#until she's expelled enough grief from her lungs that she has the space to breathe through the resentment that starts to build

[densewentz]

All I can think about is how fucked everyone treats a Shadow Dragon Rook if they choose to save Treviso over Minrathous. Because the decision is sound, you know? Horrible, and hard, but Treviso is this half-broken merchant city. No guard other than the crows, no defenses, no giant floating big brother laser in the sky and one of Thedas' largest collection of mages. And so Rook has to trust their fellow Dragons to protect their home and hope to anything that they can keep the blight from Treviso. Only it's not enough, and despite the fact that Rook is one (1) person, who's only leading because no one else would goddamn do it, who has never even SEEN a dragon before the one at D'Meta's Crossing, and who still managed to fight off one dragon right after a grueling mission and then still have the energy to run off to try and help Minrathous - everyone still seems to blame them. And not just that, but the entire team spends most of the next act with their hearts breaking for Minrathous, and for Neve especially. 'Poor Neve, her home is gone, her people are dead, her life as she knew it is changed forever, poor neve, I know you didn't have a choice Rook but Neve is hurting now'. And I LOVE Neve. I love her. But it is so fucked up that as a Shadow Dragon Rook who was forced to make a horrific choice, who ALSO lost their home, their people, the life they knew- no one ever really bothers to comfort Rook. Or even consider that Rook would be absolutely shattered by what happens to Minrathous. Or fucking furious, because Rook and the goddamn Crows managed to fight off their dragon by the skin of their damn teeth with basically nothing, so how could the Shadow Dragons and the rest of Greater Minrathous not handle theirs! What were they goddamn doing that whole time?!?

The only difference between Rook and Neve is that Rook doesn't have the luxury of fucking off in the middle of a fight for the world to go mourn what they've lost. They have no choice but to pull their shit together and keep going.

And still every time Rook goes to a companion with the broken pieces of themselves in their bloody palms its just. "Oh Rook, how could this have happened to Poor Neve"

[shysneeze]

guilt (remus lupin x fem!reader)

Description: on the brink of the war, persuaded by guilt, remus makes a painful decision. (based loosely on peace by taylor swift)

Warnings: angst, passing food mention (cooking), mention of babies? lycanthropy related remus angst, mentions of war

(i hope it comes across enough in this that i’m not implying that life is marriage and children, children are scary and marriage is a social construct- they aren’t for everyone and it’s all your decision :) )

.

Guilt is a feeling he’s used to, a symptom of lycanthropy that no one ever talks about. It’s the first thing awoken to after full moons, seeing friends and family folded uncomfortably in bedside chairs, to feel their shaking fingers curled around his hands. It’s the worst type of guilt, the guilt of being the source of someone else’s worry.

Guilt has been his constant companion, but never before has it felt as nauseating as it does now, stood in the kitchen doorway with his fist curled around the handle of the trunk he’s been packing for a week.

He watches as she cooks, swaying in time to the music played by the old radio on the windowsill, ignoring how it catches with an ugly static sound every now and then, a fault she rectifies by humming over it as though she can’t hear it at all.

 She seems happy, a happiness he is about to ruin.

Even now though, he finds his mind wandering, the crime that flung him into this situation in the first place. For a moment, he can imagine himself joining her, wrapping his arms around her waist, and swaying with her, hiding his face in the crook of her neck. He imagines the stillness, the peace of that moment and he longs for it for a second, before the guilt returns to remind him, that peace isn’t something he can ever give her.

His heart feels heavy in his chest as he places the trunk down by his side before gently tapping his knuckles against the wooden doorframe. She jumps a little as she turns to towards him, taking a second to register that its him before a smile forms on her lips.

“Remus.” She smiles. “Dinner is nearly ready…”

She trails off, eyes dropping to the trunk at his ankles and smile dropping with them. She looks back up at him with a frown, head tilting questioningly. He tries his best to keep eye contact, she deserves as much as eye contact for this conversation, but it’s hard knowing what he’s about to tell her.

“Where are you going?”

It’s an unnecessary question, she can already see him pulling away from her, a sorrow in his eyes she’s noticed for days, but avoided desperately in an attempt to prevent the inevitable. But it’s here now, and it’s worse that she imagined. 

“I’m sorry.” Remus exhales. “I-I can’t do this to you anymore.”

She slowly eases the wooden spoon from her hand and onto the counter, expelling a sigh as if to make space for what she’s about to take in, to create room in her chest for what she knows is about to be bad news.

“There is a life… There is a life you deserve, (Y/N).” He starts, “and it’s one I can’t give you.”

She might have expected it, but she stills feels her heart drop in her chest. She’s heard it before, a usual rant after full moons, when he hates himself the most. This is different though, there isn’t to be any convincing him and she can tell just from his tone of voice. There is a strange finality to it that catches her off guard.

“W-where did this come from, Remus?”

He can trace it back two weeks exactly, a weekend spent at James and Lily’s house, watching (Y/N) cradle Harry in her arms, cooing at him softly. It looked so natural to see her with a baby, his mind betrayed him momentarily as it’s prone to doing, and he let it wander to a future where that baby might be his, a future he’s always known to be out of reach.

It’s not the first time his own imagination has betrayed him, not since leaving Hogwarts, where somewhere along the line they became adults, capable of more adult lives, serious lives with the people they love.

“We’re not teenagers anymore.” He starts solemnly, “We can’t be as naïve as to think we can have anything of a normal life together.”

“A normal life?”

“We’d never have the big house and a garden,” He explains, “or kids to fill it- I can’t give you a family, (Y/N).”  

She inhales a breath that catches at the back of her throat and holds it in her lungs as she tries to work out how to respond, how to answer him without releasing her frustration in fumbling fit of words she doubts she’ll mean, because it always comes back to this.

“I’ve told you already, Remus.” She manages calmly. “When I fell in love with you I never asked for those things. I don’t need them to be happy, not everyone does.”

“I know.” He sighs, running a hand down his face. “I know but it’s more than the kids, (Y/N)… and you know that too.”

She exhales a frustrated sigh through her teeth and shakes her head. Struck by the sudden urge to scream, to shout until her lungs are empty, until perhaps he understands that these aren’t his decisions to make. But her heart is breaking, she can feel each splinter coming away in her chest.

“I don’t want anything except from you, Remus.”

They’re words that should fill him to the brim with love, and in a painful way they do, but she shouldn’t be saying them on the verge of tears, with hands shaking and lips quivering. It’s that guilt again that claws its way up his throat and wrench themselves into the too honest words he says next.

“You say that now.” He starts, emotions raw in his voice, “But we’re going into a war and you don’t deserve to have to deal with my condition on top of everything else… I won’t put you through that.”

“Remus,” She shakes her head. “Stop.”

“You’ll resent me, (Y/N).” He explains, “Not consciously, but you will.”

“I won’t.” She argues sternly, despite the crack in her voice, “Don’t do this.”

When her subconscious determination not to cry fails her, he takes a couple of steps forward to pull her into his arms once last time, one hand in her hair and the other running up and down her back in gentle, soothing motions.

“I’m sorry,” He whispers shakily, “but it’s for the best.”

She shakes her head against him with a chocked sob, fingers curling around his jumper in a desperate way. He pulls back, eyes dark with grief as they watch her cry, as he gently releases her hands from his clothes and softly kisses her knuckles before lowering her hands back to her sides.

“I love you, (Y/N).”

He doesn’t expect to hear it back, after this evening he doesn’t deserve to, and as he plants one final kiss to the crown of her head, he reminds that this is the right thing, the necessary thing, and that he’s doing it because he loves her.

It takes everything in him to step back for that last time, to return to his trunk and to grasp it in his fist again but turning his back on her to leave is the worst of all. In the short hallway of their dingy flat, the front door seems miles away, and each step towards it feels like a year.

He’s glad, when he reaches for his jacket still hanging beside hers on the hooks by the door, that she hasn’t followed him from the kitchen. He’s glad that when he opens the front door, and the winter wind that batters the rain down onto the street is so loud he can no longer hear her cry.

He wishes he were glad when he finally shuts the door behind him, glad to have done what he believes was right and that he’s done what’s best for her, but all he finds in himself is that gut-twisting guilt that he’s so used to, more painful than ever.  

tag-list: @pxroxide-prinxcesss , @lenalxvegood​ 

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[with-paint]

Breaking the Glass

Part 2 of 2 of Whatever the Outcome Series

Rating: Teen and up

Pairing: Lip Gallagher x fem!reader

Word Count: 5,204

Summary: The hearing of Lip Gallagher and Professor Helene Runyon is today. You watch it all unfold, it seems, with your hands clasped tightly over your eyes.

Warnings: swearing everywhere, some violence, smoking and drinking of course, slut shaming

A/N: this is the best fucking thing I have ever written and I just want to say ahhhhh. I used the word “fuck” 64 times in this. Set in 6x06. Part 1

It was the day of the hearing and to say Lip was freaking out, was an understatement.

You watched in both horror and amazement as he tore open his third pack of cigarettes. It was a thing you noticed he did when he completely lost it. He chained smoked like a motherfucker. The ashtray you slid his way a couple hours ago was completely filled with stubs and you were pretty sure you could hold the thick smoke in your hands.

You hauled him into your dorm room after his classes were done, wanting him to have company that wasn’t destructive before the board meeting. He sat on your coffee table, and you on the edge of your bed. No one was talking. You let him wallow in his anger and his grief, and you offered him anything you thought could help him. A safe space to freak out and a friend that wouldn’t judge him as he spiraled. He didn’t have to pretend to be strong. Not to you.

You cleared your throat and ran a hand over your mouth as you stared at him. He hadn’t spoken in hours. Hadn’t done anything in hours. Just stared at the floor and smoked.

“Alright champ, I think that’s enough. No need to get lung cancer any faster.” You attempted to tease as you nudged his leg with your foot. You knew your voice gave away your panic, and you felt your face burn as you looked away from him. He leaned back on the table and puffed out more smoke. With a sigh, he threw the barley smoked cigarette onto the giant pile and looked out the window in your dorm room.

You’d always liked that your room faced the giant quad most people walked through. You liked that you could witness everyone just living their lives. It seemed that’s what you did best. Watch as people lived their lives. Make their mistakes. Get back up again.

You tugged a cigarette from one of the packs and lit it quickly. Taking a drag, you felt some of the nerves leave your body.

“We are so fucked.” He swore, staring out at the expanse of the campus. You glanced at him, wondering if he thought this was the last time he would see the campus as a student. You didn’t get along with a lot of people. You were one of a few that didn’t grow up with a silver spoon stuck in your mouth. Your bad temper and lack of manners didn’t help you much. Sure, you liked Joaquin fine, but he was always trying to get into your pants.

Lip was different. You two met a few weeks into Freshman year. You were taking a smoke break when he raged into the alleyway and beat the shit out of a dumpster. You’d been attached to the hip ever since.

You stayed with him over the summer and helped him deal with his little brother and his family anyway you could. Lip was like family to you now, and he might go away. You were terrified he would be expelled. You didn’t know what you would do if he walked out and went to his dorm to pack his bags. Just the thought alone made your blood freeze in your veins. “She’s never going to want to see me again.”

You blinked a few times.

Oh right.

Helene.

He wasn’t scared that he would leave the school. Leave all this hard work and the money he’d been given, especially by that man who paid for this all making Lip fucking owe that man to at least finish. Or his own room which he deserved after sharing a space with three other boys back at home, not that you’d think he minded at the time, but once you get a taste of freedom it’s so hard to go back. Or a place where he actually belonged, a place he could let his mind grow and you’ve seen him teaching, he had a gift, a talent, and he was going to waste it all.

You tried to rack your brain for more reasons, but the one true reason was screaming at you. He couldn’t leave. Leave, fuck, you couldn’t do this, leave you. Your chest heaved as you admitted that to yourself. You were afraid he was going to leave you. Fuck. You couldn’t do this right now. You stared at him and let out a bitter laugh.

No, he was worried that Professor Runyon would be fired because she was sleeping with a student when she knew damn well the risks of doing so. Worried that her fourty year old cougar ass wouldn’t want to see him anymore. That’s what he was so stressed about.

You pushed off your bed and crossed over to the window, taking another deep drag of your cigarette.

“Maybe. You sure know how to pick ‘em.” You said bitterly. Wanting to cause a sting in return for the way his comment hurt you. Lip turned to you and raised an eyebrow.

“Fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, what first was Karen? I don’t even need to explain that one. Then Mandy. I actually really liked her. That one was your fault. Then Amanda, fucking bitch. And now Professor Runyon. Face it Lip, you have bad taste in women.” You took another drag. “And also a thing for blondes.”

Lip flicked his cigarette out as his jaw dropped. “I thought you were supposed to make me feel better.”

“Why the fuck should I have to?!” You snapped, all that anger finally bubbling over and exploding. You threw your cigarette onto the floor and stomped it out. “What ‘cause I’m the only one left? Only one you haven’t fucked so that means I haven’t gotten screwed over by the bullshit logic you use, all orchestrated by your dick?! Are you fucking kidding me Lip? Are you actually this dense? You think she would want to see you after all of this? You ruined her career her fucking livelihood. She has a family she wouldn’t choose you over them you fucking moron!” You laughed again and turned around. The sudden urge to slap him welled up inside you, but you choked it down. You were not going to be another jealous girl. Not you. Fucking no way.

Lip’s nostrils flared as he got progressively angrier at your words.

“You don’t know how she feels about me! She loves me, I-I love her!” He got in your face and you set your jaw as you stared at him.

You leaned into him and jabbed a finger into his chest. Your noses inches apart.

“Lip you love getting your dick wet. You don’t know shit about real feelings you fucking manwhore. All you’ve ever done is fuck girls over for your own agenda. And that’s all you’ll ever do. You’ll die alone because all you know is how to fuck people over and push the ones who care away.” You shoved him out of your face and stormed over to your door.

“Out.” Your voice was steady and calm, but the murderous look on your face betrayed you. Lip let out a sarcastic laugh and picked up his bag from your floor.

“Thank you for fucking nothing then!” He called as he walked out the door. You slammed it before he could start talking again. Grabbing the ashtray off your table, you opened your window, and threw it at the ground. The amber glass shattered as the cigarette stubs scattered along with it. You let out a shaky breath as you fell backwards onto your bed.

Taking a glance at the clock, you groaned. It was an hour until the hearing. You had an hour to decide what the fuck to do.

Alright fuck, let’s go over the facts. Lip is a fucking asshole who was in a relationship with a professor when both knew their relationship would end in either expulsion or loss of a job. Alright so maybe they both got off on the secrecy of it all. You ran a hand over your face and sighed. Who were you to limit who he was with? You were just a friend. And yeah you could have a say in the sense that you could pipe up at a party, make sure he doesn’t sleep with an STD riddled sorority girl. But to say he wasn’t allowed to be with the woman he was in love with? Nah. You couldn’t be the one getting in his way. You stared up at the ceiling and felt the stress physically taking a role on the space between your shoulder blades and at the bottom of your neck.

Okay so you couldn’t be mad at him for being with Professor Runyon.

You could be mad at another thing though. The most obvious things. You couldn’t be mad at him for who he loved. But you could, you could be mad at him for who he didn’t. You pressed the palms of your hands into your eyes and let out a pitiful laugh.

You could be mad that he wasn’t in love with you.

Fuck you were in love with Lip.

“What a fucking cliché.” You spat into the static air of your dorm room. The stupid girl being head over heels for the oblivious best friend. Your mouth raised in a sneer as you thought it over.

You were in love with Lip. Lip. Love. You love Lip. Your conscious was screaming these words. Over and over.

With a shake of your head as though to clear the thoughts you flung your arms out. Okay. You loved Lip, fine. But you didn’t love how he was acting.

You didn’t love this fuckboy persona he was constantly adopting. This “big dick” player Lip. The one Helene and even Amanda fell over. No, you loved the shit talking Lip, the one that takes the L train every weekend to see and help his family. The big protective Lip that holds his baby brother at three in the morning, Liam’s small body shaking from nightmares as Lip continues to annotate his paper for English. No, you were the only person who really loved Lip Gallagher, because you were the only one that really saw him. And he needed someone who truly sees him at this hearing.

You ran a hand over your face and glanced at the clock again. You still had time to make it to this fucking hearing.

In a haste you grabbed your bag, yanked on your lanyard, and booked it out the door, sprinting to the disciplinary sector of the school. You skidded to a stop as you saw Lip pacing in front of a door on the other end of the hall.

With a deep breath, you strode over to him. He looked up in surprise upon hearing you and stopped his frantic pacing. He cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair.

“Hey you made it. Didn’t think you’d come.” Lip admitted shoving his hands into his pockets. You still wanted to slap him, but you sighed and set your bag on the metal chair sitting across from the door.

“Wouldn’t miss it. Is Youens inside?” You asked, quietly, fiddling with the lanyard around your neck. Your school ID and keys jingled softly and Lip stared at you. His expression unreadable.

You weren’t one to be shy, weren’t one to show a nervous tick so blatantly. You broke Amanda’s nose without even blinking, yelled at him not even an hour ago, and now you were being shy. Lip blinked a few times trying in vain to understand what that meant for you, what that meant for him.

He cleared his throat and kicked the ground without any real heat behind it.

“Yeah. Just nervous s’all.”

You nodded and rolled your shoulders. Lip watched as you shed away your shyness and became the fearless, trash talking, scrappy girl he knew. Watched as you shed your emotions to be what he needed from you. His heart thudded and he didn’t fucking know why.

“Fuck that. It’ll be easy.” You stepped closer to him and smiled brightly. “It’ll be fine. Professor Youens will be there with you. Just tell them whatever they want to hear. Do not loose your fucking temper. Make sure to blame it on Amanda.” You rambled smoothing the soft blue of Lip’s collar. He let out a huff of a laugh and grabbed your hands that were fidgeting all over him.

“You goin to wait out here?” He mumbled rubbing at his forehead. You sucked your teeth at him and reached up to fix the hairs he tugged down.

“Of course. You’ll get through this. We can get shit faced after, maybe I can break Amanda’s legs. It’ll be a good rest of the day.” You were grasping at straws. All you wanted was to reassure him, calm him down. Every time you spoke it seemed like you were threatening or bad mouthing Amanda, and you saw the sadness in his eyes. He was secretly hurt that she would betray him like that.

Lip nodded and with one last look at you, he walked through the door to his doom. You bit your lip and slowly sunk down on the awful metal folding chair across the hall.

All you could do now was wait.

- - -

Your leg bounced as you took a deep drag of your cigarette. You knew there was no smoking indoors, but you’d be damned if someone tried to take this one comfort away from you. It was all you fucking had left. You let the smoke fill your lungs as you exhaled and blew the white vapor into the static air of the hallway.

The clicking of heels snapped you out of your numb staring and you looked up to see Professor Runyon making her way over to you. You regarded her as you took another drag. Her expression was blank, but you could see in the set of her jaw that she was stressed. You almost smiled as she looked down at you.

“Professor,” you nodded and rested your head on the wall behind you. “I hope it all ends well. Please talk to him if you can.”

She raised an eyebrow at you and looked around nervously.

“Take care of him.” She said quietly, and with that she pushed open the door and walked inside. You blinked up at the empty space she occupied. Well what else have you been doing for the past two years? You huffed out a sarcastic laugh and adjusted your shoulders. You were in deep now weren’t you?

It felt like maybe an hour passed before your thoughts were disturbed by the door opening.

You stood up, wanting to immediately grill Lip on how it went, when instead Professor Runyon briskly walked out. Still composed and professional, but clearly running. You opened your mouth to say something, but she breezed past you, pulling on a beige coat and a scarf.

You blinked a few times and slowly sunk back into the chair before the door banged open again and Lip and Professor Youens walked out. You shot up and looked at them with wide eyes, trying to determine the verdict in their faces. Youens gave you a slight smile, but Lip was hastily tugging on his own coat and looking down the hall at the retreating Professor.

“Helene! Wait!” Lip called jogging after her, completely ignoring you as they both quickly left the building. The big glass door they walked through shining as it slammed close. You blinked a few times and looked down at your bag.

No he fucking didn’t.

You raised your eyebrows and swore openly. Cussing out that fucking bastards name. How dare he. You were the only one who gave a shit about him beside Youens and he couldn’t even look to you.

You yanked your bag and made to storm out of the hall, before Professor Youens put a hand on your shoulder. You snapped your glare to him before dimming it. Your eyes wide, staring into his soft brown ones, you felt more grounded then you did all week. Already visibly calmer he gave you a little smile.

“That boy is probably the biggest idiot I know.” He said, his calming voice washing over you. You closed your eyes for a moment and let out a huff of air.

“I kno-” you began, your anger swelling back up again for that whore you apparently loved.

“But then again so are we.” And with that he turned and left, walking the opposite way and rounding a corner. You stared after him. We’re idiots? What? You blinked a few times, staring at the empty space he used to occupy, and sat back in your pathetic little folding chair.

Youens was a college professor, granted he was a drunk who made Lip do most of his work, but he was a professor and smarter than Lip gave him credit for. And you weren’t exactly a genius, but you worked your ass off and did well, you wouldn’t be here if you couldn’t keep up. Neither of you were idiots. But if you’re going off academic genius, then neither was Lip. You scrunched your nose and glanced at the glass door.

Lip was an idiot because he fucking fucked everyone who looked at him and had no class, and was angry and naïve. Didn’t understand the working world and expected rewards for everything he did. Demanded credit and fell in love with the wrong people, cared too little about people’s feelings and instead what they could do for him.

And you and Youens?

You were idiots for loving him regardless.

You sucked your teeth and crossed your arms. Fuck Youens for making you feel bad, Lip was just a hurt kid in love and he really needed someone right now. You of all people could fucking relate. You let out a sigh and glanced at the glass door again.

Guess it’s time to get this asshole and lick his fucking wounds or something. You threw your bag onto your shoulder and made your way outside.

You spotted him quickly. His tan coat and blonde hair are a pretty big tell. But the biggest, was that he was the only person standing still. Just frozen in the middle of the quad, staring off into the middle distance. You sighed again and slowly made your way to him, making as much noise as possible to not scare him. You were practically stomping before you stopped right behind him.

“Lip?” You mumbled, slowly reaching out a hand. You placed it gently on his shoulder, but he started and spun around quickly, eyes wide.

He looked, uh, you cocked your head at him slightly. He looked like his heart was ripped out of his chest and his smile was thrown away and his happiness was blended up and discarded all right in front of him. He looked absolutely devastated. You pulled your hand off his shoulder and cleared your throat. Gripping and ungripping your bag’s strap, you sighed.

“C’mon. Today’s been rough. Let’s get fuckin wasted.” You said trying to conjure up a smile. It was like Lip was a vacuum and any sense of ease and lightness was destroyed in his presence. You dropped your smile and gripped your bag again. Lip looked only marginally less miserable at the suggestion of booze.

He nodded slightly and you felt yourself returning it. It was going to be fine. You and Lip again, just getting wasted in your dorm rooms like a couple of reckless kids.

As the two of you made the trip back to Lip’s dorm, his shell shocked expression loosened. He wasn’t sad anymore, but fucking angry.

“A year! I met her husband and kid, I was over there all the time. I went on trips with her and kept her drunk ass company! I took care of her! And the only time she looked me in the eye was to tell me to fuck off! She said she was terminating all contact to them! Can you believe this shit?!” He turned to you, hands palm up in front of him, eyes wide and mouth snarled. You could only shake your head as you pushed open the door to his dorm building. You didn’t trust yourself in the slightest to get onto the anti Professor Runyon train. Your dislike for her ran deeper than the offense to the man next to you. Better to keep your mouth shut and not give anything away.

Lip kept cussing and ranting as you climbed the stairs in the cold stairwell. You just kept shaking your head and occasionally mumbling out an, “I know” or “What a bitch”. You weren’t listening. How could you, you were hurt and mad and stressed, worried, and happy all at the same time. You just wanted to get to his dorm so you could drink so much that your brain deteriorated. That’s all you wanted.

You pushed open the doors to his floor and he followed you, still throwing an impressive tantrum. You shook your head for good measure as the door slammed shut behind you.

You blinked back into focus when Lip turned suddenly. You stared at him with wide eyes and he made a lunge to open the just closed door.

“Lip! What the fuck?!” You yelled grabbing him by his sleeves and hauling him back. It doesn’t matter that you could break his arm with ease, he was fueled by pure anger and heartbreak. You didn’t stand a chance. His back was to you, his hand splayed large over the door. It creaked open slowly.

“I need her to fucking understand!” He spat and you couldn’t help the eyeroll that escaped from you. You planted your feet and tugged him harder. He inched backwards and the door slammed shut again.

“She doesn’t want to fucking talk to you!” You spat. You huffed out a frustrated breath and moved your entire body so you were next to him. Still pulling on him you looked at him with a harsh glare. His blue eyes; bright and wild, met yours and you sighed again. With a glance upwards in a silent prayer to whatever god, real or not, that resided above, you punched him swiftly in the dick.

He crumpled to the floor in an instant. His groans of pain and the crash his limp body made, echoed in the small hallway and you fucking sighed again.

You stood over him and glared at him.

“Now you’re going to fucking listen to me!” You spat watching him with a slight snear and his eyes squeezed shut in misery. “Helene cannot talk to you or she will lose her fucking job. This isn’t about you. This is about her money, her passions, her life. You will stay the fuck away from her or you will get her into even more trouble. I know you loved her, but you can get the fuck over it because it’s over. It’s done. The end!”

You finished your rant with a wave of your hands.

You took a few seconds to feel sick satisfaction at watching him in pain. For all the emotional misery he put you through in the last couple hours, it felt nice to return it ten-fold. You cocked your head to the side and finally, kneeled down next to him. He moaned in pain and coughed out pitifully.

“Alright come on. There's ice in your freezer. Let’s go.” Lip only coughed in response. You took that as the gracious “thank you” that it was and helped him hobble to his dorm room. You fumbled with his pockets, trying to find the keys.

“Left one.” He coughed out and you nodded in thanks at him. Swinging the door open you unceremoniously dumped him on his bed, opened the mini fridge, and threw a bag of ice next to him.

He sucked in a shaky breath and gingerly pressed the ice to himself. You smirked slightly and rooted around in his fridge for any alcohol you could find. You pulled out a bottle of vodka that was definitely stolen. You brought it to your mouth and bit the cap off. You spit it at him and he flipped you off in turn.

This was nice. This was normal. Just you and Lip, drinking and lounging around in your rooms. You could do this.

You pulled out another bottle and took that with you. Kicking the fridge closed, you handed him the second bottle.

He seemed to be doing better. His face no longer an alarming shade of red. His breathing evened out and he stared at the ceiling blankly. Better than in pure agony. You shrugged and leaned on his desk, staring at him.

“Are you going to tell me what the verdict was or do I have to punch you again?” You teased making him laugh.

“Yeah. Was uh, was that she terminate all contact. And I lose my job as a RA. Lose this room.” He shuffled back a little so he could prop himself up on his pillows and look at you. You nodded, your eyebrows furrowed.

“Well shit. I’ll drink to that.” You said and took a long, long drink. Lip followed you and you let the horrible taste wash over you.

You didn’t talk for a while after that. Just kept taking long swigs of your drinks and taking turns staring at the floor, or staring at the ceiling.

You let out a little laugh and Lip looked at you quickly. Looking almost scandalized that you would find this funny. You couldn’t help it, the fact that her nudes got leaked was funny as hell for some reason. You clutched your drink tightly and doubled over laughing. Lip stared at you for a few seconds before his own laugh of disbelief joined you. Your twin loud laughs was the only sound in the silent room as you felt tears gathering in your eyes. Lip wasn’t far behind as his face returned to that red color.

“Oh man that’s fucking delightful!” You spit out, still laughing in pure joy. Lip shook his head and let his head fall back in laughter.

“I’m fucked.” He said as he let his own laughter die down into giggles.

You nodded with a grin and you took another sip. Absolutely fucked. The silence settled over your two again. This time it was more awkward than comfortable. You cleared your throat and moved off his desk. Lip raised an eyebrow at you and you stuck your tongue out at him.

You sat on his bed as you took another swig of the cheap vodka. It tasted like rubbing alcohol and fire, but you sucked it down the same. Lip threw his own, now empty bottle at the cushions and it bounced slightly. You smiled slightly at it. Lost in your own thoughts of the events of today. You let out a sigh before you felt the hairs on your arm prick up and you turned to Lip.

He was already staring at you, blue eyes slightly bloodshot, but looking as beautiful as ever. You felt yourself smiling at him. In awe at how much of a beautiful mess he looked. The pair of your breathings was the only thing heard as slowly, so fucking slowly he leaned into you. You sucked in a breath, eyes fluttering close, as his lips covered yours.

You were kissing Lip. You were kissing Phillip fucking Gallagher. The guy you had been trailing over, loving for so fucking long. You moved your hand up to cradle his face. His slight stubble scratching your palm. You were kissing Lip Gallagher. You pressed more into him as your mind wondered like it always did.

You were kissing him immediately right after he got fucking dumped by the woman he loves.

Your mouth turned into a snarl and you jerked back. “I’m not a fucking rebound.” You hissed pushing him off you. You heart thudded in your chest and you prayed he couldn’t hear it.

“I know, I’m just really fucked up right now.” He confessed, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. You narrowed your eyes, yeah fucked up emotionally you bastard. He moved his hands and let out a puff of air. You watched him as his eyes got watery and he quickly rubbed that away too.

God he was fucking wasted.

You blinked a few times as an idea came over you. Lip was fucking wasted.

Your head pounded and you stared at him. He was trashed beyond belief. His eyes closing every few seconds and the dopey smile on his face was all you needed. He was crying a second ago and now he looked like it was his birthday. This was it. Now or never. He would never remember this in the morning.

“I’ve been in love with you for years now.” You stuttered, heart thudding as you twisted the blanket through your hands nervously. Lip bobbed his head in a clumsy nod.

“I know.” He slurred. It felt like a huge weight lifted off your shoulders, as well as an even bigger one clamped down on you and suffocated you. You sucked in a breath and fell back onto Lip’s bed. Fuck he knew. This entire time. And he had the audacity to treat you like this. Fuck him. Fuck this fucking asshole. You were bubbling up to boil over, before Lip’s arm buckled and he fell half on top of you. His mouth open and soft snores emitting. You blinked a few times up at his ceiling in shock. Body stiff as you just laid there with his unconscious body cuddling up to you.

This was the moment then. You could choose to walk out forever and no one could even blame you for doing it. Or you could stay. You could pick up the pieces and help him heal from afar. After all you’ve done that up until this point. What’s a few more years. Hell, what’s the rest of his miserable life. Your nose twitched as you traced the ceiling fan with your eyes.

You had always been the one staring out the window. Even with him. You watched him date these women and fall apart. In your own fucking life you just watched the events unfold. Never did you actually make a decision for you. You thought back to the breaking of Amanda’s nose and couldn’t help but smirk. Well every decision you did make was a violent one.

But.

Where was the getting what you wanted? Where was the heart pounding moments? Where was your own dates with the people you loved?

You made your decision.

You closed your eyes and slowly let yourself relax into the queen size bed. Whatever the outcome of this all, you were breaking the glass and stepping to the otherside. You were fucking staying. You were making your own decisions and finally living. You wanted this. So you were taking it.

[pinkhairedlily]

Breathing is a foreign task

Chapter 8 of The Spring He Came Back | 8 of 12

“Shirou!” Her voice was drowned out by the squeal of racing wheels against the rail and the loud whistle of its departure. Catching her breath, she hesitated for a few seconds but regained her composure and sprinted to the end of the platform, her bun coming undone with the icy wind. He was just standing at the door. He could still see her. “Shirou!”

He looked up at that moment, his eyes immediately locking with hers, and both mirrored confusing expressions of guilt, desperation, and relief. What a million words longing to be said. What a million thoughts needed to be shared. What a million things. She finally reached the end of the station where she could no longer run after him. She stared at the receding figure of the dreams that would take him away again.

Hinamori was grief-stricken. Apart from being kicked out of the academy, her grandmother suffered an infection which she thought Baba would never recover from. But she gained consciousness and her immune system ramped up – a miracle of miracles. For days, she never left Baba’s side, and for days, she didn’t think of anything else but Baba and Baba only. Because ever since she was orphaned, she only had Baba and herself and that was all that mattered.

A week after Baba’s discharge, Hinamori went to the academy. It was nothing short of public shunning. She told a guard to give her letter to Dr. Aizen, but the professor was no longer there.

“Who are you sad for?” Baba asked one afternoon, her frail hands cupping a warm cup of oolong tea. “I think so much had happened while I was asleep, but I only saw that face during your parents’ funeral.”

“I’m sorry Baba.” She still couldn’t forgive herself for doing this to Baba. She was irresponsible, insensitive, uncaring.

Baba reached out to softly pat her head. “My dear, you’re tired.”

She was. She was tired of denying, deconstructing, and reconstructing Dr. Aizen in her head. She was tired of making up excuses for his unreasonable workload, for his weird request to avoid seeing friends so she could be more productive, for seeing through her admiration and taking advantage of it, for using her naivete in the academic field. It was true, after all, that she was not like them. She was a peasant. She didn’t know better. She only had herself to blame.

She was tired. She was tired of pretending she was angry at Hitsugaya, of pretending not to see his pained looks from across the room during the trial, of the defeat on his face when it was decided she would be expelled. She was not angry, but she was confused. She was confused – ever since that afternoon in the yellow daffodil meadow.

Baba pulled her in for a hug, Hinamori’s arms still scared to hold the fragile vessel of her dearest person. But she allowed herself to sob, to let go of all these feelings at once.

“So have you found which bonds to treasure?”

Hinamori never got around to answer Baba’s question as urgent knocks suddenly interrupted their conversation. From the window, she saw that it was Rangiku, Renji, and Rukia, but she didn’t open her door, partly because she was angry for being un-like them and partly because she was afraid of what they thought of her.

“We’re your friends too, Momo.” Rangiku’s voice drifted across the door.

Hinamori was afraid because they were, first and foremost, Hitsugaya’s friends, and they would inevitably take his side. She didn’t think of them as her own.

“We’re your friends, no matter what.” Renji echoed. His voice was still full of energy but also full of indignation. “I don’t care what the academy thinks.”

“You must know,” Rukia started. Out of all three, she may be the most level-headed, so similar with her brother, but Hinamori knew her long enough that Rukia also treasured people close to her. “we know you didn’t do any of the things you confessed to.”

“Hitsugaya wasn’t the informant.” Renji’s voice was cracking. “But you should have already known by now, haven’t you?”

She thought she dried up all her tears. Of course, she knew. Hitsugaya would never do that to her, but she projected all of her fears to him, the fear that it was Dr. Aizen’s doing.

“But you must know he’s leaving.” Rangiku said. “We’re not privy to the details, but he’s leaving tomorrow morning. If you want to clear up all misunderstandings and say your goodbyes, you should come meet him.”

“We’re here for you, Momo. Come and meet us whenever you’re ready.” Rukia never used her nickname until now. “We’ll just have to revise that stupid hierarchy rule of course.”

When she heard the incoming rumble of the train, she dashed out of the compound on her bike and raced to reach Hitsugaya. She was tired of pretending she didn’t care. In fact, she was angry, afraid, and confused. Angry of being left in the dark, afraid of what he thought of her after the trial, confused on his departure. What will she say? Does he hate her? Why was he leaving? When will he come back? She needed answers. She needed to hear his voice. To feel that warm hug one last time.

She heard their collective sighs and their receding footsteps. At the very last minute, she opened her door but were only left with departing shadows. On the ground was a box full of her favorite tea packets. It was pathetic, the way she cried again, the fact that she was still indecisive.

The next morning, she was still unsure of what to do.

But in the middle of winter, Hitsugaya Toushirou disappeared from her life.

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

It was difficult starting over. Baba regained some of her strength but never returned to its full normality. So Hinamori found a reason to move, to get up in the morning and make breakfast, clean the compound, gather firewood. The routine was a safe space.

But the nights were not. She was sleepless, haunted by vivid nightmares of always giving a hundred percent of herself and getting none of them back. She was floating, untethered, and uncertain.

The trips downtown didn’t help at all, even after months of isolation. While the academy was bounded by a non-disclosure agreement of what went down in the trial, gossip was still bound to leak. After all, they were the Soul Society. So she went in, went out, enduring the stares and the snickers behind her back. The worst that happened was when someone on the second floor of a building threw a box of ripe tomatoes on her head. When she returned the following week, she learned that a red-haired guy, a short girl, and a booby one threatened the streets. For a short while, Hinamori allowed herself to smile.

Seasons came and went. She never heard from Hitsugaya, and there was sparse information from the erratic closed door visits she had with the three Rs. On the fifth spring season, large developments occurred. A science museum was to be built on the meadow of daffodils. Full bloom and shining in their yellow glory, the daffodils gave way to the large wheels of trucks and mechanized backhoe. She stood there, tears lodged on her throat, helpless to see memories being taken away.

It was learning how to breathe again. Like how Baba adjusted to her new set of lungs, Hinamori coped with her new life. Breathing has become a foreign task, like any other else – sleeping, eating watermelon, drinking coffee. And when she had them all down, she progressed to contacting friends. She prepared bouquets for the three Rs during their graduation. For some reason, her excommunication with the academy got lifted, and she was allowed to see them. She never made it past the gate, however, and thought it best to leave them with the guard, but they saw her anyway. They smothered her in a flurry of robes and sniffles, her carefully wrapped bouquets in danger of deforming but all for a good reason.

Then, she made even bigger steps. She mailed all the remaining files of her projects with Aizen to Unohana with a self-written testimony of her true experience. It may not hold weight, but she spoke her truth at the very least. It was time to let go of him, or rather the idea of him.

Baba sat her down one day and gave her a bank passbook.

“Baba?” A familiar feeling clutched at her heart. How come she didn’t see it coming again? “Let’s go to the hospital right now!”

“You silly girl. I am fine.” Baba calmed her down and offered her a cup of tea, her favorite brew. “It’s Hitsugaya’s.”

“What?” She was openly dumbstruck. He didn’t send any form of communication, but he continued sending money?

“He probably thought I needed some for maintenance.” Baba’s eyes were twinkling. She was so fond of the measly boy she took from the streets. She didn’t mind his unruly behavior and would have accepted him if he stayed that way. But her genuine act of acceptance returned a lifetime of favor which Hinamori was grateful for. Hitsugaya never broke his promises.

“I still have some extra. He must be a millionaire or something!” Chuckling, Baba held her hands. “But this, you need to have.”

“What do you mean, Baba? I’m not leaving you.”

“Of course, you won’t. But you need to pursue something that you want, for yourself.”

And that was how she managed to acquire the rundown building near her favorite café. Building on Baba’s connections with farmers and a couple of lessons with senior florists, she opened her flower shop. It was expected that revenues would be down initially, given her prior reputation, but this was a shot she needed to take.

Eventually, sales picked up because of her unique arrangements and how they were preserved longer than most flowers. It was thanks to the spray she concocted from her basic knowledge when she was at the academy. She set aside some of her sales – returning what she owed to Hitsugaya who by then became popular in the academic world.

Unreachable by the day, Hinamori thought to herself. But she still found herself waiting. Each time the winter came, she waited patiently for the snow to melt and give way to the budding blossoms of spring. During summer, she and Baba would prepare lots of watermelons, stocking up on jams for the next cycle of winter. And again, and again, and again. And while she was comfortable in her routine, she found herself still waiting.

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

This was the spring he came back. He. The youngest postdoctorate professor of the town. The most sought-after scientist in major journals and magazines. The prodigy of the physics world. Nobel Prize just might do a piece on his work on physics. And yet to her he was still her childhood best friend who disappeared during winter ten years ago.

“Toushirou.”

Hitsugaya gave a small smile and took a few steps closer to the counter. “Rangiku said this place is the best flower shop. I didn’t know you’re the owner.”

Probably because you went off the deep end? “I..didn’t know you’re back.”

“You….cut your hair.” Ah, the first thing he noticed.

“It was heavy.” Hinamori’s hands tried to grab scissors and some ribbons, trying to act as if she was busy, but they all fumbled from her grasp. “So what flowers do you need?”

He stood there awkwardly with this strange silence that hang over the both of them. He was a few inches taller than her, his silver hair growing into a mullet, and his face more angled than what she remembered He also wore glasses….which was weird because she knew he had a 20/20 eyesight. But more than that, he was harder to reach than before and yet he was already in front of her.

There was nothing she wanted more than to rush into his arms and welcome her best friend home. Welcome back.

NEXT CHAPTER | 9 OF 12 | THE SPRING HE CAME BACK

[timeguardiansarchive]

Rescued from the Depths:

@makesownluck​​ continued from X 

(Please don’t kill me for taking creative license with this or the fact that I continued it. I will also apologize heavily for Rose. She got super carried away. Hope the reply makes some miniscule amount of sense. There is absolutely never any pressure to match length or anything!)

Pure pandemonium had erupted upon the once leisure-filled decks and Rose, feeling more observer than participant in it, found herself clinging to Jack as tightly as she dared. Her exhaustion riddled orbs fixate on witnessing an emotional father bidding adieu to his bawling, petrified daughters. He had adorned himself with a brave face and spun a silvery tale in parting. While she was only being vaguely attentive in her eavesdropping, his words lodge in her cranium. “It’s goodbye for a little while,” the man professes. Nevertheless, she could see the truth laid bare in his eyes. With that thought, remained the knowledge of the conversation she had held with Mr. Andrews about the number of lifeboats the Titanic housed. Mr. Andrews’s words wage war on her already dismal dwellings. “There aren’t enough lifeboats even by half.” If what he claimed was true, and she had little doubt that it was having done the math herself and checked it by Mr. Andrews, her mind raced through countless more calculations until panic begins to inspire her to protest the offered spot on one of the lifeboats. This night would end with many innocent lives being lost. 

Whatever insistence she made was quickly overridden by the adamant and unrelenting persuasions of Jack and Cal. They had made an arrangement. Or at least Hockley claimed, that he had one with a ship’s officer to escape safely. Why he would offer such salvation to Jack, she is uncertain. Doubtful, she observes them both but allows herself to be ushered into the waiting lifeboat. She turns her back to the ocean and finds Jack’s outstretched hand, clutching his fingers with all her might willing him to come. Why couldn’t he just forget chivalry and join her? Why did he have to be as valiant and selfless as he had been the moment they first met?!

All too soon, the warmth of his contact is wrenched away, and she is pushed towards the back of the tiny wooden vessel to make room for more. Eerie traces of dimly illuminated indigo waters etched and ebbed across the side of the massive, struggling ‘Ship of Dreams.’ Oh, how that bestowed title torments her in that very moment. It was no longer a palace of celestial imaginings. It was a full-blown nightmare straight from the pit of hell!

While Rose was outwardly skillful in concealing her terror, it continued to bubble up inside of her chest. The force of which, battered heavily against her ribcages as her gaze shoots upwards, seeking, till they find Jack. He and Cal have a deal. She kept reminding herself. However, if they had a deal with an officer on the other side of the ship, why would they remain so stagnant in nearly the same place she had taken her leave of them? Conscience whispers, there is no deal. Is there? There is no grand reunion coming later on. Was there?! This was going to be their final goodbyes. The longer she ruminates upon these thoughts the more the internalized panic began to claw its way to the surface.

In the glow of the lone bursting flare, Rose could see the intolerable grief etched upon Jack’s handsome countenance. With that glimpse alone, she realizes, she can’t do this! She can’t abandon him now!!! She loves him more dearly, more ardently than her own life. She pictures where this road to supposed salvation will lead and it is the same hideous path she’d been set upon with Cal. A road that led her to near self-destruction.

She rallies courage around herself like a cloak, rises to her feet and she lunges quite forcefully forwards across the lifeboat to make the biggest leap of faith she can muster. However, sheer will alone does not propel her far enough towards her end-goal. Whilst her arms were outstretched and the ship had been briefly in reach, Rose finds herself plunging helplessly into the glassy indigo waters below.

There is little Rose can do to prepare herself or brace for the pending harsh impact. It’s all happening far too fast for actual cognition to fully ignite.

The connection with the frigid water below is punishing, forcing her to let out a terrible gasp. Following that gasp comes an influx of salted water that burns down every inch of her esophagus. Choking, she scrambles to suck in another breath of air, but the effort is futile. This inhale is also tainted with water. Lungs heave out a final ratty cough expelling as much as she could before she’s pulled below.

Rose begins to kick furiously, her legs tangling precariously with her skirts. She desperately grapples with her cold-numbed hands, clawing for the surface. Yet, she finds herself being dragged farther downwards. Weighted as if her pockets, correction- Cal’s pockets, were lined with bricks rather than luxurious fabrics. With every second, the adorned articles of clothing seem to be growing heavier and heavier as the water absorbs into the once dry material. It does not occur to her panicking mind to shrug the dress-jacket off. Instead, her focus remains on getting back to the surface despite her rapidly waning energy.

Rose had desperately wished for this horrific fate. Not more than a night or so ago, she had stood on the Titanic’s stern. She peered into churning waters that beckoned with the promises of eternal liberation and prepared herself to take the readily offered exit. That alluring promise had been nothing more than a mere mirage which, Jack Dawson helped to expose. He rescued her and gave her life purpose again!!!  

Jack had also been right about the water feeling like ‘a thousand knives all over one’s body.’ The chill is suffocating, snatching the breath straight out of one’s lungs. Something Rose was now experiencing with terrifying, miserable clarity thanks to the miscalculation.  

The auburn-haired young woman is jarred from thoughts of her own death by a sudden forceful tug that propels her upwards till she resurfaces. A powerful arm coils around her middle and draws her nearer. Sputtering out water, Rose turns her alarmed orbs towards the source. There is an immediate, grateful softening  to the cerulean hues as she discovers Jack beside her in the water. Hoarse vocal cords rasp out, “J...J...Jack? Wh...wh... what are y... y... you doing ... he... here? Y... you we....were safe! You ha....had... had that deal. Did ... didn’t y... you?” Rose prods, with great effort. Guilt adds to the crimson stains stealing across her porcelain skin. It was her fault that he ended up in the water!

She shivers fiercely against the night’s unforgiving chill as it winds through sopping curls and weaves itself into the drenched fabrics surrounding her slender frame. Rose allows herself to be drawn closer to Jack’s sturdier build knowing full well that she can hardly rely on her own strength anymore. Stiff fingers clumsily attempt to curl around his deeply saturated shirt until the wooden lifeboat begins to gain on them.

It took a good deal of effort on the ladies behalves to hoist both bitterly cold  unintentional swimmers to ‘relative’ safety. Rose stiffly pauses near the ledge of the wooden raft and clumsily attempts to help with Jack’s rescue until the indomitable force she recognized as Molly Brown slung a blanket over her shoulders and ushered her towards an empty space away from the edges. “Well ain’t you two a sight for sore eyes,” Molly exclaims, in a purely materialized way. “Sure glad we made room for you. Thought we nearly lost you both.” She confides, taking up a seat near-by.

The air is torturous, hardly tolerable against her already numb skin. Every subtle strike of a breeze feels more like a slap than a caress. Rose allows her violently quivering limbs to be maneuvered closer to the familiar comfort of Jack’s. Gnashing teeth attempt to emit a strained sound of words, “God, I’m ... I’m s.... sorry, Jack. I... I couldn’t...  I... I cou... couldn’t ... leave you.“ She confides, her tired eyes flooding with hot tears.  The contrast between the tears and the cold was uncomfortably significant though, Rose actively elects to ignore it in favor of Jack’s comforting words.

Cerulean orbs linger, fixating on drinking in every inch of Jack’s beloved countenance. Her own tired mind is dogged with unrelenting doubts that are compounded by the soundtrack of horrific screams, calls for lost loved ones, and the sound of twisting and groaning metal. She briefly pries her gaze away to examine the endless horizons but she could discern no warm lights from responding vessels.

Internally, Rose did not relish boarding another ship of any kind. Still, she is far too keenly aware that they are thousands of miles off their intended destination and that if they did not receive help soon, the disastrous fate of the others, would also become their own.

Rose knew that if she let herself focus on any more of the sufferings playing out all around them, she might drown in something more deadly than the depths of the North Atlantic. Shifting her attention, she whispers in question, “th... thi... think we’ll ev ... ever see New York?” Right now, the thought of dry land itself felt like a pipedream, a fleeting, hopeless imagining. An imagining that was infinitely safer than reflecting on the fact that many of the people she had brushed shoulders with, locked eyes with, shared a laugh or smile with, or even saw milling around the various decks, would never reach the final destination. Was it selfish of her to want to fixate on something sanguine than death? Perhaps. But Rose was beyond the point of caring.

There is something about Jack’s claims that bids her to believe, dares her to dream, that this nightmare would cease with the awakening of dawn's first light. His words offer a salve to her troubled soul and she melts into it as eagerly as she does his proffered embrace.  

���You...you’re.... you’re shivering.” Rose blandly states, pointing out the obvious when her attention returns fully to Jack. She instinctively moves to shuffle more of the drier parts of her damp blankets around him and she nestles tighter against his side. While she didn’t have much warmth to share, she would gift him what she could. Feeling a renewed sense of gratitude for Jack, she breathes, “you ... you could have le... left me behind...” There is no chastisement in the shallows of her syllables but rather curiosity and relief. If he had left her, she would have surely died without his intervention but his health wouldn’t have been potentially jeopardized. 

[benscalligraphypen]

Ad Infinitum:  I. Mercy

WC: 2,347

Warnings: Mention of death, angst.

Author’s Note:

Hey everyone! This is my first ever piece of fiction. I love to write and I’ve always wanted to write for the characters I love. Throughout all of this madness, I have been so inspired by other authors lately that I decided to finally give it a “go”. 

This fic is set in/directly after TROS storyline, but we’re just going to pretend that Ben is alive following the events on Exegol (I get the whole Bendemption plot, but I’m still not over it). Also keep in mind that the reader doesn’t know Ben is Leia/Han’s son. We’re starting out with a semi-long dreamscape, but things will pic up in the next chapter!

Thank you all so much for reading and please let me know what you all think! 

Flames engulf your every sense. The crackle of the inferno, harsh to your ears. Lungs burning with every inhale, your body searches - screams for oxygen. In a desperate rush to flee your imminent asphyxiation, you haul your aching limbs from your small cot, legs heavy with sleep. Lack of oxygen and your inability to shake the drowsy haze numbing your instincts, your knees buckle and you tumble towards the cool stone floor. Finally, eyes open, the smoke fills your sight - it blinds and stings. Your lungs expel billowing breaths of smoke and soot - you feel dangerously close to death. With shaky joints, you crawl to the wooden opening, promising sweet release. The architecture around you whines and groans under the pressure of the heat and flames making your rushed escape all the more urgent. With hands and knees raw from the terrain, you manage to crack the door open, hinges giving way with a low and heavy creak.

Shoving the door ajar just enough to slip your tired body through, hands weary, you pull yourself to the cobblestone just outside of the structure. Sudden relief floods your senses as your lungs greedily inhale the pristine night air. You give your shaking arms a rest as you turn to lay on your back. Body soothed by the cool stone, you lay surveying the vast expanse of stars which flood your vision - flames canvasing your view. 

You hear it then - distant wailing, cries of agony. With a clear oxygenated mind, you sense danger - apprehension turning fiery nerve endings into dry ice. 

Slowly, you flip your fragile body over to scrutinize the landscape before you. Eyes widening, you watch in horror as surrounding huts are swallowed in a fiery blaze. As far as your sight can stretch, blinding waves of orange and red incinerate the grounds. Distantly, you spot the temple, crumbling in fiery confrontation. Within the destruction around you, your eyes spot Yanna, a dear friend. Though a few years younger than you, Yanna is a promising student; much more diligent and much stronger with the force than most her age. A fleeting wave of comfort washes over you until you realize the worst. She lay limp amongst the rubbled remains of her hut. You can’t sense her - force signature seemingly wiped from her body. 

She can’t be. 

She’s gone.

Looking around, you realize the same fate has met several other force-sensitive pupils as you had acquainted yourself with through the years. Overwhelming grief cascades through your very being. You sit up on tender knees in disbelief - the breath seemingly wiped from your lungs. Uncontrollable tears stream down soot-stained cheeks as the world around you burns. You clutch your ribcage as sobs wrack your body, making you sick with sorrow. 

In your moment of hysteria, your skin buzzes, the force making you suddenly hyper aware. Looking up, your eyes adjust to the scene unfolding around you. You sense him.    Ben.

Your Ben.

He’s Alive. 

Just past the line of huts within your line of sight, you see him. Even in the shadow of night, Ben’s presence perplexes you. 

He feels - different.

You sense it. His signature is dark. Ben’s usually languid and smooth form carries a sense of severity you do not recognize. Ben’s movements are crazed, leaden with purpose. He rigidly searches the grounds. You cry out for him a moment before you see it - the unmistakable cerulean blaze of his saber. 

Ben’s movements falter; his pause yielding visual and energetic bursts of tension.  Your mind pieces together the scene before you just as his gaze finds you. His brow bone, heavy with frustration, anger. Those lips - formed into a dangerous snarl causing your heart to race. 

Fear becomes you. Ben’s heavy strides carry him to your frozen form before you have time to react, to hide. Ben’s eyes, illuminated by fire, are red with agony. You feel a tidal wave of emotion emanating from him - fear, betrayal, grief, sadness, anger. 

The anger reverberating through him scares you most of all. Fury encapsulates him, reflecting in his irises. Ben’s saber remains ignited and pointed towards your form, his other, clenched in a tight fist. 

“Ben -” you manage to whisper, voice failing you. His brow momentarily softens, eyes glossing over, saber lowering a millimeter. 

Just as suddenly as you glimpse a sense of humanity, Ben clenches his jaw, shoulders tensing, saber aimed with purpose once again. 

“Ben is dead - he was weak,” Ben replies, tears threatening to escape his eyes, cracking his stoic expression. 

Ben’s saber, emanating pure unadulterated heat crackles as it threatens certain death with a swift “swish”. You worry your bottom lip between your teeth as fresh tears fall from your eyes - not in fear, but in pain. Ben’s pain, you realize. Ben’s grip on his saber leaves his knuckles impossibly white. You wonder how he hasn’t shattered the hilt. 

“What - what happened?”, you whisper once more, teary eyes meeting his own, searching for remnants of his soul. Ben’s eyes explore your face for any sign of betrayal. You feel him prodding at your mind, looking for your next move. 

Ben exhales like he had been holding his breath for minutes rather than moments. You observe the same degree of stress in his body; tense, ready to snap. 

“Luke Skywalker tried to kill me”, Ben’s jaw clenches as he all but spits out the words. “Everything in my life has been a lie. But not now,” he shakes his head. “It is clear what I must do”. His words send a harsh shudder through your body. Head hung low, your sore knees send gentle tremors throughout your being. 

Silence, besides the warm hiss of his saber fills the space between you. Looking up into his eyes, “Ben - I don’t understand. Help me understand,” you plead. 

His eyes betray him, shock soaking his features. He hadn’t been prepared to explain himself. His urges were primal - the result of several years of uncertainty, of rejection. He had acted to reclaim himself - assert some semblance of power he felt had always eluded him. Inwardly, he scolds himself. He should have already killed you. 

Ben’s expression returns to that of apathy. He had revealed himself for a fleeting moment, and as quickly, had hidden himself away in some abandoned box in his mind. You feel his uncertainty, but are locked out of his conscience as swiftly as he senses your prying.

“I know what I have to do. I must leave this place. I must let the past die,” Ben utters through closed teeth.

Silence again plagues the short distance between you. The gravity of his words now registering in your mind, your soul. 

Ben. 

Your light. 

Your life. 

The only boy you had ever loved. 

Ben is going to kill you.

The thought registers, seeping like tar through your veins. You hang your head in defeat, awaiting the inevitable slash of his saber. Heavy sobs wrack your tired form, filling the air with grief, with surrender. 

You cry and cry, thinking about your most cherished memories.You think of his smile. You think of Ben’s heated gaze filling you with such warmth; you might implode before he even strikes you. You think of the nights he held you so close to his chest you became one with his own heartbeat. 

As peace fills your being, Ben whispers, “Come with me”. 

You raise your eyes to meet his own - sullen, purposeful, pleading. Your lip trembles, knowing his meaning and knowing that more than anything, you want to follow - to be with him. You try to convince yourself you have the strength to do so. You try to convince yourself that everything will be alright so long as you’re together. He tries too. 

You find yourself quaking in the solemn knowledge that you could never give him what he was asking of you. You would never be able to pledge yourself to the dark side of the force - regardless of the pain you feel. Regardless of your soul’s need to be with Ben. 

You know that your Ben is gone. 

“I - I can’t. I’m sorry,” your voice carries with more strength than you believe you can muster. “You know I can’t. A- and you know I -.”

“I know,” he replies, a stray tear rushing from the corner of his eye. You offer him a small smile, trying to engulf him in the love you feel for him - the love you will always feel for him. 

Bracing yourself, you look to the sky, searching the stars for answers to questions you’ve never voiced. Closing your eyes, you feel a tear soothe your blazing skin as you exhale in surrender to your fate. 

You feel warm. But not from the burn of Ben’s lightsaber. 

You feel enveloped in warmth. Bewildered, you open your eyes to find yourself folded into Ben’s arms, his quivering body rapidly pulling you into reality. Ben had collapsed to his knees before you, binding his body with yours. You notice his saber laying dormant on the ground, inches from his form. Ben’s face burrows itself into the seam where your neck and your shoulder meet, seeking purchase in you. Hot tears fall from his eyes and seep into your skin. Without another thought, you tightly bind your arms around his shoulders, attempting to merge your bodies into one, attempting to piece him back together. 

Ben withdraws his face from your body, keeping his arms tightly wound around you. You look up into his glossy eyes as a sense of willful determination - resolve returns. 

Ben waves a hand in front of your eyes, “You will speak nothing of this night”.

“I will speak nothing of this night,” you drone, entranced. Ben releases your waist, placing both hands on your shoulders for support.

He pauses. “You will forget this night and you will not follow, or track me.” 

“I will forget this night and I will not follow, or track you,” you ramble back, eyes glossed over. Ben pauses once more, staring deep into your eyes, memorizing you. 

“You will close yourself off from the force... and you will forget me.”

“I will close myself off from the force and I will forget you” you whisper - obedient, though hesitant. 

 Ben’s hand waves in front of your eyes once more. 

“Sleep,” he utters, just before the world around you fades to black.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

You bolt awake, the bright light of the medic tent temporarily blinding you. 

“Kriff,” you quietly curse yourself. 

“How long have I been out?” you think. 

You had just been organizing reports, charting the aftermath of the last mission gone awry. The pile of paperwork in front of you had the faint reminiscence of drool staining the pages. You inwardly curse as you pull yourself from your desk chair and move to put the files back in their place.

The silence around the tent is almost jarring. There was nearly always some sort of medical emergency to deal with, keeping you busy. Not now though. It had been two days since almost the whole of the Resistance had made its way to Exegol with Rey’s help. 

You absentmindedly file, reflecting on the bravery of your colleagues, knowing you could never think to contribute to the cause in that way. 

You enjoy being a medic. You enjoy the monotonous day-to-day tasks during times of calm and you live for the thrill and sense of purpose you get from saving lives when duty calls. 

Having cleaned your work station for the night, you move through the tent, checking the few patients resting peacefully on their gurneys. You walk past the droid station where you spot several bots charging and the med assistant, Andra, peacefully reading on a datapad. 

“ ’Night Andra,” you murmur, slowing as you pass her relaxed form.

“Sheesh, it’s about time you get some rest. Goodnight, (Y/N),” Andra sleepily replies, yawning as she speaks. You chuckle, making your way out of the opening. “Hey!” you turn back expectantly. “You work too hard,” Andra scolds. 

You let out a quiet laugh, not sparing a glance behind you, waving a hand in acknowledgement. Leaves and dry dirt crunch under your boots as you make your way to your tent. You cross your arms over your chest, the night air on Ajan Kloss making your walk brisk, but comfortable. The base is quiet, save for the gentle breeze rustling thick jungle leaves. You wish the calm of the night air would engulf you. 

You wish.

But this dream. This persistent dream - this nightmare has plagued you for days. Over the past week, this dream has woken you, burdening you with feelings of profound sadness, loneliness, loss. 

You can’t pinpoint why this dream feels so real. The only time you had dreamt of this was years ago - merely a teenager’s nightmare.

  It all just feels so real. 

The fire, the smoke, the sadness, the embrace. 

You happen upon your tent as you think of him. 

Kriff, he feels so real. 

You stumble inside, working your way through the dark with little trouble. You clamber out of your pants, clumsily as ever. You don’t even bother with your sweater - your mind too preoccupied to worry about the worn piece of clothing. Collapsing on your bed, you think of him. 

Closing your eyes, you’re met with his - searing brown, seemingly staring into your very core. You shudder at the sheer power and beauty they seem to possess. You map his smattering of freckles, strewn about his narrow face, much like constellations. Oh how your fingers long to trace them. A plush set of lips, soft, pillowy. His  long, prominent nose, perfectly tying his features together. His ears, slightly awkward, somehow making him seem more human. You imagine brushing a piece of his silky raven hair behind his ear. 

He is a masterpiece. 

Huffing one final sigh, you look up at the dim, beige cloth “ceiling” and ponder the origin of your dream. You wonder if perhaps, the boy you keep seeing - Ben, is somehow lost and thinking of you too. His face, much like other nights, becomes the last thing you see as you succumb to the intoxicating pull of sleep.

[izazov]

So. I haven’t been able to finish a story in a while. Start one, yes. Finish, not so much. This ficlet - my version of a post-credits scene in Avengers 4 - is the first completed fic I have written in ages. It isn’t much. But it is *something*. 

A year has passed since Thanos’ defeat. Since the deaths he had caused were undone.

A party is in full swing at the Avengers’ Compound, the sound of voices and laughter rising over the background music.

Tony stands in the background, leaning against the wall and watching as Thor and Quill bicker on the other side of the room as the rest of the Guardians watch them with varying levels of exasperation and amusement.

“Boss,” FRIDAY announces in his ear. “Everything is set.”

Tony’s mouth twitches into a faint smile as he catches sight of Rhodey and Sam by the bar, immersed into a discussion.

Probably another one maneuverability vs. firepower discussion Tony has early on learned not to get involved in.

Even if the answer is blatantly clear.  

“Okay, FRIDAY,” Tony says, pushing himself off the wall and rolling his shoulders. “Time to get this show on the road.”

“Boss,” FRIDAY interjects. “Are you sure about this?”

Tony hesitates for a beat. He’s known this moment was coming for months. He’s been preparing for it just as long. But now, he finds himself reluctant to take those final steps.

“I-” Tony starts, then trails off as his gaze sweeps across the room, lingering on each familiar face, a bittersweet ache unfolding beneath his breastbone.

It has been an entire year and the sheer relief of having all those people alive and whole again still has the ability to steal the air out of Tony’s lungs.

Tony shakes his head, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “I’ve been preparing for this for the last six months, Fry.”

It is the truth, but Tony cannot stop his eyes from straying to Peter one last time, the bittersweet ache inside him going sharper. Peter is listening to Shuri explain something and even from the distance, Tony can make out excitement and awe on kid’s face. As well as the glances he keeps throwing over his shoulder at T’Challa, standing a few steps away.

Two years, numerous sleepless nights filled with grief, rage and guilt, failing and fighting and failing again, almost dying but somehow winning… and finally, finally, Tony can look at Peter without seeing him crumble into dust.

“Maybe six months wasn’t enough,” FRIDAY says. “Maybe you need more time.”

Tony snorts, amused and wistful, and not only a little tempted. Still. He knows better now. “Yeah, how long? A month? Two­? And how much after that? No. It’s time.” Expelling a long breath, Tony steals another glance of the gathered people. People he’d come to consider as family. A strange, slightly dysfunctional family, but a family nonetheless. “Besides, the world is in safe hands.”

“You sure about it?”

“Yeah,” Tony replies softly, and for the first time in eight years, he actually believes it. “I am.”

The world will never be without danger but there is nothing in the back of Tony’s mind where Thanos’ shadowy presence used to dwell.

If this is how content feels like, well… Tony could easily get used to it.

Turning to leave, Tony catches Natasha’s gaze and holds it for one brief moment.

She is standing on the far side of the room, partially hidden by the width of Barnes’ shoulders, but there is no mistaking the flicker of a soft, knowing smile - there and gone in an instant - in the corner of her mouth.

Tony feels his own mouth curve upwards in an answering smile. Then, with a short nod, Tony turns and leaves the room.

He doesn’t look back.

***

When Tony steps outside, Steve is already there.

Waiting.

“You know,” Steve says, lips quirking upwards. “I was starting to think you stood me up.”

Tony stops in his tracks, his heart picking up speed as it always does when Steve is near.

As it always has done.

It has taken years - and a whole lot of mistakes and fights, and having to watch Steve walk out of his life - for Tony to admit to himself the reason behind it.  

Tony slides his hands into his pockets and takes a moment to fully appreciate the sight of Steve Rogers, dressed in dark jeans and a leather jacket, standing next to his bike.

It is a quite a sight.

“And what were you planning to do?” Tony asks, arching an eyebrow.

The curve of Steve’s mouth turns playful. “I can be persuasive when the situation calls for it.”

Tony snorts. He moves forward until there is only a few inches of space between them.

“Persuasive, huh?” Tony says as Steve wraps his hands around Tony’s waist and pulls him near, closing the distance between their bodies. “You want to elaborate further?”

Steve leans down, brushing his lips against Tony’s in a brief kiss. “I might.” Straightening, Steve glances pointedly around them.  “Somewhere more private than the Compound’s driveway.”

“You lack imagination, Rogers,” Tony says. He traces the line of Steve’s jaw with his thumb, watches as Steve’s eyelashes flutter briefly, his throat working as he swallows. “You know, sometimes I miss the beard.”

Steve’s eyebrows go up. “You do?” Steve says, his eyes lighting up in a way that spells trouble. “Well, if you really miss it, I can-”  

“I don’t miss it that much,” Tony interjects quickly. He manages not to roll his eyes at the smug expression that flickers across Steve’s face, settling instead for a quick kiss.

Only the kiss is not quick at all. The moment their lips touch, Steve takes control of the kiss, turning it hard and heated, with just a hint of something sharper and darker, his fingers digging deeper into Tony’s flesh, as if trying to bring them even closer.

“I thought you were against public acts of indecency,” Tony says when they break apart, voice a little unsteady.

“I got carried away,” Steve says, looking completely unabashed. A beat later, his expression softens, as does his grip on Tony’s waist. He cups the back of Tony’s neck, bringing their foreheads together, something brittle and uncertain shadowing his gaze. “Tony… Are you-”

“Yes,” Tony replies before Steve has a chance to finish the question. “Completely, one hundred percent sure.” He huffs out a sound that is halfway between fond and exasperated at the way Steve’s eyes light up. “Dumbass.”

Steve chuckles, low and amused. “And that isn’t even the least romantic thing you have ever said to me.”

“Well, you deserved it,” Tony says. Then, softer, “You’re a bright guy, Steve. It cannot have escaped your attention that I love you.”

“With our history?”

Tony gives him a flat look. “Now you’re just being an ass on purpose.”

Steve’s mouth twitches in a poor attempt of holding off a grin. “I thought you liked my ass.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “I can’t believe there are still some people that think you’re an innocent wallflower.”

“Not my fault,” Steve replies, smiling. He leans in for a soft, almost chaste kiss, before pulling back a step. He keeps his hands on Tony’s waist, his fingers stroking idly against the Italian silk of Tony’s shirt. “So. Where do you want to go?”

Tony looks at the bike then back at Steve. “You know what? I don’t really care. As long as we’re-”  

“Together?” Steve cuts in, voice soft, his eyes glinting with an emotion that cannot be mistaken for anything but what it is: love.

“Yeah,” Tony says, gaze firmly caught on Steve’s. “Together.”

[xcrowbait]

> Remethiel: Break down.

You can't remember how you got yourself into this situation.

That seems to be a common problem for you, you realize as you sprint and lunge across uneven outcroppings of rock. Heavy feet pound like thrilling percussion behind you, half as graceful but twice as mean as half a dozen -- or more, if you had to guess -- troggs tumble as a furious avalanche just behind your heels. In that moment, you cannot help but to feel as if the Kul Tiran who sent you in this direction had woefully understated the presence of the rocky little bastards.

Just a few troublesome troggs, she said. They ran off with my bridle and I'm sure it's right inside the camp, she said.

Your bleeding heart had gushed a few sympathetic beats as you noted the way her eyes had been tinged pink by tears and the way her full lips shook as if she were barely warding off a second bout. Her helplessness had stirred a familiar discomfort in your limbs; a tension that started in your calves and squeezed its way through every interconnected muscle until it sat as a restless tremor in your chest. The feeling was reckless and impulsive and irrefutable, and you liked to call it heroism.

You smiled as you turned from the woman. You didn't both to correct her when she returned the gesture, though you knew it was less for her sake and more for the delight you felt at being able to use your broad shoulders and unfriendly fists to make a difference. You weren't terribly good looking and you had a tendency to say the wrong things at the worst times, but you could kill a trogg in under ten seconds and that had to be worth something.

Maybe she would notice. Maybe she'd ask to see your arms like that one blushing librarian you'd met in Dalaran. You could really use that sort of positive attention after the last week.

Or maybe you'd end up caught between a sudden fall to your death and a small army of troggs who were not at all interested in your romanticism but incredibly willing to crush your skull at the first possible opportunity.

Damn.

There was a gap in your memory there, between the collapse of one diminutive trogg who'd met the sharpened end of your halberd and the throaty wail the tenth had bellowed into the cavern beyond. A primitive horn had rattled a response, followed by a rallying of footsteps and the clattering of crude weaponry that rushed to the open mouth of the cave. What a small army of troggs had discovered was you, splattered in blood and standing amidst a dozen of their fallen brethren and looking at least half as surprised to see them as they were to see you.

It only took you a single split-second to understand your survival hinged on how quickly you could run, and another to spur your mud-covered feet into action beneath you.

And now here you are, pacing your stamina against the furious insistence of a few select troggs who hadn't been dissuaded by the perilous leaps and crumbling footing that marked your entire heart-pounding trek across Fernwood Ridge. Were it not for the fifty foot drop to your right and the ravenous river tearing through the valley below, you're certain you could survive a head-to-head encounter with the stubborn creatures. What you need is open ground, even a half-decent ledge that could provide some stability and enough open space to heft short-sighted troggs right over the cliff side. It could have been high ground or low ground so long as it was ground and you could stop dancing across pebbles and mudslides doing their best to sending you tumbling to the rampaging water below.

It's not the mud that catches you, however, nor the loose rocks nor the patter of rain threatening above. It's the edge of your Alliance-branded greaves that betray you in a crucial moment, a lip of steel catching on an upturned root and snagging just enough to abruptly halt your forward motion and send you crashing down to one knee. Your momentum changes directions with frightening quickness, no longer forward but irrefutably downward as gravity finally catches hold of you and drags you, all creaking armor and scrambling limbs, down a cliff side of unforgiving rocks and snaring branches.

You lose track of how many times your frantic movements fail to outpace the rush of your own fall, and you've barely begun to comprehend your own death by the time you are unceremoniously plunged head over heels into the freezing cold river below. It is the first time water has ever caused your entire body to ache at once, every nerve flaring to life with an electric jolt that courses through your body like some overworked circuit board, alight and frenetic. You have no choice but to move, to expel that frantic energy in the form of grasping hands and clambering feet that drive you blindly toward oxygen, warmth and survival.

Every fiber in your body is working in synchronous and desperate tandem, but you're still fairly certain it's luck that causes your gauntlets to hook onto the reaching edge of a downed tree. Your shoulder twists in a way that's sure to hurt more in the morning, and with a bit of heaving and insistent clawing, you're collapsing your body onto the rocky edge of the riverbed and guzzling a much needed breath of air into your clogged lungs.

I've got far too much armor to do any proper running away!

His voice breaks through the whining in your ears, laced with a laugh so full-bodied and warm that you find yourself forcing your eyes back into focus to cast a blearly glance at your surroundings. There's no one, of course, but you swear you can hear the old man's chuckling over the din of the river at your feet. He would have laughed, wouldn't he? He would have pounded one hand to that terrible gut of his to let you know exactly what sort of armor he was referring to right before dubbing you as the least graceful elf he's ever seen.

And then he would have offered you a hand up, which is precisely what you find yourself missing as you lay breathless and shivering beneath the blue-gray advance of storm clouds overhead. You aren't cut out to do this alone. And, perhaps for the first time since you carried Ordavic's lifeless body from the dredges of Nazmir's swamps, you are suddenly aware of exactly how it feels to be alone.

It's quiet in the company of your own thoughts and you are acutely aware of how much you can't stand it. There is a hollow space that lurks at the edges of your vision where he ought to be, a haunting absence that leaves the entire world seeming slightly out of focus. The welling sensation in your chest demands to be comforted by the sound of that familiar baritone voice, the only sound that seemed to smooth the sharpened edges of your temper, but there's only silence and the distant sound of retreating troggs.

You've already sworn to bleed every troll in Nazmir for what they've done, but in this moment you've come to a damning realization that catches your breath in your throat and blossoms a stinging heat behind your eyes.

You could kill every last one, and it still wouldn't hurt any less.

You barely manage to cross one arm over your eyes before you give in to the sob in your chest, open-mouthed and raw. It tears through you with less forgiveness than the river that bruised you moments ago, and you howl a week's worth of grief to the rain as it begins to pour from above.