to her face to snuggle it as she slipped back into sleep. Felix stayed right next to her on the bed until her parents arrived to bring her back home.

[callsign-rogueone]

Hey lovely ♡ how have you been doing lately? I hope you're feeling better.

I actually wanted to send earlier, but sleep hasn't been coming to me lately + I've been dizzy for some reason, (I hope that goes away soon, everytime I turn my head it starts spinning😵‍💫) theres also a storm eveyday here in belgium lately or a lot of rain, so im always fteched by the time im at school or home 💀 so everytime I come home I almost directly go to my bed.

I loved your Brennan intimacy alphabet. It describes him perfectly. I rebloged it with more of the things I liked in it (as if that wasn't everything 😅❤️ + i dont know if you can see these) but the one thing that keeps replaying in my mind is that bit from the scar over Brennans heart, I never stood still by the fact that he has a reminder of what happend that day🥺

Also the other one you did for Bren (older) loved it, he's so precious, he doesn't wanna take advantage of her. Such a caring man.

I saw that you're working on the next Liam chapter. I hope it's going well ♡ I really like the first one and I can't wait to see what's next for them. Just in general I can't wait to see what amazing stories you're gonna come up with ♡

I hope you're taking enough time for yourself and are not overworking. Make sure to get some rest, especially if you're still feeling sick ♡ I hope you have an amazing day, you deserve all the love ❤️🩷

Hi bb!! I’m feeling much better than I was earlier this week. I think I may finally be done with this cold. 🤞 it stopped raining here and it’s getting hot now instead which is worse to me lol

I’m glad you liked the two Brennan posts!! he’s everything to me 💗 (and I can see all the emojis except the very last one!)

He said it’s hard to mend himself, so I think he’d have a little scar there 🥺 and duchess definitely insists on cleaning and bandaging any wounds he gets since she doesn’t want him straining himself to mend them ❤️‍🩹

I’ve been taking time to read this week (just finished Assassin’s Blade!) + a lot of naps after work lol. I want to get a few more things posted before the end of the month, including Liam and Spark ch 2, which is coming tonight (as soon as I figure out a title for it…)

I hope school is going well and that the dizzy feeling goes away soon. love ya 🥰

[crescentisleart]

Mapped

(S:AD - Xero) (Xero recalling the first of his adventures in our Wonderland, and recalling… other things…)

So, it's been a month. A whole. Month.

One just doesn't make entire worlds in the course of thirty days. But then again, I'm not Kitten…

Crescent Isle is technically a small island, but only technically. A little patch of livable firmament over an ocean of Void, in the mind of a very pretentious and precocious person. Perplexing but expected.

The problem with mapping a place that exists in someone's mind is that, well, it never sits still. Like trying to measure an eel tip-to-tip. It wriggles and writhes. Oozes and undulates. And, in this case, it likes doing it the most when you try to do the measuring.

Kitten had recalled that flashes of light started appearing deeper into the forest. Back where the creepers thinned and the bushes fallowed, but the trees just grew and grew… Nothing had been there before. Just forest doing forest things. I mapped it earlier, but, as I've mentioned, that doesn't really mean much, now does it?

The walk was fairly nice. Only rains on the isle when it needs to. Only storms when it's stormy outside. When it's stormy for her.

The trees and brush change from tropic to temperate around four miles out from the hut. Around there, the path thins out, only the tiny hoofed ones trot through, and we tend to need to push the thistles and bramble out of the way to get any headway. I had timed this to try and get there by dusk, but I was maybe too adept at all this. Nowhere near time.

I stopped a moment, pull out my map, and look to where I should… most certainly be. 90% sure. Highly accurate. Drew it myself, remember.

Around the lower curve of the 'crescent' of the island. About three or four miles square of temperate forest, sheer drop to the east, rocky incline to the beach to the west.

At one point, Kitten had suggested that the whole place was a crater. I joked and said maybe a Crater Maker, one of the monsters she used to dream of, made it. She then became very quiet. And wondered if it was the crater she made when she got here.

Trees are wonderful things for a Naganin. Climbing is a clamber-y, clumsy thing for beings with limbs. But I can shapeshift. And nothing will get you up a tree like a few hundred pounds of reticulated, toned boa-like muscles lined with scutes instead of wiry little legs.

Yes, the snake was made a snake because 'sin', but, honestly, it's kind of a boon… Don't tell 'Him' that, tho…

In the crook of a great elm, I sat until the light in the sky dimmed… then sharpened as it the sun hit the horizon's edge. Oranges, yellows, reds, and purples. Quivering in the lens of sunset.

I'll have to bring Kitten here some time. Good view.

Not even as the edge of the sky deemed their performance over, did something catch the corner of my eye. Light. Lights. Of all sizes. Some large some small. All wavering and blinking in the growing dark. Hovering close to the ground, all around the tree.

Easy enough to observe. But hard to pinpoint. If there even was a pinpoint... If I wanted to center it, I'd have to climb down.

Nightvision is not an advantage when someone (or something) is putting on an impromptu light show. I circled the stand of trees they danced in as best as I could for at least three minutes. Probably longer. The lights moved elatedly, almost as though leading me. Corralling me. Guiding me… somewhere. They would hang just out of touching distance, then wait. If I turned around, they would shine brighter with a force that seemed to push me physically, back where they wanted me to go.

And they, as any light would, defied touch. They didn't even put off warmth, per say. Nor cast any shadows. Felt like shadows, too, almost. Cold. Shades that learned how to shine. Lights that put off no light.

… Hard to describe…

At some point, I figured out that the only way to actually find out what they were was to let them lead me rather than fight it.

And so, into the night we went.

Deep. Deeper. Deep enough that I started to question the actual amount of forest around me. The endless dark blue of the night sky became more and more displaced with inky, inky black.

And in the dark with lights that put off no light, I walked until all was dark. Until all was gone. Walking in a plane of nothing. Walking until the lights themselves winked away.

The trees thinned to complete openness. The bushes were no more. No sky. The ground now echoed like hardwood floors.

I almost slipped… belly scutes on smooth, polished surfaces: a crapshoot, at best.

'I should change,' I remember thinking, 'No use scuttling in one place like a pet constrictor in a tiktok...'

As I grew legs again, a new light called in the far distance. Not with sound, no, but called, nonetheless.

The light became two. Then four. Then eight. And then many. Many, many little lights. On a… frame? A triangle?

A tree.

Kitten told me, a LONG time ago, that once a year they bring a tree indoors and hang lights on it and sing songs about it and that it was the most awesome, coolest, blinky thing in the whole world.

A tree. A Christmas tree.

Specifically, a plastic pine or spruce tree. At least seven feet tall. The old box said 'Mountain King'. The thing was as old as her. Possibly older. Every year they'd drag it out of the garage, hook the whole thing together, then dress it up for the season. The actual 'Mountain King' is probably smouldering in a garbage heap somewhere. But it's alive and well, here in Kitten's mind.

So odd, remembering what someone else remembers. Every light, every ornament, every silly little toy she'd shove into the tree to help decorate… and then immediately would have her mother tell her not to do that because, dunno, reasons.

Kitten's memory is sharp, but fuzzy. Like a cathode tv; focused, but only where she thought was important.

And yet.

… I had circled the curious little memory of hers at least ten times, recalling, turning it over in my head as though it were mine, when I almost tripped again. Over a baby carriage. Modern. 20th century. A mixture of poly-fibers and cotton, probably. Framed in aluminum, most likely.

And in the blankets and covers, something in it cooed, softly.

'No… is that…?'

I peered in, gently. At the most adorable jewel of a face. A face… staring at lights. Content. Mesmerized.

"Oh," I fombled, "Hello, there… Kitten."

… And if I had not been sure I was hearing things, she might have warbled back her usual, friendly 'Xero~'. But, no, it's just a baby. A baby in a memory.

"You know," I started to utter to her, absentmindedly, "People are a lot like lights. They each shine in their own way. Some brighter, but some very, very dim. And sometimes… you just have to keep shining until someone sees you."

A low, trembling rumble sounded after I said this. Growing stronger and stronger. Shaking. Deafening.

Then black.

And then… I woke up back in the elm. In the dark of the night. The chill of the air.

And with a rumble in the back of my head.

[vsnotresponding]

CHAPTER 6 - THE ALZIWAQ - KARMA

masterpost

The island felt Ira’s reunion with the Iria.

At first it was nothing, only a few dozen of imitation that vanished on the room, and the high pressure on the air that made us bleed. But that was only the beginning of a chain reaction.

Imitations started to fail, not only on the palace, but the city, even further. Like a wave, the blackout travelled through the island, darkening the streets and stopping the purifying stations besides the river. The worst effects being felt on the mines, stopping the exploitation besides the Core, leaving the tunnels unusable for weeks, even months. And this is just for the moment. I don’t think it’s over.

It's not something that Orga liked in the next day’s meeting, nor the shahin. Not only because of the bad image it’ll give to the daughter of Derya's governor when she arrives in a few weeks, but because the khithi also felt it.

Like Ira described, it echoed on them too—they might have felt the same pain she did, or merely the signal. Either way, they felt it, and turned all that pain into rage.

The protest that had been disturbing the capital for months got worse, the backup the shahin had sent to the streets not so long ago insufficient to contain them. Even now, days after and under a new storm, the fight on the streets is still going, unstoppable.

Sick, they have nothing to lose, not really.

Even if I don’t have much information about what’s happened, the palace's been sealed up until Sher’s fiancée arrives, the security, usually lax, duplicated and reinforced. Not only are there guards following me around everywhere now, I’ve even seen imitators patrolling, even Garvan, and it’s not even his specialty.

The lack of information does not make it easier to ignore the screams that get to my study under the rain, though, the faraway vision of the streets flooded with people.

It doesn’t make it easy to forget the words of the creator, either.

The palace has been thrown into chaos, but we keep working,

Days after the disaster and a week before Derya’s arrival, we focus on how to use Ira to heal the island. Surprisingly, the khadae didn’t take away my position as leader of the project after the accident, and I've been allowed more freedom than usual.

Garvan keeps watching Ira, bringing her food and asking her questions about her state. Soon we’ll start the tests, but I’d rather be sure she’s totally recovered and that the alziwaq works properly on her now that she’s healthier.

Due to the difference in her blood from being a creator, Áine and I had to modify the drug as she got better to avoid secondary effects, and so far it’s been giving good results.

Or that’s what they’ve been telling me. I’m not allowed to go see it with my own two eyes, even after I insisted. I know it’s for my safety, like the guards, but I’m not happy about it.

So I focus on finding solutions. In the mess of my desk rest the books I brought from the Umars about creators, and notes I’ve been collecting these past years.

I like the work. Thinking of alternatives. After the last days of tension and activities outside my control, it relaxes me. I throw myself into the papers and data. As soon as I got back from the Iria, I wrote down everything that had happened with as much detail as possible, more for me than the report I gave at the meeting. Being unable to forget what she said haunting me even in my dreams was at least useful for something.

I look for that paper in between the stacks and I reread it, again. I don’t think analyzing the effects she has on the world when she connects will be useful to heal the Iria, but it’s a way to, at least, when we start the tests, to see where's the limit we can work with.

A knock at the door distracts me, and I move my head towards it, the paper forgotten. I don’t bother answering, Garvan halfway to my desk and Emhi closing the door behind her. I see the guards guarding it before it closes.

I sneak a glance at the clock that hangs from the wall, the light of the imitations telling me the hour.

We had agreed to meet to discuss how to continue working with the creator half an hour ago. I start to stand up, but Emhi gestures me to stay seated.

“I got distracted.”

“We can see.” Garvan moves one of the chairs near the wall towards the table and sits on it, backrest towards me with his arms crossed on it and legs at either side of the chair. Emhi just leans on the desk, her expression weary.

Unlike us, she is part of the imitators' soldier order, and even her high rank hasn’t spared her from covering shifts with no end. Garvan told me she even went to the city, but she didn’t say anything about it. If she confessed what she’s seen to Áine, we are both ignorant to it.

“And?” They both move their eyebrows in an inherited gesture. “Have you decided anything or…”

“There wasn’t any meeting,” says Emhi at the same time that, like her brother, she moves a chair to seat down. She crosses her legs and her arms on top of them. “Neither you nor Áine showed up, so we adjourned it.” I want to be surprised about Áine, but she hasn’t stopped working since the incident with Ira, equally or even greater than me. In between the creator and her duty with the volunteers of the process, I’m surprised she has found time for our meetings. “You are lucky the khadae decided to send Anuna to the city, or you wouldn’t hear the end of his complaints about your irresponsibility.”

“Another one?” I look at Emhi. She sighs.

“Not only Anuna. We are the only ones left, and the two rookies.”

“And only because they can’t send them to the streets.” Garvan rights himself, in indignation, even if he’s one of the few that have been spared.

I lean forwards on the papers, arms crossed. When we started working with Ira, the khadae gave me a group of ten people, some soldiers and imitators as help. Áine, Garvan and Emhi are among them, but as the days have passed and the situation on the outskirts has deteriorated, most of them have been sent to the streets. It worries me, not because I think we can’t manage the creator on our own, but because of what it implies. More so, there’s nothing wrong with having extra people to run tests or fetch stuff.

“Garvan, don’t be like that.”

“What? It’s true,” he says, looking at his sister. “The poor girls are greener than Karma when he got here.”

“Garvan!”

He ignores her, but looks at me as if apologizing, when I look down and let out an embarrassed groan. That doesn’t stop him, though.

“Luckily, they pardoned your sword lessons, because—”

Emhi’s smack on the back of his head shuts him up.

“Okay, okay.” He frowns as he rubs the injured area and looks at his sister. “There’s no need to resort to violence.”

“Don’t be whiny, come one,” she ignores him. I can’t help but smile. “Besides, we have more pressing things to do than talk about how useless Karma is for anything that’s not data analysis.”

My smile drops immediately, turned into seriousness. It’s true, as refreshing as it is to see them argue, we have to do something with the lack of help when we work with Ira, and we also have to talk about what we are going to do with her. Though for that we need Áine.

“If you say important in regard to the fatir, she’s as impertinent as always.” He snorts, but I see him smiling a little. He hasn’t stop complaining about being her nanny, but he’s started to warm up to her. It’s strange, because they’ve seen her at her most human, but I’ve only seen her when she was a creator and nothing else. I struggle to reconcile the idea of Ira as a person, the one Garvan complains about, and Ira as a creator, that causes blackouts and makes the walls cry tears of blood.

“At the very least the alziwaq makes her drowsy,” he continues, “I don’t want to imagine the pain in the ass she would be if she had more time to get bored.”

“She’s perfectly civil with me.”

“You always watch her when she’s sleeping, Emhi.”

“That’s exactly why I say it.”

“Either way,” I interrupt, “what matters is if she’s gotten better. We have been increasing her doses, has she noticed?”

“Not a clue.” A few seconds go by as he looks outside, his previously relaxed face now tense. It’s getting darker. “There’s something we were hoping to talk about in today’s meeting, Karma. We think it’d be better to lower them.”

“But you said it’s helped.”

“She might not notice other effects while awake, but…” his eyes look at the table and not our faces, “she sometimes sleep-talks.”

He doesn’t add anything else, his gaze on my lion plushy. Emhi and I look at each other, worried, the air suddenly tense. I remember her warning, so many days ago, before seeing Ira for the first time. I had totally forgotten about that.

“And you snore, why is that relevant?” Emhi tries to joke to lessen the tension, not very convinced. Garvan shakes his head.

“I’m being serious, it’s… unsettling.”

Silence falls again. I look at Garvan, his eyes hazed, the light auburn darkened by the change in lighting on the room. It reminds me of Áine before my mother died, of the look she had after talking to her. It’s back now, not only in here when we see each other, but in Garvan too.

“Like after the Iria?" I try, because it’s the only time I’ve felt like that with the creator, even if I know they’d seen it before. He shakes his head with emphasis.

Sometimes it’s like we were disconnected, in different realities. Them on a shore, me on the other side. They process certain events differently—like the protests, that leave Emhi exhausted, but not tired, Áine with the khithi volunteers and with my mother, and now him too.

Fortunately, the door opens to break the silence that settled after my question.

“You are here, thank the gods.”

It’s Áine, a guard closing the door behind her. I gesture to her with my head as a greeting while she comes closer to us, leaning on one side of Emhi’s chair, her arm holding her waist, the other circling Emhi’s shoulders as an answer.

I look away, uncomfortable at the gesture, the moment too private for me. Garvan seems to have come back to himself, he even rolls his eyes at Emhi when she looks at him, her eyes slits, as he catches him looking at them with an amused face.

“What.”

“Nothing.” He accompanies his words by raising his arms and turning back to me. Unconsciously, my lips move upwards, as do his. In spite of the years Áine and Emhi have been together we keep being happy for them, it was pretty ridiculous to see them dancing around each other without saying anything for years.

“Have you talked to Ira?” asks Emhi. I turn back to them as Áine nods.

“Yeah, that’s precisely what we wanted to talk to you about.” She says, looking at me, her amber eyes clear under the imitations’ light. I right myself. “She was sleep-talking when I went to change her bandages… she was chanting.”

Emhi and I turn to Garvan, who is frozen looking at her. Áine follows our eyes, her expression alike.

“You’ve felt it too.”

“I’ve seen it.”

“Áine? What?”

“When she woke up,” she turns to answer me, “before focusing her eyes. She… Ira…”

I know we all remember how she looked at us after the Iria, her strange and fluid gaze, piercing through us. What happened before that, the pressure and the high-pitched sound. The blood.

“Has she attempted anything?” Emhi tries to look at her face, worried.

“No, no,” she shakes her head. “She didn’t try anything, in fact…” It looks like she’s going to keep talking, but frowns her lips. “It’s only… it’s as if there was something else inside her eyes. Another entity.”

Garvan nods in agreement, but I’m confused. Emhi repeats the question I made to Garvan before.

“Like the other day?”

“No.” Now it’s Garvan that talks. He has stood up to walk towards the window. His back to us, looking at the night and the rain that keeps falling, he continues. “In a way, it's different. Less absent, more alive.” He turns to us, arms crossed. “But it’s not Ira.”

“And she’s not aware of it, which worries me the most.”  Áine stands up to come closer to the desk. “She might guess that sometimes… she alarms us with what she says or does or how she looks at us, but she’s not even aware she sleep-talks. I think it’s something new, from the alziwaq.”

“Are you sure? Couldn’t it be because of the Iria?”

Even if I know it’s not due to that, I try. The drug is a too vital element of my plan to solve the problem—I don’t want to think about loosing it.

“It happened before, even if now it’s… worse. We have to lower the dose, stop even.”

No. Not that.

“We can’t do that,” I raise my voice.

“Karma, she doesn’t have her abilities under control, and without a creation to somehow focus her connections it can only get worse.”

“We could give her back.” I realize the mistake in my words as soon as I say them. The shahin has her creation, embed on the desk on his study. It’s a stupid suggestion, but I have nothing else to debate her with. I realize we’ve started to shout at each other.

“Do you really think your father is going to just give it back to you? After what happened in the throne room?”

“No but…” I look at Emhi and Garvan for support, but they both avoid my eyes, focused on the floor. Áine has crossed her arms.

“Why do you insist so much in using it? Her wounds are healed, the infection on her arm is gone. She’s healthy, she’s present.”

“It’s not enough!” I hit the table, and some papers fall to the floor. Her lips frown again.

“Oghan,” she reprimands me, her voice hard when she says my name, eyes fixed on mine, cold gold. I clench my fists and stand up, trying to relax.

“It’s our only chance. We’ll need to take some risks.”

I don’t want to explain my plan, not yet, at least. I know they won’t like it, and I’m not too happy either with the conclusions I’ve reached, but I do believe it’s our only solution.

“We are talking about another human being, Karma. You can't toy with her life like that.”

I remember the state the connection left her at. Weak and sickly. I shake my head, the image quickly replaced by her face when she connected, by the rage in her eyes when she attacked us in the throne room, the determination.

“The lives of every khithi depend on us to find a solution.”

“The lives of every khithi are in danger precisely because of us!”

I know she doesn’t mean her, or Garvan or Emhi. Not me, specifically, at least. She means my father’s family, Garvan and Emhi’s, all énna—the imitators, that for generations have taken advantage of the island and her people.

I see the breach between us once again in her expression that talks of horrors I’m unable to imagine. To me, they are numbers and data, statistics of population and mortality. To her, it’s her people. My anger disappears.

“Áine.”

“I’m lowering her dose, whatever you say. And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

I want to add that I’m in charge, that I was appointed leader. But she’s right, I couldn’t stop her, even if I wanted to. I sit back, the chair scratching the floor, and pass my fingers through my bangs, moving them away from my eyes, even if they fall back immediately. I sigh, resigned.

I’m tired of arguing. I’m tired of not moving forward. I give up.

“Then, what’s your plan? Because the test we’ll do on her will weaken her, and we need her to heal fast enough.”

Áine uncrosses her arms and steps back, sighing. I see then how tired she is, the circles under her eyes, the slow blinking of her eyes. She opens her mouth as if to talk, but closes it and looks at Garvan.

“You are the one that has spent the most time with her.” Garvan raises his head. “What do you think?”

“I know we wanted to wait a few more days, at least until the situation on the city lessened, and for the mirza’s fiancée to arrive, but…” he looks at me. “I think we should start now, with the tests, slower to avoid hurting her. I don’t know what you are planning to do after this, but I hope you know what you are doing, Karma. We won’t be working with hypotheticals from now on.”

I nod, because he’s right. It’s something that also worries me. And, honestly, we are running out of time. Factories fail faster after being repaired, imitations break or don't heat or shine like they used to. I’ll find another way to carry on with my original plan, another route without the alziwaq’s help. Who knows, maybe she’ll be able to do so without the help of an external drug. I’ll talk to Súil about it and the lack of help for the project.

I try to stay positive, in spite of the circumstances, because for the first time in months, and even though there are obstacles I can’t even comprehend and that stop us from moving forward, we have a marked path. A solution, a way to fulfill the promise I made my mom.

“Emhi?” Áine has turned her back to me to face her girlfriend, who has been observing us in silence for a while. She smiles slightly and rests a hand on her sword.

“You are the nerds that know about all of this,” she gestures to the pile of papers on my desk, “I’ll do whatever you decide.”

“I’ll talk to the khadae tomorrow morning to update him on the beginning of the tests,” I say. “I’ll also ask him to send more reinforcements.” Áine looks at us confused.

“More?”

“It’s only us left, and the rookies.”

She shrugs. There’s no remedy to the out of control situation in the city. With the siblings, she walks to the door, the meeting apparently over.

“It’s ridiculous how many soldiers they need. They are containing ill people, not a battalion.”

“True, but I’m glad we got rid of the asshole that’s Anuna.”

“Garvan!” her sister reprimands him.

“What? You hate him too.”

“Whatever you say.”

Their voices disappear as they walk away, but Áine stays, hesitating besides the half closed door.

“Karma? Do you want me to go with you tomorrow when you talk to the khadae?”

“Huh? Oh, no. That won’t be necessary.” Her worry warms me and I stand up to go to her. She really is exhausted, her shoulders slumped, struggling to keep her eyes open. She knows the anxiety that talking to the khadae gives me, and in spite of her obvious affected state, she’s worrying about me, even if we were shouting at each other a minute ago.

We stay standing, in silence, for a few seconds. I remember her discomfort after the audience at the throne room, how I silenced my worry. Slowly and hesitantly, I rest my hand on her shoulder to call her attention. I don’t want to repeat the same mistake.

“Are you okay?” And before she can answer, I continue: “I know these past few days, well, months, we…” I clear my throat, “we haven’t been on the best terms and—”

“If you apologize for the accident, I swear I’ll hit you,” she stops me and rubs her hair. “It was not only your fault, Karma. We were all responsible, you know it, and we have repeated it to you—”

“Still. I’m still sorry,” I lower my head, but make an effort to raise it up back again. “And not only for that. I know I wasn’t the most approachable after that, less after she…" I swallow hard, tears starting to appear in my throat at the thought, “she died and, I don’t know. That we are like this is my fault, and now it’s getting worse and…”

My voice breaks when she interrupts me by hugging me, her head resting on my shoulder due to her height, my temple on her hair. We stay quiet.

I can feel some tears going down my cheeks to her curls. I hug her too, tightening my grip. I’ve missed her so much.

I realized I not only lost my mom that day, but her too, not in the same way. I laugh, saddened, at the same time that I sniffle.

“I’ve been an idiot.”

“Don’t worry,” she says as she breaks the hug, “we are used to it.” And she messes up my bangs. I push her away, laughing once again, this one happy. She smiles back.

“Thanks, I guess,” my smile turns sad, “but I was serious.”

“I know.” She takes my hand and squeezes it. I look at them, not moving away.

It’s the first time in weeks, to not say months, that we really talk. The feeling it leaves in my chest is warm, comforting. I know we have much left, that most of the time I'm difficult to treat, that I close up and ignore what I don’t like around me. It’s a beginning, at least. A first step.

“You should go,” I say to her. “Emhi must be waiting for you.”

She squeezes my hand one last time before smiling. When she leaves, I stay at the closed door for a while, and sigh.

I have to get ready to talk to the khadae.

tag list (ask to be added or removed!): @my-cursed-prince @on-noon

[deadmanshandthecursed]

Grandma died in April. Her funeral was insulting. Trite poems read by people that didn't even know her. Then a stranger handed me that godawful 'Do not stand at my grave and cry" poem. I read it, sure, and with better inflection and soul than the paid-by-the-hour preacher read his psalm. But then they tried to close up shop and I stood up and told them to hold. They weren't going to cookie cutter funeral my grandmother if I had anything to say about it. Now it was their turn to listen.

"One of the last things grandma talked to me about was when I started storm chasing. In the days after she and mom feuded and before the dementia took hold, she and I saw a lot of each other. I stopped over twice a week on average and we'd talk for hours.

I wrote this a year or so before grandma asked me if I was ever afraid when I was chasing storms. It seems very fitting that I read it again today:

When you die, the energy in your body escapes as heat loss. Now, unless you're dying somewhere like space, that heat will dissipate and become part of our atmosphere. Our atmosphere is very good at taking heat and doing interesting things with it, like condensing into storms. Some of the heat will cause rain to fall. Some of the heat will turn to static electrical energy and split the sky as lightning. As hot air rises and colder (less heated, technically) air rushes in to take its place, the resultant wind will push the storm along. Sometimes that convective action produces what we know as tornados.

The Union soldier Sullivan Ballou once mused about his death in a letter to his wife Sarah, "if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath; or the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by. Sarah, do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for me, for we shall meet again." He died a few days after writing the letter at the first Battle of Bull Run.

Sullivan Ballou was right. All the tales of a fanciful afterlife are right -- from a certain point of view (thanks Obi-Wan). Consciousness is the product of a brain, and dies when the brain dies. But the energy powering it persists. As I described earlier, something in us is truly, inarguably, deathless.

Our energy literally comes from the stars and one day will return to the cosmos. Until then, we will occasionally light up the night as bolts of lightning. We will interact with our descendants long after even the memories of our life are lost to time.

"What do you do when you catch it? Isn't that scary?"

I greet each thunderhead as an old friend. I listen for the whispers of the dead upon the wind. I'm comforted in the night by the guiding flashes of what passes for heaven. And sometimes, if I'm very lucky, I see the unbridled fury of my ancestors.

One day, I will be that lightning, that rain, that terrible cloud that connects heaven and Earth by way of beautiful destruction.

So I am never afraid.

Grandma and I spoke of death often - death never frightened her. Luxury of faith, I suppose. She said she never wanted a funeral. All she ever wanted, in her own words, were just 'lay me next to Jack and my dad and carry on.'

So now I do that. I miss you."

And then I took a rose from the casket and walked to my car.

In the months since Grandma left, I've spotted one tornado in person, and have called almost a dozen warnings from radar. "Still at it," she'd say. Storms have even more meaning now. Right now, I'm on a ridge above Middletown, watching a storm pass to the south. Nothing major, but beautiful all the same.

I'm trying to carry on.

[corndoggod]

Summer Storm Gumbo

“Have you heard of Meyer v Nebraska,” Charles asked. “It was a Supreme Court case from about 100 years ago….No. Ok. So shortly after World War I…”

Charles loves to talk so let me interrupt to tell you about Charles -- the best-dressed, most cosmopolitan man in all the Midwest. Whereas Cale prides himself on wearing the same shirt every day until it disintegrates, Charles is almost always immaculately dressed in a three-piece suit. The only time I didn’t see him in a suit I was horrified. Ghostly stalks emerged from his shorts as he emerged from the car, sunglasses and lotioned to replace me on a kayak trip on the Elkhorn river. (I was on deadline and panicking, and had to rush back to finish a cover story). Charles is a worldly man and has a working knowledge of many languages, has visited more countries than I could name, and has a nuanced command of world history and international politics, not to mention local politics. He has opinions, too, and loads of recommendations for wherever you might set foot, specializing in Portugal and Brazil. (he once described the Portugese diet as a drunk man let loose in a kitchen dead set on giving himself a delicious heart attack.) I never understood what he did or how he financed his lifestyle, but he was a globetrotting Cadillac of a man, reminding me of a time when writers lived in hotels for months on end.

Anyway, in Charles fashion he went on to explain how a Nebraska teacher plaintiff of German descent challenged a school policy directing teachers to teach exclusively in English. But the Supreme Court found it unconstitutional because there’s no national language and you can’t compel speech.

This anecdote capped off a conversation about language and identity in the courts. We’d been talking about pastagate, a scandal in Quebec involving an Italian restaurant that used the English word for pasta on their menu rather than the French pâtes.

Graham had invited me and half the town over for a cookout, and we congregated on the porch with dollar beers and bowls of gumbo. Graham could be president if he wasn’t so cynical and glued to the bar stool. Everybody loved him and every time I went to his place there was someone new in attendance. He was generous to a fault, inviting random people he saw on the street to come over, especially if they looked like they needed a friend. And this sometimes got him and us in trouble. Like when he invited a guy from a halfway house over and handed him a beer only to learn after he took a long gulp that he was in recovery. Graham laughed and said, “Well shit, you want another?”

The rain glittered in and out of the jaundiced street lights and lightning knifed through the night sky. Aside from gumbo, there was also cheeseburgers, though we arrived too late to taste, and perfectly crisped sweet potato fries and chicken wings my brother seasoned with his grubby fingers.  

Three summers ago I moved back home to live on the lam and get serious about the writing thing. And by serious, I mean I woke up when I wanted, read magazines for an hour, pecked at my computer for a while at the coffee shop and then biked to Love Library to peck some more before going to climb with my brother and then sit at the bar waiting for anyone I knew to show up. That never took long. But after a few weeks, I lost faith in my novel and started writing personal essays instead. It was one of the happiest, most carefree, least productive periods of my life. I biked through England, France and Spain with my brother. I met Celina. I wrote the best, most personal thing I’ve ever written.

Anyway, within the first week of moving into Max and Cat’s extra bedroom a tornado warning sounded. I ran over to the gas station to buy some Modelo’s and plopped down on the porch swing to wait for the wind and for Max and Cat to get home from work. But first came a full trash can flying down the alley, which spooked me enough to crawl down into the basement.

Back at Graham’s, we drank all the beers, like we always do. But it was Sunday and most people headed home to work the next day. I had work too and it was stressing me out, but I stayed to drink a twisted tea and talk about Graham’s cyst he got kayaking the entire length of the Missouri River last summer. “I either gotta lay flat on my belly for a couple of weeks or they’re gonna sew up my cheeks,” he said. “But how would you shit?” “I don’t know.”

He also told me he was on the chopping block at his job where he’d worked for thirteen years. The day before he was up in Omaha orchestrating a protest outside the Berkshire Hathaway shareholders meeting to pressure Warren Buffett, “the oracle of Omaha,” and his worshipers to eliminate their investments in coal.

Then we went to the basement where I played the two best ping pong games of my life. I won’t the first against Janelle and lost the second against Josh, who won a tournament at the Hot Mess earlier that day.

Days like these I feel like everything is worth writing because I finally feel like I know something. My friends are famous and I know as much trivia as any super fan, but no one else knows about them. I also know these burnt skies, this deep thirst and the smells of clipped grass and upturned soil and manure.  

[lauvirynth]

July, you've been good.

Whispers lingered in the corners of my mind, recounting July's lessons. The first week was a gentle breeze, but mid-month arrived like a storm. In the chaos, I found calm, for I had you. For days, you were my solace. Yet, on a quiet night, as I sought your presence, a new rain fell, shattering me. I lost you then. Still, like a rescuer drawn to a kindred soul battered by the storm, I look to the heavens, hoping they'll guide me back to you.

Life without you drifts in monotone. Mornings lose meaning without your kiss to greet the dawn. Meals fall flat without your tender nudge to nourish. Nights stretch long and sleepless without you by my side. My soul aches with the depth of missing you.

I chant your name like a sacred hymn, a testament that I once held you close. You filled my days with joy. You are the essence of my life. Without you, I can't breathe the love-infused air we once shared. Losing you drew me to songs that echoed your memory. Then I discovered a melody called "Love Is."

As July fades, it sings a bittersweet goodbye. Yet, many love songs remain before I can find my way back to you, and you alone. To uncover what love means, we'll shrug and journey together.

If you ask me what love is and what it's about To be honest, I'm still figuring it out If I could be candid and tell you the truth I'd love to figure love out with you

As every day of my life passes by, with you, I would have figured out everything about what love is.

Love is kind

Love is patient

Love is understanding

Love is peace

Love is safe

Love is comfort

Love is forgiving

Love's essence wouldn't exist for me without describing you. You are the breath of love that fills my lungs. Your love is where I felt safest the most. As this month fades and a new beginning dawns, take my hand in yours. Love is a universal truth, an unwritten song. Together, let's unravel its secrets, step by step, heart to heart.

A few days into August, I breathe in the salt air. Like a whisper from folklore, I find you hidden from the world. Together, we share our delicate secrets in serene harmony.

رغم أن الكثيرين يرون الحب مجرد عرض، إلا أنني سأضحي بحياتي من أجلك في صمت.

[eviesessays]

39. How has your life turned out differently than you imagined it would?

There was a time in my life when I fervently believed I would get to be a princess one day and live in a castle.  My Dad did nothing to dissuade me from this delusion.  I thought I could dance like Shirley Temple and sing, “On the good ship Lollipop”.  I was certain my hair could be trained to have ringlets that bounced when I tap danced. Nothing could have been further removed from reality.  My hair was stick straight and sat atop my head like a pile of unruly hay. My tap dancing was anything but rhythmic and certainly not gracious.  Since leaving early childhood I have been too much of a realist to have great fantasies but I know I always wanted to travel and experience other cultures.  

From a very young age I knew I wanted to be a nurse.  Actually, there were very few professions welcoming women in that era.  There was no financial possibility to be an engineer or go to law school. I had no regrets.  I always wanted to be a nurse and have never regretted that choice. My career has afforded me many opportunities and the ability to earn a Bachelor of Science degree in Nursing.  My profession allowed me to financially support myself and my children when the need arose.  I had never in my younger years thought this would be my destiny but when the need arose I was glad to meet the challenge. 

In retrospect I should have spent more time thinking about the qualities I wanted in a husband.  I can honestly say I did not give it the time it deserved.  I  wanted a husband who was well mannered, well read and well spoken.  James Wemyss Joss could pass that test.  He qualified in all areas.  He had not finished his degree having spent only a year at Georgia Tech after graduating from Sylacauga High School in Sylacauga, Alabama.  He was 16 years old at the time.  His parents had been divorced in Scotland.  Jay and his brother, Allan Dinsmore Joss moved to London with their mother,Kitty.  It was there she met John Lee Rarden, a merchant marine with a glib tongue, unrealistic dreams and an almost absent work ethic.  They were married and Kitty was pregnant.  John Lee went to sea. Kitty delivered twins, John Lee and David Lynn.  When the twins were fifteen months old the family sailed for America on an oil tanker headed to New Orleans.  They landed late at night amid a rain storm that Jay described as a bleak and despairing experience.  They were met by John Lee’s father who was called Didi who drove them home to Mount Olive,Alabama.  They all moved in with Didi and his acerbic wife, Dearie.  John Lee’s uncle Ollie and aunt Lorraine also lived in the home. This was a very far cry from the Joss family who had been in Scotland for more than 400 years and lived in some of the finest homes in Glasgow. Jay was placed in the senior class at Sylacauga High School and graduated at the age of 15.  He worked at Woolworths for a year to save money for college but that was exhausted after his first year and he joined the  Air Force.    His alcohol was already a problem for him at that time.  This was a fact I did not know until long after we were married.  I can honestly say that Jay’s drinking was the cause of our marriage failure.  The car accidents and the resulting financial disasters resulting from his alcoholism took its toll.  It was not the marriage of which I had dreamed.

 I met Philip Miller Pahl at church.  He sang in the choir and served on the vestry.  He was a Major in the Air Force and had graduated from the Naval Academy in Annapolis.  He was stationed at the Pentagon and has assured me this was his final tour of duty before he retired.  This was important because I had a great and well paid job in Washington. Heather and Jaylyn were in High School and did not want to move. Despite all that just after we were married a year Phil was transferred to Hanscom AFB in Bedford, MA. Phil went on to his assignment and I stayed behind til the end of the school year.  In July we moved into a very nice home on Wildwood Drive in Bedford.  Then I began my search for a job working days only so I could be home in the evening knowing what my children were up to.  It was most depressing to be returning to work  full time at 70% of my previous salary.  I was sitting in a pediatrician’s office at an interview when President Nixon resigned.  It seemed fitting.  Heather was crushed by the move and completed her grade 12 along with grade 11 and could not wait to return to Maryland.  There were very good times in Boston.  There are endless historical places to be visited.  Jaylyn, Robin and Peter all finished Hgh School and went off to college.   Phil retired from the Air Force and began looking for property in NH. We bought a beautiful farm in Warner, NH and moved in June 1985.  we were busy getting the house in order as Jaylyn and Merton were to be married in October and the reception was to be in a tent by the pool.  Heather and John were married in Concord and then the grandchildren began to arrive.  There was plenty to distract us from the reality that our marriage was long over.  Phil admitted to me that he had a long standing affair with a “friend” from our church in Bedford.  It would be easy to blame Phil for this betrayal but it was more like a thousand little wounds that killed the marriage long before the final blow.  to say this marriage turned out differently than I had imagined would be an understatement of untold proportion.

My grandchildren are all thriving.  I could not have planned the lives they experience.  Hillary and David will have a new Baby boy in September.  Anne and Dan have a very successful  business.  Diggs  has a lovely woman in his life. Kalote, left teaching for more financially rewarding experience in real estate.  Will has taken up the ukulele and the rest remains to be seen.  

My great grandchildren bring endless joy.  Joan Clementine at 5, is reading books to Laura.  She takes dance lessons and can now play, “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” on her ukulele.  Everett Floyd is a busy little boy with many interests.  He sings beautifully and will be a good big brother.  Laura Winter is a very assertive little girl who loves being read to.  she knows all the stories and characters.  Murphy Harriet is a very wise two year old.  She misses nothing,  She plays with her cash register at her pretend cafe and tells the customers  to “please enter your pin number now”.  she predicted the new baby is a boy.  I could never have anticipated so great a joy as grand and great grandchildren.

[zablife]

You'll have to forgive me in advance bc this will be long, but I have to tell you how extraordinarily beautiful and well-written this is, darl! You constantly leave me in awe of your talent.

The first few paragraphs set the scene and perfectly describe her longing for Tommy. (Clinging to the paper with his address 🥺) I was barely starting the fic and already had tears in my eyes so I knew the rest would hit me hard 😢

Then I came to the bit about her ritual of reading the letters and a whole new wave of emotion washed over me. How she keeps them all in a special box and changes into his shirt before reading them. I can picture it all so vividly. It's romantic and sentimental-so telling about the kind of person she is and how desperately she's trying to hold that space for him in her life. The way she touches the letters is something I've done and I immediately connected with it. It's the one thing she has that's touched Tommy's hands and is essentially Tommy by proxy. 😭

I adored the memory of their last day together. These lines are wonderfully bittersweet and so poetic: She could still remember the last day they spent together, cherishing the calm moments with her ear pressed against his naked chest, listening to the beat of his heart, roaring in his chest as if the strong muscle could already feel the pain coming upon the two lovers. And the detail about the scratch marks staying with him for days afterward was unexpectedly 🔥! However, the fact that he attempts to memorize the look of pleasure on her face in case it is the last time felt like dangerous foreshadowing. (As I only wrote the letters I wasn't sure what to expect from the ending and I was scared!!)

The day she receives the last letter is utterly haunting. Once more, you paint such a vivid portrait of her days waiting for news about Tommy and this day is fittingly grim. Her tears mirrored in the rain, the dark storm clouds and details of cold and loneliness set the mood perfectly. She almost seems as tho she's in a trance, barely conscious of her own existence without Tommy. This attitude makes sense when we learn she hasn't heard from him in over a month. (She counted the days, knowing it's been 5 weeks and 3 days 🥺😭)

I love the way you've added her thoughts between the paragraphs of Tommy's last letter, allowing us to experience the confusion and shock along with her. I felt as though I was in the same room, witnessing it all. Thinking Tommy was actually dead, I cried 😭😭

I felt numb along with her as I read the next part about autumn. These lines gutted me: What was a woman full of love without a husband alive to share the emotions she felt deep inside? 

"...a routine she needed to keep on living without breaking every moment she wandered through her empty house." 

And then there's the miraculous return! (Which if I had read your warnings, I would have seen was promised from the start! 😂) It was exhilarating to see them come together. I loved Tommy's cheeky remark “As much as I can tell, I’m very much alive, love.” followed by her sobs bc it captures the joy of the moment beautifully.

I like the fact that you've included the change in Tommy bc he has experienced a lot of trauma during the war so I felt that was quite realistic. I'm glad he's still soft for her and protective tho, the way he brings her close to him and places his chin atop her head. *swoon* I love the way he comforts her. And that last sentence, tying into the title was *chefs kiss* I felt such a sense of satisfaction after reading this as tho I'd been on a journey with these characters. Bravo 👏🏼

When one heart breaks the other follows - Tommy Shelby

I had this idea for a while, and I am super happy with the way this turned out. A massive thank you to @zablife for writing the letters for this fic, thank you for adding your personal touch to this story. I adore you. Please like and reblog if you enjoyed reading this! Enjoy my loves. xxx

Summary: Tommy has been at war for months, the only thing the reader can cling to are the letters he kept writing. Until the day where he no longer writes to her, where she no longer knows if he's alive or not. All until one last letter finds its way to her.

Warnings: 18+, descriptions of smut, angst, crying and lots of pain, but a happy ending, mentions of the war

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x fem!reader (3k words)

She could still remember how he feels, the soft hands dancing up her naked side in the early morning hours when nobody’s awake, not even the ones without a home roaming the streets. She could still remember how she smells, the soft scent of tea sticking to his lips, a constant reminder of the calm hours shared in the home they were once supposed to raise their kids in together. She still could still remember how his voice sounded, soft like a new instrument that hasn’t been played for long, clear like a poet perfectly able to express their longings. 

Mere fractions of Tommy Shelby (y/n) had to cling to now that he was no longer at home, not even in their country. 

He had left for war months ago, and yet sometimes it felt as if he was only a few rooms down from their shared bedroom. As if they had tumbled into a fight, needing to chase the distance before they’d spiral into something they couldn’t pull away from. Sometimes it felt as if he’d stumble into their home any moment now, drunk from the endless hours he had spent with his brothers, enjoying a carefree life that wouldn’t leave them traumatised. Nothing but wishful thinking of hers. 

She missed him, god, her heart was aching for the man she had once promised her life to. There was no doubt that she’d wait for him, the thought of turning towards other men that hadn’t been sent to war left her insides churning, there was no doubt that she loved Tommy like she had loved him all those months ago when he had been around. And yet she envied the women whose men were still around. She envied the lives they were able to share, the love they felt with every rising of the sun. 

Tommy hadn’t promised her much, he hadn’t promised that he’d make it out without wounds and scars gracing his skin, but he had promised to somehow keep in touch. She clung to the address he had clumsily scribbled down moments before passing their threshold, the only way to reach him. Panic would rise in her system whenever she thought about losing the one piece of paper she had copied numerous times, the only thing she could cling to, the only thing she could remember Tommy actually touching. 

At first she had received a handful of letters from him, letters she’d reread every single night, while planning her own letters she’d write to him. Her fingers would trace Tommy‘s words, the way he expressed his love and longing for her; a dull ache would stretch through her whenever she read the letters, a pain so bittersweet she couldn’t stop herself from torturing herself. 

It had turned into some kind of routine for her, she’d shrug out of her dress, undo her hair and wear one of Tommy’s old dress shirts - breaking laws a woman like her could pay no mind to. Trembling hands would open the wooden box she used to store his letters in, and for a few seconds she’d stare at the letters, starting with the one she knew by heart:

“Dear Y/n, 

I just received your letter and was very pleased to have the distraction. I had reconciled myself to reading the same letters over and over again, not knowing if the post would find us. We’re not in the same place, in fact we don’t stay anywhere very long. We’ve been travelling through terrible weather for four days and nights and we’re up to our knees in mud and water. Despite, Arthur, John and I are well and our boots have not worn as quickly as Aunt Polly feared. 

I hope this finds you in good health and you have all that you need in light of the shortages. I’ve been promoted to Sergeant so I’ll be sending more money soon. If you have need of anything, I want you to be able to get it without worry. 

At night as I lie awake, I remember you and me as we were before I went away, happy and carefree. I would fight this war in any condition, without complaint, if that is how you could remain. You’re constantly in my thoughts and dreams, the only person I long to see in the world. When I return, we’ll take the horses through the fields and down to the stream as we used to, riding until sunset. That is my promise to you. Stay strong, my darling, as I know you are. All my love, Tommy”

Tears would run down her cheeks, at first her body had been overwhelmed by the waves of sadness clashing through her, never had she experienced a pain so strong, but somehow it got easier with time. Somehow she had adjusted to the sensation that left her breathless, making her feel something besides the dull ache that stuck around like a friend that would never leave one's side. And yet, (y/n) wouldn’t be able to thumb through the letters she had collected over the months, laughing at the shared memories he kept mentioning, how he expressed his love and longing.

Somehow she had managed to find beauty in the pain, in the darkness she had been dragged into from the moment Tommy had been called to war. She could still remember the last day they spent together, cherishing the calm moments with her ear pressed against his naked chest, listening to the beat of his heart, roaring in his chest as if the strong muscle could already feel the pain coming upon the two lovers. 

“I love you, don’t ever forget that.” Tommy had murmured as he had moved with her close, allowing one another to relish in the lust thumping through their veins, needing to feel their shared high for one last time. Her moans had echoed through their bedroom, nails scratching at his shoulders, leaving marks he’d be able to trace even days after leaving Birmingham. 

The moment hadn’t been rushed, it had been filled with emotions one could only envy, not able to feel something this raw and yet so simple. He had fucked her with his eyes not straying from her features once, praying that he’d forever remember her lust-drunken appearance. One he’d take to grave if he had to. 

Their love hadn’t been perfect, but it had been theirs, only theirs to feel, to share, to cherish. She wouldn’t trade her time with Tommy, the man she had known since she had been a child, for the world, all (y/n) could do was pray that he’d find his way back to her, soon. 

Over time (y/n) couldn’t help but notice how Tommy’s letter grew shorter, no longer filled with the emotions she shared with him, even with the growing distance between them. No longer did he talk about his days, the men and women he met whenever they rested. She could tell that he was growing distant, full of hatred for the countries forcing simple men like him to fight for a war that seemed endless. 

“Dear Y/n, I’m sorry it’s been so long, but present conditions do not offer much chance of writing any letters. We are in a place now where the night stretches on endlessly and it seems no matter how long or what you have been through they are never done with you.

I see the frustration of it building within Arthur most. He has fits of anger, followed by long silences, as though he no longer cares if a bullet finds him. There are days I feel it as well, the pull of the inevitable and I wonder if I will ever see you again. I should write something more courageous for you, but as you’re the only person I want, you’re the only one I could tell. All my love, Tommy”

Even though (y/n) could tell that he was no longer the same Tommy that had left their shared home all those months ago, (y/n) couldn’t help but await his return back home. She needed him, every part of the man she’d dream of late at night, of a better life without the war keeping them apart. It could be so simple, so raw, and someday they’d get to share this life – together. 

It was afternoon by the time (y/n) found her way outside, naked feet patting along the warm soil of their garden. Dark clouds were gracing the sky, carrying rain that would eventually clash down to earth like the tears she had cried just hours ago, desperate for relief. Exhaustion clung to her, a tiredness she was all too familiar by now, a steady companion in those times where she felt lonely, so awfully lonely. 

Her feet carried her inside, body trembling as she came in contact with the cold flooring of their house. The heat hadn’t managed to crawl inside just yet, lingering outside her door like a ghost of old times, not daring to enter without her invitation. Another day would pass where she wouldn’t speak to anybody, fostering her tea while reading the books she knew like the back of her hand, she was torturing herself, needing to feel anything besides the gaping hole inside her chest. 

The sound of impatient knocking ripped her out of her thoughts, head snapping towards the door. Slowly she moved closer, urged on by the knocking that grew louder with every passing second. (Y/n) ripped open the door, staring at the postman who pushed a letter into her outstretched hand and left before she could speak up. With her eyes wandering down to the letter, taking in the unfamiliar handwriting, she felt her heart picking up its beat.

It had been five weeks and three days since Tommy had last written, forcing her to count down the days till another message would find her. She had expected a short update from him, anything about his whereabouts, perhaps a sentence or two about the way he was missing her and their home. But now she wasn’t staring at something written by him, so, why would an unfamiliar person scribble down her address? 

For a second she debated putting the letter down, not wanting to read it in case it was just a message from an old friend she couldn’t remember, unable to deal with the disappointment that would fill her system. And yet she was urged on by her curiosity, wondering what had been written down for her to read. She moved back outside, sitting down on the wooden bench Tommy had built for her years ago, allowing her to take in the field right outside their small house. 

A shaky breath left her aching lungs as she ripped open the letter, smiling as she realised that it was indeed a letter written by Tommy. 

“Dear Y/n,

I don’t know how to begin this letter because it’s unlike any of the others I’ve written before. I will not post it, but carry it in the pocket over my heart. John knows to deliver it to you if something should happen to me and if you are reading it now, I trust he has carried out his duty faithfully.” Her heart was racing, it took (y/n) a few seconds to notice the tears welling up in her eyes, forcing her to blink in hopes of clearing her vision. Has he been hurt? No longer able to write letters with wounds too big? 

“I would like you to know my family will always be yours. They will look after you accordingly, not only because I’ve asked them, but because they have always considered you one of their own. From the day I met you, I made no secret of my intention to become worthy of you.” Only now did the realisation slowly settle in. He had been hurt, though not in the way she had thought, no, no longer was he breathing, no longer was he sharing this life with her. Another soul amongst the endless number of fallen. A pained sob wrecked through (y/n), hands trembling viciously. 

“Do you remember when we were eight and I spent every last coin I had buying you a coconut? You laughed until your sides ached asking why I would do such a thing, but it was because I felt you deserved it. I continually strived to be the kind of man you could be proud to call your husband. Although I confess I’m not certain how you would view my actions in the name of duty and country, as they have often been beyond my own comprehension.” She could remember it all, every moment she had spent with Tommy by her side, every conversation, every touch, forever ingrained in her mind. 

How could it be? How could one be ripped from this life just like this? Had he been shot, laying on the cold soil with his mind drifting off to her for one last time? One question after another flashed through her thoughts, desperately trying to distract her from the painful truth. 

“In my darkest days, I bridged the long hours thinking of your unwavering devotion. Life would have been empty and utterly meaningless here had it not been for your letters. How fortunate I am to have known a love like yours. I would give anything to have known it longer, my darling. I realise this letter must seem a poor apology for breaking my promise to return to you. Know that my last thoughts were of you and the life we might have built together. Remember that I love you, Tommy”

—--

The September sun warmed her features as (y/n) was sitting in the middle of the field around their – her home. She was sitting on a woollen blanket, eyes shut to take in the heat that would soon leave Small Heath. Autumn was about to settle in, one with the colder days, the leaves that would fall and the rain that would clash down on her part of the land.

It had been weeks since (y/n) had received the letter telling her of Tommy’s passing, a letter she had added to the others, and yet she couldn’t reread it, couldn’t bear the pain shooting through her weak body. She wasn’t the same without Tommy near, wasn’t the same she had been before the message had reached her. 

Not once had she tried to get in touch with the family she had once loved oh so much, they  reminded her too much of him, the memory of Tommy was still too fresh in her mind, unable to forget about the features she’d see whenever she closed her eyes. And yet it somehow got easier with every passing day, even though (y/n) knew that she’d never be able to live as she had been able to all those weeks ago. 

What was a woman full of love without a husband alive to share the emotions she felt deep inside? 

Her fingers absentmindedly stroked along the lush grass, deeply inhaling the warm air whenever her brain reminded her to keep on breathing. The days passing by followed the same pattern, a routine she cherished, a routine she needed to keep on living without breaking every moment she wandered through her empty house. 

“Love?” For a second (y/n) froze, shaking her head as a chuckle left her, she was going insane, hearing the voice of the lover that no longer wandered the same earth as she did. (Y/n) found comfort in the conversations she’d share with his ghost, speaking to the man she could have married, building a life together with their family close. “(Y/n)!” 

Her eyes shot open, body forced to turn towards her home. The sun was blending her, and yet she could perfectly make out an all too familiar figure. With her breath hitched in her chest, (y/n) scrambled to her feet, stumbling over her dress as she tried to steady herself. 

“You’re dead, this isn’t possible. Oh god, I’m going insane.” The heels of her hands found her eyes, adding pressure to her aching lids in hopes of clearing her vision. The sound of his raspy chuckles filled the afternoon, forcing her once again to take in his frame. 

“As much as I can tell, I’m very much alive, love.” And with a sob rumbling through her, (y/n) stumbled into his arms. He smelled of mud, dirt and sweat, and yet (y/n) was certain that she had never taken in a scent this familiar, finding love in the way he held her close. She tightened his grip on him, needing to feel every part of him, trying to accept that her fiancé was alive and breathing. “God, I missed you, (y/n).”

“How is this possible, Tommy? I got the letter, I,” another sob interrupted her, feeling him growing tense. It took Tommy a moment to reply, hand finding her cheek to take in her features, eyes wandering over the tear traces on her skin.

“Which letter?” His voice was low, lower than she had remembered. No longer was he a young man filled with excitement and curiosity about the chances this life may offer him. No longer was he a young man clinging to the adventures he shared with his brothers and cousins. No, he was a man that had seen more dead bodies than the eye could count. He was a man graced by the anger those in positions of power had unleashed on the continent. 

“Your letter, the one John should send to me, should you die. It reached me in July. I – I thought you had fallen, no longer alive.” One tear after another rolled down her cheek, dripping onto his warm hand. And with a pained expression tugging on his features, Tommy pulled her back in, chin placed on the top of her head. 

“My uniform had been changed as I moved my rank, another soldier must have taken on my jacket, with the letter still in it. He must have thought that I died. I am so sorry, love, if only I had known.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, not daring to let go as they cherished one another’s closeness. 

“Promise you’ll stay, don’t ever leave me again, Tommy. I won’t survive this again.”

It would take her weeks to fully realise that Tommy was back home, alive and breathing. She wouldn’t let him go, not now, not ever, because when one heart breaks, the other follows.