#repeating this dull process of endings over and over and finding ways to keep themselves entertained

[blackkatdraws2]

I have a lot of leftover drawings in my gallery. [Blank Scripts AU]

[Content Warning: Images below contain Gore, Death, and Disturbing/Uncomfortable Imagery]

I find it a bit cute knowing they start out as crazy and then slowly settle into something calmer and relatively healthier after learning to adapt to each other's lust-turned-love. [Stanley did it first but hey :3]

[seven-meds]

Hi!

I love your art and I am extremely enamored by the beauty of your writing !

That being said, I am an artist as well and I feel like I have been stuck in a creative rut and I don’t know how to get to out ? Do you have an advice on breaking out of the hole and as well do you suggest drawing everyday as a method to keep up with skill?

Thank you so much <3

Thanks so much! I considered this for a while. Giving artistic advice, whether broad or targeted, is always difficult. It's too nebulous of a process for rules but everyone still has such a strong opinion on what the rules should be. 

In my experience, lulls are beneficial when seen from the correct perspective and then taken advantage of. Endless production is antithetical to all art that is not corporate in nature, and lack of inspiration means you will benefit from something often overlooked: new experiences and engagement with new things. Though if you do want to feel productive, take a sketchbook and a pen to a public area and draw what you see for an hour or two. You likely won't be inspired but you will feel accomplished.

Historically, artists took extended periods of time away from creating in order to experience life and take in the world, its people, and themselves. Not always willingly; some were torn away and sent to war, fled their homeland, or were imprisoned, enslaved, or institutionalized. And there are those who spent long periods of time bedridden by illness or injury. But whether their experiences were gained by choice, by force, or by nature, their time away from art is what ended up shaping what they made. Drawing in isolation will sharpen a skill, but it's through repeated use of that skill to translate your experiences that your art improves.

An artist's goal is communication first and foremost. This is why drawing daily on its own cannot make anyone a better artist. It will eventually lead toward some sort of technical prowess, but technical prowess with no voice is fairly pointless and very dull. Ideally, the development of voice will precede the development of technical skill and the two become honed in tandem. What you want to say should define what you need to learn. If you are developing an understanding of your own intentions then you are already a step ahead of the artist who is focusing solely on their ability to draw a head from every angle. 

It's beneficial to conceptualize art as a series of choices rather than a display of objective prowess. The more experiences you have and the more educated you are, the more sophisticated your choices become. You'll also find that you're able to analyze and appreciate (or criticize) the choices of other artists, increasing the enjoyment of engaging with art as a whole. You'll then be led toward more complex and unique work as you become bored with things that salivate over their own palatability. You may also find that art you've passed over before suddenly begins to speak to you.

Spend time exposing yourself to new art, ideally from large swathes of eras, places, and forms, including art that communicates things uncomfortable, disturbing, or offensive to you. Delve into the history of the artists and works you enjoy (or hate) in order to fully understand what's being said and why. If you currently find yourself interacting solely with contemporary art delivered largely via algorithm or advertisement that elicits feelings of familiarity and comfort, you should recognize that as a limitation. You are certainly free to work within it, but you will stumble into inspiration more quickly through exposure to different ideas.

It's also a good time to interact with others, if possible (even from a distance), and to look into topics completely divorced from art. Enrich yourself in many ways. The world is so vast and full of so much. What can you experience and learn that will make you yearn to communicate again? 

Try not to waste years studying aimlessly. Develop an interest, a concept, an idea, an experience, and then work toward communicating it effectively. You will learn as you develop new pieces (because you will put effort and energy into targeted research and study), and those pieces will become more complex in both substance and technique. 

Good luck!

[dreamiguess]

Day???: Coronation

A late submission for @fundyfiles FWT week. 

Summary:

Some twisted, selfish part of him wants someone to walk in, to witness the first and last time he’ll be able to love Dream publicly, to cause such a scandal he’d be removed from the line of succession entirely.

On AO3: divine rights

“I shouldn’t have found out from your father.”

No. He shouldn’t have.

“Found out what?” Fundy lies, thin as silk and half as smooth.

“Don’t play dumb with me,” he answers, the ice in his voice melting. The disappointment is worse than the steel, and he feels as if he were to peel back another layer he would find nothing but raw hurt. Because it hurts, doesn’t it? For Fundy more than anyone else, maybe. Dream would come at a close second. He stares at the floor somewhere between them, not ready to face either.

“I didn’t know how.”

It’s a half answer to a question that wasn’t asked, tired and barely audible. He hadn’t known how to process it for himself either, with one sleepless night to churn the news in his head over and over again before preparations for the ceremony began. The work made it easier at least, kept him too busy to think or feel. But standing in front of the captain, his captain, in an empty hallway, there is nowhere to escape it. As the silence settles between them, he finds the courage to look up.

Dream looks vulnerable, too vulnerable to be out in the open like this. He wears only a half plate and sword belt, still more lethal than most would be in full iron but it looks unnatural for him to be patrolling the castle in anything but. It’s standard off duty garb, but it’s too fitting for him to still protect his heart at a time like this. He had pulled his mask to the side, and it’s more intimate than if he were completely naked, green eyes staring him down. They’re not angry, though, and he thinks that’s what breaks him.

“It was supposed to be Tommy.”

He’s in Dream’s embrace before the first tear can hit the ground, cries muffled in his shoulder before they can echo against the stone walls. It’s terribly improper, to be seen in the arms of a soldier, especially in such a public place. Some twisted, selfish part of him wants someone to walk in, to witness the first and last time he’ll be able to love Dream publicly, to cause such a scandal he’d be removed from the line of succession entirely. Even as the tears subsides he can’t bring himself to step back, just moves so the crown of his head is pushed into Dream’s chest instead of his face.

“It was supposed to be Tommy,” he repeats.

It was always supposed to be Tommy. On the surface level, he was a direct descendent rather than a grandson. But more than that, he was charismatic and loud, had strong opinions and voiced them frequently. He was loyal to a fault and way too sharp for his age. Most importantly, though, he wanted crown prince and, one day, the throne. Fundy wanted a street kid who climbed the ranks too swift and too violent.

With war brewing in the South, his Majesty was forced to choose the next successor far too early, and Tommy is still too young and brash for that weight to be placed upon his shoulders.

It haunts them. Laying in bed at dusk, a luxury they only allow themselves on the darkest halcyon nights, and tracing patterns down Dream’s back. He savors the moment, lets it melt in his ribcage and swallow him whole.

“What does this mean for us?” he asks, as if he wasn’t the one who should know better than anyone. They both know what he’s talking about, the glass shards lying on the floor for them in the morning.

“The end, probably.” Dream lifts his head enough to look Fundy in the eye. One would think he’d have forgotten how to hide his emotions after wearing a mask so long, but his face is as guarded as if he hadn’t taken it off at all. It’s a privilege, a blessing even, to see it at all and one he doesn’t take for granted. He venerates every scar and treasures each freckle, because he’s beautiful even if Dream himself cannot see it.

“You can’t marry below your station anymore.” He rolls to his back and sighs. “And if your uncles do not, you’ll be expected to produce an heir.”

Fundy can’t help but laugh.

“You really think they won’t?” he asks, disbelieving. It earns him a smile.

“Still. I have no noble blood.”

“Fuck the nobles.”

Like sin it follows them to the training grounds, dancing around it lest they reveal too much to the knights nearby.  The entire family is expected to be military leaders in the event of conflict, and now doubly so for Fundy. Who better to practice with than their rising combat specialist?

“I’m on duty for the coronation,” he mentions over the clash of their practice swords. Fundy wants him to use steel, to put his life in the hands of his love and trust him fully and recklessly. The captain always refuses.

“I feel infinitely safer,” Fundy replies, pulling his weapon back and aiming for a slash to his side.

“I am honored to bring you peace of mind, your highness.” He blocks the attack and catches the blade with the hilt of his sword, turning his wrist to fling the broadsword from the prince’s grip. Before Fundy can react there’s a hand in his tunic and a swift heel sweeping his right leg off the ground completely. Dream lowers him to the dirt slowly, only truly letting him fall a foot at most. He falls all the same. The tip of his sword is cold underneath Fundy’s chin, it’s wielder haloed by sunlight above him. The instinct to bare his neck is too strong and Fundy is too weak, and he doesn’t have enough shame to delight in the way Dream swallows at the action.

“I yield.”

He takes the hand that’s offered, staring into the mask’s eyes the whole time. Their hands stay clasped for far longer than necessary because they’re equally terrible, it seems.

“I’m thinking about taking the promotion.” Dream drops his hand and turns to retrieve his discarded weapon, leaving Fundy to reel in his shellshock.

“For General?” He asks mechanically, another question they both know the answer to. He’s had a lot of them lately, and this time Dream doesn’t even respond. Just strides back to their arena and extends the handle out, ungloved hand wrapped around the blade in a mirroring act of faith. They’ve put their stone sword in the hand of Themis to balance her scales on, where the head that wears the crown rests opposite the hand that bears the shield. The power to absolutely ruin, offered freely.

Fundy doesn’t take it at all.

“I hate to leave early, but I feel a bit faint after that fall. Would you escort me back to the castle?”

Dream bows his head, never one to slip from their polished act.

“Of course, your highness. I should have been more careful.” After returning their equipment and strapping his swordbelt – his real swordbelt – back into place, Dream falls into step with him out of the arena.  The October air is kind to them, leaving goosebumps where sweat had stained their skin just moments before. It’s peaceful for a few minutes, as morning doves and starlings steadily replace the ringing of steel and their gentle footsteps drown out the thumps of bodies hitting the ground. Time slowed since Dream broke the news to him, far too casual for something they had discussed for far too long, and Fundy can almost believe that the route he’s taken isn’t far too long to lead back to the castle.

“I thought you,” he starts once they’re well beyond hearing distance. “I thought you wanted to remain a captain.”

It’s difficult to phrase what he wants to say. Fundy is not Dream’s keeper and for his love’s sake if nothing else, he won’t act like one. He wants to, though, wants to hold on to him like a child and repeat every debate they’d considered since the offer was made. I thought it was too dangerous. I thought it was too much responsibility, you liked your squadron too much, hated meetings. I thought, I thought, I thought.

And of course, the drumming song beneath it all: I thought you wouldn’t leave me.

“I’ve always been a strategist,” he replies, voice too even to be genuine. A sigh escapes him, and he entwines their fingers and lets his head rest ever so slightly on Fundy’s shoulder. He’s living in the illusion, Fundy can tell, basking in the feeling of lovers talking a walk on an Autumn day. The prince can see right through him, can taste every thought he’ll never acknowledge, much less share.

“And the position needs to be filled sooner rather than later.”

This is what he means: We need to end, and I can’t stay if I can’t have you. He means to save Fundy from himself, to cut the chord so Fundy can’t try to keep him. To force Fundy to follow the rules.

“Bullshit.” He surprises himself with the outburst. “Leaving for some war won’t make me stop loving you. You don’t need to fucking protect me,” he throws their connected hands in the air and fights for words. “Protect me from-“

Dream tugs free before he can finish, unclasps his mask and throws it to the forest floor without even looking. He cups Fundy’s face in both hands, eyes shining with renegade tears.

“I don’t know how to do anything else.” He sounds broken and Fundy feels it like glass. There are too many things he should say so he says nothing at all, wraps a hand into the collar of his shirt like a man possessed and pushes until Dream’s back hits the tree and he can’t get any closer. He kisses him like he’s dying, kisses him like the world is ending, like they’re already on their future battlefields and Dream is his only lifeline.

The coronation arrives all too fast. He lives in a limbo between the grand hall and his chambers, between the seamstress and the head chef. The ceremony is beautiful, with green and gold filling the room and glass sparkling in the setting sunlight. He’s reached a state of calm he hadn’t believed possible only two weeks ago, looses himself in the dull ache of kneeling and the rhythmic voice of their Sage. No matter how foreign the crown feels, he doesn’t have to lie as he repeats the oath; he loves the kingdom, can swear to benevolence, to serve the people. The promises settle deep in his bones. The responsibilities, the service, was never really his problem.

“I present to you your crown prince,” the vicar finishes, and Fundy stands to face the people. He’d practiced the ceremony, knows he’s supposed to wait for quiet to settle once more and kiss his grandmother’s hand, to bow before his Majesty and show humility. Instead, he walks straight back down the aisle in long strides to where the guards are posted at the doors. The murmurs and gasps don’t matter, have faded from his awareness completely by the time he reaches Dream. And with sure hands, he pushes the stupid mask up enough to free the bottom half of his face and buries a hand in blonde hair, and finally falls into his love. He kisses him gently, and gentler when his love unfreezes enough to return the affection. In front of his father and his father before him and anyone else who cared to show up, Fundy claims his divine right.

Fuck the nobles.

[ilguna]

Lacuna - Chapters 13-16 (f.o)

summary: they say the odds tend to favor those who need them. well, they were wrong.

warnings; swearing. MURDER, GORE.

wc; 10.3k

NOTES; I give reader a last name to fit the world.

–

-- CHAPTER THIRTEEN --

If this is what it’s like to be dead, then you don’t want to be dead anymore. 

First off, it’s cold as all hell in here. It’s like when you were younger and your brothers would throw you into the frigid ass water for fun in the winter. Of course, you could swim back then. Like every other person in district four, you had learned to swim at the sprightly age of four, probably younger. You start young when it comes to knots, fishing and swimming.

By the time you’re seven or eight you’re basically blending in with the water. Most kids by then can swim like they never left the water, they’re fish themselves. You used to race the kids back home all the time to see who could swim fastest from dock to dock. And those were like a quarter to a half a mile apart each. Every single damn time, you somehow managed to beat them. The runner up would always be at least thirty seconds behind you. On good days, more.

Fishing? Well, if you’re old enough to hold a rod then you’re old enough to get your ass sat on the boat. You can surely get something caught on the line, and then your parents would reach over and get the fish off of the hook for you. Then, you throw the sucker back in, and the process repeats. Really, they’re doing all the work, you’re just sitting there to keep the rod from going anywhere when something does tug back.

And knot tying is easy. Clumsy fingers get better as time goes on, but you observe until you’re eight or nine. You don’t start the knots until you’re nine to ten because the chances of the kids fucking up a perfectly good line with a bad line, is more common than you think. Even the prodigies are prone to messing up on the simplest ones. It’s fine though, they’ll learn it in the next couple years of their life, and soon they’ll be doing it in their sleep.

When they’re bored, they’ll ask for a rope or a wire to mess with so they can fuck around and tie knots. Practice gets you everywhere in this day and age, so there’s no better way to do it than when you’re bored. If you can do it without looking, then god damn, you might as well be teaching the others. Sometimes, you still catch Reed looking down to tie them, and he’s been doing it for over ten years by now.

The room is cold, and it only gets worse as time goes on. Sometimes, it’ll ease up just a little bit, but that’s rare. Every couple of hours, you’re certain. It’s not a constant feeling of the warmth of a goddamn grizzly bear snuggled right up against your side. You wish it was though, then you wouldn’t be shivering and chattering your teeth. They hit against each other, and you think that you’ll bite your tongue or chip one of your many teeth.

Not to mention the fact that it’s wet. There’s always the sound of water running, every now and then you’ll get a drop of water on your forehead or something. Furthering the fact that you’re cold. Who knew a single drop of water could ruin the temporary warmth that you’d falsely given yourself?

You, you guess.

“I-I-It’s cold as b-buh-balls in he-here.” you mutter, going to turn over.

The stabbing pain in your lower abdomen makes your eyes snap open, a muffled scream tries to leave your mouth, but a hand reaches over to place it over your mouth. Your entire body begins to ache. From your neck to your thighs. The left side of your face is swollen and your nose is very much crooked. It’s throwing you off.

When you raise your hand to grab the arm, you see that your own are littered in purple, blue and black bruises. In a panic, you shove whoever it is off, as you desperately tear off the sleeping bag without actually ripping it.

You know who it is next to you. You can see the wide green eyes staring at you in shock. His blonde hair is stuck to his forehead like he just came through the waterfall a minute ago. He’s in nothing but his pants, probably letting his jacket and shirt dry. You can already hear him asking you what you’re doing and he hasn’t even opened his mouth just yet.

“Woah--” Finnick starts, the second you unzip the jacket, pulling it off, “Are you cold? You might have hypothermia--”

“It’s not burning!” you snap, pulling your shirt up, and only then do you slow down for a moment. To see the shirt wrapped around your waist and the blood seeping through along with the bruises blossoming across your stomach, “How many of my ribs are broken?”

“I don’t know.” Finnick sits down now, rather than crouching, “I thought you were dead when I found you.”

You look to him, squinting, “When did you find me?”

“The uh--the night that two had died?”

“Very specific.”

“A couple days after Allio had died.” he tells you.

“Three days?” you ask, you’ve barely been keeping track, and now that you’ve been out for fuck knows how long, this entire thing has thrown it off balance.

“Yeah,”

“Who died? I only heard one cannon.” you mutter, zipping the jacket back up, and you notice that the jacket isn’t very breezy in the back.

Motherfucker! He’s tied his shirt around your waist and gave you his jacket. He has to be freezing, and he’s doing it to make sure that you get better. Or Finnick has an ulterior motive, he’s trying to win you back after he pulled that ass move and left you behind.

Finnick’s face twists with worry the second your eyes turn on him, “I’m sorry, okay? I couldn’t just stay there--”

“Like hell you couldn’t!” you shout, shouting hurts your side, but it’s a dull pain.

“Playing pretend? Playing house? I don’t know how you lasted for so long.” he says calmly.

“It was going well until they fuckin’ figured out that I killed Allio,” you sigh, propping yourself up on the rocks behind you.

“You killed Allio?”

“You killed the girl from six?” you mock.

“And Thyme.” he tells you, moving away from you now, and before you can ask, he answers, “Mercy kill.”

“Who died after that?” you ask, running your fingers over your nose. You’re not too thrilled when it doesn’t hurt as badly as you thought it would. It means that it’s setting. Your nose is going to be fucking stuck like this.

“Guys from ten and three.”

You nearly choke on your spit, “Blaire? Blaire’s dead?!” 

“Is that ten or three?”

“Three!” you cry, you can feel the frown on your face before it’s even settled, “He saved me from Lennox. If it weren’t for him, I would have been beaten to death. But I guess he felt like he owed me after I saved him from starving.”

“You saw him a second time?” Finnick looks over his shoulder.

“The day you left I saw him down by the lake or something, don’t remember exactly. Spent most of my time at the pond-lake and he kept showing up. My little bit of company.”

“Leave it to you to make friends in everyone you meet.” he mutters, you glare at the back of his head.

“Leave it to the fourteen-year-old boy to bail on his first alliance to deal with the career pack alone.” you pick up the nearest rock and hurl it at the back of his head for emphasis.

He groans, rubbing it and giving you a small glance over his shoulder, “Like I said--”

“I don’t want another apology.” you tell him, “Or an excuse.”

He doesn’t say anything, staring off into the water.

“Anyone else die?”

“Boy from eight.”

“Any of those kills yours?”

“The girl from eight on the first day, Thyme and the girl from six. Then the boy from ten and also the boy from eight.”

Quick mental math tells you that it’s five. He’s killed five so far, the same as you. Ten people that were in this arena have been killed by the district four participants. Everyone back home must be thrilled. You can’t wait for people to ask you what it’s like being a murder. It happened to Mags, it’ll surely happen to you.

And your response? You’ll ask them if they want to be added to the numbers.

“Damn. You know mine already.” you begin to push yourself up, and with all the noise, Finnick turns.

“What are you doing?”

“Fresh air.”

“You’re going to get the bandage wet.”

“Then I’ll take it off, it’s bloody anyway.” you begin with the jacket.

“Wouldn’t be if you stopped moving.” he mutters.

“I’m going to give you a black eye.” you threaten.

“To go along with yours? Along with that broken nose?”

“Finnick I swear to god, I don’t have a problem with stabbing you to death in here.”

He laughs, “You’re weak. Probably can’t even hold your arms above your head.” it’s quiet for a moment as you debate if you’re willing to prove him wrong, he adds, “That wasn’t a challenge.”

“It’s about to be.” you tell him, grabbing the bottom of your shirt as you very slowly pull it off. It starts in your ribs, and then slowly travels to your shoulders. When the rim--is that the right word?--of the shirt hits your swollen eye, you wince. 

“We’re in the third week, I think. Six people left. Four if it’s just me and you.” he looks over.

Final numbers.

“Well, good.” you say, but it’s not good. You’re covered in bruises, broken bones and a stab wound in your stomach. You’re useless. Finnick could have killed you in your sleep and you wouldn’t have known. It would all have been done for you.

Once you start kicking at your shoes, Finnick realizes that you’re serious. He moves over, untying the boots and then helping with your pants. He carefully unties the bandage, since you hadn’t touched it just yet. And then he takes off his own socks and pants so it won’t get wet. Might as well come back into the little cave with dry things to wear.

It’s daytime, you can see it through the water. You put one hand over the stab place, passing through the water. It’s a little hard on the head, from the gallons of water hitting your head. But as soon as you pass through, you’re heading for the pond-lake water.

“It’s salt.” Finnick says as if you don’t already know.

You slip in, and you can hear Finnick splashing behind you. Probably worrying that you’re going to end up drowning or anything. You can swim even in the worst conditions, he can go fuck himself.

Despite this, he holds beneath your arms, helping you into the water slowly. You want to leave the second that the salt water enters the wound, but you push through it. He can clearly see how uncomfortable you are, but allows you to continue. He’s smart, knows not to try and tell you what’s best for yourself. You need to be up and on your feet, running around like you’re good as new.

Not saying that you want to kill off the last four, but there’s no way that you can stay in here for another week. Another goddamn agonizing week of eating fish, drinking iodized salt water and shivering in a sleeping bag. It has to end, you’re hungry, you’re tired, you’re absolutely exhausted to your very bones.

“Mac, Trink and Lennox and whoever the last--”

“Girl from five.” Finnick interrupts, and you nod.

“Girl from five.” you agree.

“What about them?” his hands are very gentle on your sides, and they eventually fade away in the water.

“They need to--” you try, but Finnick’s hand really is ripped from your arm now, jerking you harshly. You’re about to complain, until he’s pulled beneath the water, sending water flying into the air, “Finnick?” 

How? How has he--you’re standing in the water! You’re fucking standing in it!”

You take in a deep breath, even though your lungs complain, following Finnick under the water. And you see the crevice he slipped into. A ravine in the middle of the pond-lake, and it goes down a while.

He’s reaching up for you, pointing to his ankle, and then making a stabbing motion.

His knife is on the seafloor, so you grab it. Something is holding onto his ankle and he needs you to save him.

You return to the top for air, knowing that it’ll be your last for a few minutes, and then you dive down. It’s probably not smart to have the knife sticking out from your mouth, or for it to be placed there in the first place, but it makes it easier for moving your arms. Before you know it, you’ve hit the crack, and you’re getting closer to Finnick by the second.

You take it out of your mouth, offering the handle to Finnick. His fingers graze it, and then he takes it after. Your lungs are burning, and you wish you could stay, but you’ll only drown. He’s working at his ankle, as you’re swimming up and occasionally looking down at him.

Then, he gets free, and he’s swimming faster than you are straight towards the top. On the way, he makes you wrap your arms around his torso, before he continues. When you’ve broken the surface, he’s gasping for air, you have a pounding headache, and it feels like you’ll never be able to hold air ever again.

“We need to leave.” you tell him, taking his arm as you pull him back to the waterfall, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, fine.” he tells you, and hisses when you take his hand instead.

You pull it up to look at, tilting your head when you can’t see anything, but then you bring it closer, seeing all the little cuts on his fingers, palms…

“Are you using vines?” you turn to look at him, he nods.

“How’d you know?”

“Because Blaire had the same cuts.”

“Sounds like you and Blaire were getting cozy.” he mutters.

“No time for jealousy after you ran off with Thyme.” you tell him, “the cuts aren’t poisonous I don’t think. You’ll live.”

“Thanks.” he says, “Hungry?”

“I guess.”

It’s a bummer that the pond-lake time was cut short. You were really looking forward for planning out the future. What you want to do as soon as you’re better. Mags has to send shit now, you’re awake and there’s no better way to heal your wounds than when you’re cognizant. 

You’re ringing out your hair, which has grown a little longer in your time of being in the arena, when there’s a series of chimes, stopping you. Finnick looks to the sky from where he’d been staring off into the water.

“What the hell?”

“Congratulations on being the final six alive.” The gamemaker tells you guys, you feel like this is a trap, and you reach for Finnick immediately, he takes your hand, “There has been a rule change. If you and your district partner are still alive, then both of you may be crowned victors in these hunger games.”

You turn to Finnick the same moment he looks to you.

The gamemaker repeats what he says, as if you guys don’t understand. But you heard him the first time. A loud, crystal clear rule change. Who else would miss something this big?

“We can go home.” You laugh, grabbing Finnick, “Four more people and then we can go!”

“Only four?”

“Only four.” You confirm, pulling him closer.

-- CHAPTER FOURTEEN --

The rule change benefits two districts only. There’s obviously yours, you and Finnick are very much alive. District four has to be celebrating at this exact moment. Mox definitely cried when he received the news, and Reed was surprised. You can see it now.

This isn’t the first time the gamemakers have made this change. Every now and then, when there are districts with two people left in them, they’ll make this change. The particular district that wins, brings home their two kids. Celebrations are grand, bigger and better. And it’s expected that the winners are especially grateful. After all, you guys are supposed to be learning from your mistakes your ancestors made.

It’s only happened ten other times in the last sixty years. It’s not allowed during the Quarter Quells, at all. Because those are the special events. The twenty-fifth they chose the tributes, the fiftieth they got double the amount, and in eleven years there will be a third one. You’re just glad that you’re going to be a victor now. So they can’t throw a huge twist like six kids go in or something.

The rule change is never predicted, it’s a random choice. There have been times in the past where someone was able to guess that it would happen. People found out the system on why they did it, and started to find their way around it. After having the rule change twice in a row, the gamemakers realized that tributes were manipulating it.

They would choose the couples. So when everyone was beginning to cuddle up with each other—except for the huge age gaps like the twelve year olds and the fifteen—it became more common. Again, they figured this out and stopped doing it. Now it’s a once in a blue moon sort of thing.

You got really lucky.

You know that Reed is on the edge of his seat now. He’s cheering you on harder, telling you more advice, even if you can’t hear it. He has to be driving everyone around him nuts, even himself. He’ll be afraid to get on the boat to fish because he doesn’t want to miss anything important, like you or Finnick dying. Reed will be counting on Finnick to keep alive.

However, if Finnick were to die, it’s not an automatic crowning to district one—they have Trink and Lennox still alive, which is why there’s a rule change—they have to survive the other tributes. Kill one of them, Trink or Lennox, it doesn’t matter, then the rules will revert. There will be one victor only.

You could still very much win, it would be a lot more difficult. You’ll be fighting against the four others to make it home. Trink or Lennox would have to be the first to go. To even the playing fields, if one of them is dead, then they can’t team up against anyone. 

District One will probably shower the brats with all the riches they can afford. You wouldn’t doubt it if they got special treatment from the Capitol too. They have so many goddamn victors, it’s annoying. There are constantly houses being built for a new victor each year. They don’t win? No biggie, they’ll win next year.

Four won’t get the same treatment as one, or two. You guys will get the houses, the infinite riches and the celebrations the same as everyone else. But it won’t be as grand, it’ll be like the other districts. Four is a career but four is treated like it’s one of the rich districts but nothing important.

Anyway, the rule change is very important. Keep you and Finnick alive, kill the others and go home. You need to wipe out Trink or Lennox, either or, doesn’t matter. And the others will fall into your hands eventually.

“These vines are insufferable.” Finnick whines, you look from where you’re sitting to see that his hands are completely raw.

“Stop touching it!” You kick his arm with your foot, before going back to the fish.

“I can’t, it needs to be fixed.” Finnick mutters, you get up, yanking the damn thing out of his hands before throwing it through the water, “Hey!”

“Mags will send us rope or something,” you tell him, going to look at his expensive ass gift in the corner of the cave, “And then we can make a proper net.”

“Do you even know how?” Finnick puts his hands into the water to wash them off.

“Didn’t I tell you already? Blaire taught me how. I’ll be able to make a sturdy net with some rope.” You tell him.

You take a moment, deliberating if you want to go through the water or not. But the music from a sponsor makes your ears perk up practically, and you’re stumbling through the water, trying to keep your balance from the force of the water. 

Mags has sent a couple of things since you woke. The first thing is the cream for the wound on your side. You’ve been applying it every night, and it’s done it’s magic. It’s nothing but a bright pink scar now. She had nothing for bruises, or broken bones. So you’ve had to tough it out.

Finnick got his gift a couple days after he had left, sometime during the second week. You hadn’t even noticed it until you and him went back inside after the rule change. To see the silver trident staring back at you. Finnick was all smug talking about how it had to have cost thousands. All you could say was that he could have done just the same with a spear. But he told you that it wasn’t the same.

Whatever, both of you have your respected weapons now. He told you his technique on how he killed so many. You listened as he informed you of the net, that he would throw over the people, get them trapped and tangled. Then he would come in with the trident and kill them just like that.

Unfortunately, with that technique, it meant he kept losing the vine-nets. He’s made four, and he was on his way to making the fifth. Finnick wasn’t too fond of the idea of untangling the bodies of the people he killed from the nets. So instead he just let the gamemakers take them, because they’ll be able to cut it apart and take the body after that. Plus, he didn’t want to take the chance of the gamemakers getting impatient.

But with a rope, no more tiny cuts in the hands. It saves time, it means you guys can kill more people with the light through the waterfall technique. It draws people in, he nets them, kills them, and then the process repeats. But the nets took so much time to make that it would be hard to get two in a day.

Finnick splashes through the water faster than you can. On the way, he steps on the vine-net, and he hisses. Jumping on one foot for a second, holding the other he whines about the thorns. And then he continues, wobbling on his feet slightly.

“This is why you wear shoes!” You tell him, kicking the vines off to the side, away from where either of you would bother to go.

“It’s the hunger games, I don’t need shoes!” He tells you, grabbing the floating sponsor gift. He brings it all the way back over, being careful not to let it touch the water.

It would be fine, if it can float in the water, then it can sink or take in some. It’s probably waterproof, actually. But you can say that you’ve ever seen a gift sent when the tributes were in the water. This is a first for you.

Finnick stands on the rocks next to you, and carefully unravels the parachute, and then opens the lid. It’s a fairly big gift, so when it shows a shit ton of rope, you cheer slightly.

“See! Told you—“

Finnick tilts his head, pulling up the paper. It’s sogs a little in his fingers since they’re wet, but it would be the same for you. Going through the waterfall had completely soaked you like you were swimming in the pond-lake like Finnick had.

“It’s from our district.” Finnick tells you, moving it so you can see.

And clear as day, it says, “This will work better than vines, District Four.”

Tears gather in your eyes and you have to cover your face for a moment, “Just a second.”

“Don’t worry, I’m crying too.” Finnick laughs, and you move your hands.

He pulls out the rope, weighing it in his hands, “Can this stand four more?”

“It could stand the entire twenty-two had we gotten it at the beginning.” You laugh, he joins in.

You look to the water, there has to be a camera on you somewhere, “Thank you, it won’t go to waste. We love you, and we’ll both be home soon, I promise.”

Finnick nods along, “We miss you tons.”

“Can’t wait to start fishing again.” You snicker, and Finnick punches your arm this time, “No but seriously, thank you.”

You and Finnick slip into the cave, being sure to cover the rope so it doesn’t get wet. When you get inside, you unravel the coil, and grab your knife.

“Gonna teach me how?” Finnick asks, you grin at him slightly.

“Sure. If you promise to be a good sport about it.”

—

If Finnick says that it has worked four times before, then it’ll work this time too, if the others will take the bait. The singles are probably desperate to wipe out the doubles so they’ll be able to go home. It’s the same tactic that you were saying before. They’ll be able to make it home if the doubles are taken out because they can’t team up.

The fire is like luring them to their deaths, almost. The both of you are prepared to take them down, and they might be thinking that you’re stupid for even trying a fire in the first place. Wondering how you’ve managed to stay alive so long with such stupid ideas. 

Instead, you guys are clever. You guys have got everything on lock. The fire, the net ready and the trident and spears within grasp if necessary. Unlike all the other times though, Finnick has someone to help. All it’ll take is for them to get caught and for him to stab. There’s no reason for him to even bother helping you with the net.

You’ve made it big enough for them to get caught in, and you didn’t cut the string for the rim. You pull it shut, there’s no escape, and they're tangled in the mesh. Finnick can get them within a couple of seconds, send the body off, and stomp out the fire. Make a new net, rinse and repeat.

“How do you like your fish? Burnt or extra burnt?”

“Preferably not burnt.” You look over to see that they’re practically black, “Remind me why I put you on cooking duty.”

“Because you were wallowing in your own misery?”

“Y’know Finnick, it’s really not that hard to not be a dick.” 

“Some girls think it’s charming.”

“I’m not some girls.” You huff, “But I’m guessing Thyme was?”

Finnick rolls his eyes before shoving the burnt fish your way, “I didn't like her like that.”

“Try again.”

“You are jealous.” He looks smug, again.

“Were you jealous when I told you that Blaire, boy from district three that I was hanging out with for a week straight, no supervision. Just me, him, the vines and the water were together? Him teaching me how to weave the vines, me feeding him so he didn’t die? Were you jealous then?” You tilt your head, watching as the smug falls and turns into something else.

“No.”

“Your voice cracked. You’re a fucking liar.” You tell him, “And by the way, it’s your own fault that I had to make friends with other people while you abandoned me. Leaving me to the fucking hounds.”

“You managed it seems.” He goes to eat.

“That’s not the point.” You tell him, “Partners in crime. An alliance! We were in this together!”

“At least we’re in it together now.”

“Yeah,” you mutter bitterly, going to eat.

It has to be only five minutes of silence, before the splashing of water interrupts you both. Finnick jumps immediately, kicking everything out of the way as quickly and quietly as he can. You take one final bite, getting a mouthful before the net is in your hands.

“Dumbasses.” It's a female voice, but it’s not Trink.

“Who?” you mouth to Finnick, and he thinks for a moment.

“Girl from five.” he mouths back, and then shrugs, “Trink?”

You shake your head.

The splashing gets louder as time goes on, and then you can just barely see her silhouette through the water. Finnick nods to you, letting you know that you should do it.

You get a little closer, hands through the water and then you toss it. There’s a yelp, and you yank the rope, trapping her inside. Finnick goes through the water.

“Wait!” the girl screams.

“Who’s the dumbass now?” Finnick asks, and then the cannon sounds.

Crouching down, you cut the rope, “You can send her into the water.”

“The careers--” Finnick barely gets out, you grab onto the spear. Your heart is pounding in your ears when you stumble through the water.

It’s just Lennox in the water, and he’s bearing a sword. When he sees you, he hisses, “Bitch!”

He turns to leave, but you raise the spear, going to throw it. Finnick grabs your hand, stopping you, “Not today.”

“I can hit him.” you reason, and Finnick goes to your ear.

“They’re going to want a show.”

He’s right, Snow will want a show. So, you’ll just have to wait for another time to kill them. It’s a shame, because you could wipe Lennox right off the fucking map, and all you’d have to kill is Mac and Trink.

When Lennox is out of sight, you send the girl from five off. 

“He knows where we’re staying.” you lean into Finnick a little.

“He won’t come until he’s prepared with Trink,” Finnick tells you, and you watch as the girl gets taken away. You wonder how the family is taking it. If you make it, then that means on the victory tour you’ll have to see their families.

For you, five to six--you’re not sure if the five girl will count as the sixth, since you didn’t kill her directly, you just assisted--different families you have to face. Stand tall and bear your chest and try not to cry because you’re guilty to the very last cell. You killed their family. You killed that twelve year old boy from twelve.

You killed the girl from ten, the boy from eleven, Eytelle, the boy from twelve and Allio. And now the girl from six. You’ve got five deaths on your hands, and you’ll have to face them.

Is it even worth it?

Yes, it is. You’ve gone all this way, you can’t just bow out of it now. You’re almost done, three more to go.

“I’ll go make a net big enough.” you turn, leaving Finnick outside.

-- CHAPTER FIFTEEN --

The sound of a cannon jolts you awake. Finnick, who’s beside you, jumps three feet in the air as he suddenly reaches for his trident. He creeps out of the only sleeping bag that you have, and he goes to the water. Before he can cross it, you grab his ankle.

“You’ll get all wet.” you whisper.

“I need to see.” he tells you, but he knows you’re right. So he strips free of his boots, socks, jacket, shirt, and pants.

He leaves it in a disorganized pile off to the side. Out of reach of any water that might backsplash when he walks through. You watch as he winces at the cold water, before disappearing. The faint sound of splashing allows you to calm down a little bit.

It would be a blessing to get up and follow him. So he wouldn’t be going out there alone, you’d be right next to him in case there is someone else. Ready to pounce and strike.

They know where you are, so sitting here, inside of this cave makes you feel like you’re trapped. At any given moment they could show up and you would be fucked. Especially with Finnick gone, there’s nothing you can do.

Whatever you caught while being in here, it’s bedridden you. Getting up and around is painful. It’s hard enough to sleep at night when it feels like a thousand tiny needles are jabbing into your stomach. It took you over two hours to fall asleep, and you can take a safe bet that you only slept for a couple of hours.

It feels like it’s only been a couple of hours. You should be wide awake, ready to help Finnick if he were to call for help, but your eyes are drooping. Begging for another couple of hours before your body realizes you’re awake and starts the pain. You don’t close your eyes, laying your head down instead.

The spashling has long since stopped. It’s almost pure silence, except for the sound of cicadas and the random shuffling of leaves. The water is a constant, you’ve managed to drown it out by now. Not even background noise, it’s silence due to the consistency. However, you can hear the waves, coming up onto the shore of the rocks nearby.

You try to focus on them, hoping that there will be an irregular rhythm, but it turns out that they too have their own system. Before you know it, your eyes have closed on their own. You grind your teeth to keep yourself awake, it doesn’t work. Your jaw will go slack and it jolts your awake almost.

With a sigh, you push yourself up. Your muscles complain, and you’ve already stirred something in your stomach. Ignoring it, you begin pulling off your own boots, following with the socks.

You strain to hear any sort of sound that would indicate that he’s alive. Water splashing, heavy breathing, the trident accidentally hitting the rocks, but you get nothing.

The clothes come off a little faster now, socks, jacket, pants. You take a breather because the shirt is going to cause more pain that it’s worth. When you feel like you can tolerate it, two hands on the bottom of the cloth, and a quick movement. 

The stabbing appears, and the lines are blurred between your still very broken ribs or the sickness in your stomach. When the shirt is off of you, and you have a moment to breathe, nausea hits you like a truck. You place your hand on the wall to steady yourself, thinking that the cold will jolt your brain.

It works a little bit, but the idea of you puking is at the front of your mind now, unwillingly. You can’t puke, it’s taken you days to work up an appetite. Whatever you have has completely gotten rid of hunger, which is making you drop weight. Finnick can see it, you know.

He gets this worried look in his eyes each time he watches you get up and move. Or try to choke down food, even if it makes you gag. He probably isn’t on your back about it because he knows that you’re trying. You’re not trying to be bedridden, you’re not purposely starving yourself. He knows you want to live, and you guess that he’s waiting for the moment you give up.

It’s charming for him to be worried like that but it makes you feel like a baby. If you wanted to be babied, you would have acted like this since the beginning, even if you weren’t sick. Being incapable of taking care of yourself isn’t a trait that you want in here. Doesn’t get sponsors, at all.

As you get up, you feel like you’ve gained forty years of age. Your muscles are aching, everything hurts in general. The dizziness and the pounding headache comes back. Besides this all, you reach over for the spear, using it as a cane as you hobble your way out of the cave.

The water is cold, and once again, the force of tons of water hitting you nearly knocks you off your feet. On a regular day, sickness and injury free, you would be able to walk through this like it’s nothing. Look at what time has done to you. Made you the goddam laughing stock of the pen.

It’s still dark out, the moon is fairly high, you guess that it’s midnight to one in the morning. It’s an odd time for someone to die, unless Trink and Lennox we’re hunting down Mac or something. Could be the other way around and got himself killed. Mac killed one of them, got away. One of them died of the same sickness you have…

Possibilities are endless here. There’s hundreds of ideas they could have used on you guys. You just want to know what’s so special about midnight, if the gamemakers had done it. Maybe all of you are having trouble sleeping and this is their way of torturing you guys. Subtly, and with sacrifices.

There’s no sight of Finnick, anywhere. Even though you’re already soaking wet, you’re not too fond of the idea of going into the water. The night time is when the creatures come to life. If Finnick had gotten grabbed, then that’s it for him. You can’t go in to save him blind, the automatic right to the win would be given to District One.

You sit in the cold water, knees to your chest as you look over the water, and then the nearby trees. Then to the sky as if they’ll display whoever it is that died. You’ll have to wait tomorrow to see, unless that’s what Finnick is doing.

If he went to the cornucopia by himself then he’s stupid. You get the motive—he goes to see if Trink and Lennox are there, then comes back without being seen—but he’s half naked, soaked in water with a metal trident. The motherfucker is probably slipping and sliding out of his hands. 

You sit out there for another ten minutes, no longer tired, splashing the water onto your stomach every now and then to ease the pain. Eventually, you hear splashing that isn’t coming from you. Your eyes dart over, and you see Finnick, trident in hand as he wades through the water. He makes stabbing motions to keep the creatures away.

“Sorry, I didn’t think I’d be so long.” Finnick tells you, “But it’s hard to leave when they’re talking about an attack plan.”

You perk up, “You’re forgiven, what did you hear?”

“Well, Mac is the one that’s dead.” He tells you, but you guessed that already. The psychopaths from district one are smarter than whatever Mac did to die.

“That’s fine.” You tell him, “A bummer, he was nice. But fine.”

Finnick chuckles, he takes a seat next to you, and then presses a quick kiss to your lips. You scowl, because you’re not looking forward to him getting sick too. But really, he would have had to be sick by now if it’s contagious. What the fuck did you get sick off of?

“They want to attack in two days. Build up on body weight and all of that again. They don’t know if we’re the ones that are dead or killed Mac or whatever. Taking a guess it was Mac that died at least.” He informs, you nod along to it. 

“Two days to plan their murder, huh?” You quirk an eyebrow at him and he chuckles.

“Any ideas?”

“A few.” You admit, a small smirk coming over your face, “Remember how Lennox choked me?”

“Wasn’t there but yes.” He says, crossing his legs.

“And my last name is Gallows…” you trail off, splashing water a little bit.

“Uh huh.”

“What if we take that extra rope, tie it into a noose, lure him in and hang him?” You look over to see him with the same sickening grin that’s covering your face.

“Sounds interesting. Who’s luring and how are we hanging?”

—

Finnick has to watch you way more carefully now. One of your hands are either on his shoulder, so that you may catch yourself in case you stumble. Or it’s in the crook of his arm, where he’ll be able to swoop you into his arms if your legs buckle beneath you. The sickness is eating away at your muscle.

There are times when you’ll be standing, perfectly fine, and you’ll forget about the illness altogether. And then, your legs will give out, Finnick is diving across the room to catch you so you don’t snap anything like a wrist, trying to catch yourself. Your body will slump, like you’re lifeless, but you’re so very aware of it.

It’s scaring him now. He doesn’t think you’ll make it out alive, he thinks that you’ll die in here, from whatever you caught. You’re not hungry, you gag and throw up most of the food you get down. The lack of exercise is diminishing what little muscle you came into the arena with. There’s a high fever, you’re sweating almost constantly, but then the chills will swoop in out of nowhere. Not to mention the round-the-clock headache. 

You want it all to stop. You’ve never got this sick back home, it was the common flu that went around. Only the very, very poor, skinny kids would die to it, since their immune system can’t handle anything. But that’s hardly ever the case, even the poorest people in the district have a fair chunk of change to carry around.

If you’re going to die from whatever Capitol-altered disease, you’d just have it done in a snap. It’s been almost a week of you having it. And the fact that it had gotten so bad overnight is not a good sign. It was just earlier this morning, midnight when you were conspiring with Finnick on how to end this.

It evolved and it’s completely ruined your body within an eight to eleven hour time span. This means that today, tomorrow, or the day after are your final days. You die tonight, it just leaves Finnick to deal with the others. You can’t do that to him, you can’t send him home alone after all that has happened.

You’re not going to give this up.

“Eat.” Finnick shoves the fish into your hands and you take in a small breath, to keep your side from being stabbed. 

“Finnick this won’t stay down.” you tell him calmly, but you pick it apart anyway, using the water to drink it down.

And then you stop as you stare at the water, then back to the fish. There’s only really two ways you could have gotten sick. It wasn’t because of Blaire, he was healthy as fuck, and the only reason why he died was because he attacked Lennox while he was trying to kill you.

You couldn’t have picked it up from Trink, Allio or Lennox--assuming that it had some sort of incubation period--because that means they would have to be crawling with the disease too. From what Finnick has told you, they seem to be just fine. You’re the only one dying in here. 

Finnick is an automatic no, he isn't sick either and he isn’t catching it. Another reason why you couldn’t have caught it from the others, is because it doesn’t seem to be contagious through human contact.

Which narrows down the possibilities. You got it from eating berries and leaves, fish, or the water. You haven’t eaten berries and leaves in a while though, so those have to be out of it.

It’s the water and the fish, they have something to do with it. It can’t be an allergic reaction, because it doesn’t deteriorate the body like this. If it was a reaction, then you’d be breaking out in hives, through closing in and you’d been dead by now. Unless it’s a small allergy, but that’s not the case either. 

“Finnick, what are some diseases passed through water?” you ask, slowly setting the food down.

He tilts his head slightly, “Uhh, E coli, Cholera, Typhoid, Salmonella--? Why?”

Typhoid is the one you recognize, because of the few cases some of the neighborhood kids back home had. With the right treatment, they wouldn’t die, but for the few who let it go on for too long, or didn’t have the money to pay for it, their kids--or themselves--would die. 

“The symptoms to…” you lean back, “What’s the--?”

The headache seems to increase, stopping you from thinking any further. You press the heels of your hands to your temples to ease the pain. Of course, it does nothing, but it feels better than just sitting there. You clench your teeth and squeeze your eyes, rocking back and forth.

Think, think!

What the fuck is the cure to Typhoid? Hell, what are the symptoms? What’s it related to? How can you get it?

“(Y/n)? What’s wrong?”

Few cases back home. Parents who go down to the sea to collect water. Use for baths, and the kids accidentally drink it. It’s not the salt its--its the bacteria.

“Water,” you look to Finnick, “Have you been treating the water?”

His face twists, and then he pales, “I--I forgot once--”

That’s enough for you to catch it. Just a little bit of contaminated water will get it going. Your body has been fighting off this sickness for a week, and it took you this long to think it over. 

That’s not the matter, though. The matter, is that if you don’t get medicine, you’ll die from it being untreated.

“Mags, if you’re listening--it’s Typhoid fever,” you tell her, “Untreated it’ll kill me. Please, please send me something. Whatever it is that’ll cure it. One pill or sip is better than none, please.”

Finnick looks guilty, but you don’t care. It was an honest mistake, he didn’t know that the water was carrying the disease. None of you would have ever knew if he hadn’t accidentally skipped it. You’d still be up on your feet moving around like none of it ever happened.

This must be what he’s thinking, “Finnick, don’t punish yourself for this. Not now, do it later when we win.”

“What if we don’t win because of my mistake?” he asks, you point your finger.

“Hope. You have hope now, because I can’t carry it for the both of us. I forgive you, we’re going to win.”

Silence, as you wait for the sound of a sponsor gift. But the chiming never sounds, letting you know that you’re on your own. It must be far too expensive, or they just can’t hear you.

“We have better things to worry about, Finn.” you shake your head, “We need to do it tomorrow. We can’t wait until the end of the week.”

“I know.” he whispers, “Are you sure?”

“We have to.”

-- CHAPTER SIXTEEN --

There used to be a song that your mother would sing when you had caught the cold. It was more of a poem, but she would sing it like a lullaby to ease your headache and get you tired. It would always be the first couple nights of the cold, which are the worse days, and as it got better, she would stop. A bedtime remedy, to getting you to fall asleep quickly instead of letting you toss and turn through the night.

As you lay awake most of the time now, you think of it all the time. Reciting the words back to yourself softly. You can’t necessarily sing it without waking Finnick, so instead you turn it from a chant to a couple of lines at a time. You decipher the words, find meanings and then you’ll repeat it back to yourself when they make sense. 

It tires you out a lot quicker than you thought it would. Lately, it’s been working like a charm. Tonight, it offers no comfort though, because later today, you’ll be luring the last two tributes to their deaths. You’ll be using the last of your strength to win the games. If today doesn’t work, you give yourself permission to fall over and croak.

You’re in the final hours of your life. Finnick might be seeing it, but it’s not as clear to him. He’s not feeling all of it directly, he’s watching you pretend. He’s not seeing the way that you flinch and wince when his back is turned. If only he saw how much pain you’re in. 

The second you win, you’ll be fine. You’ll be on that hovercraft, they’ll be feeding you to doctors as Finnick has to watch. They’ll be hooking you up to water and liquid food, and medicine that stops the pain and diminishes the fever. They’ll be working their best to save you, because they can’t have a victor die on the craft. 

Finnick wouldn’t need anything done to him. They’d probably take him and marvel. They’d have to fix up a few scars but that would be it. There would be no reason to save him from anything. Unless something goes wrong today, he gets stabbed or something. Not going to happen on your watch, even if he doesn't like it.

The sun rises a little faster now, and you come to terms with the fact that you'll be working off of nothing today. There’s a few things to do to set up the scene, and then you’ll be able to execute it perfectly. 

“Finnick.” You nudge lightly, he opens his eyes slowly, “It’s time.”

“Did you even sleep?”

“An hour or two.” You tell him, “Woke up an hour or so ago. Not much.”

“Okay,” he says, you slip out of the bag first. Your muscles slowly stretch, making a low groan come from you. You’ve been stiff for long enough, your body thinks that you’re a statue.

Finnick slowly starts pulling out food, you make the last fire you’ll ever have to make in your life. When it sparks, your hands go over it immediately, the fever might be burning your forehead, fueling your headache but it’s also controlling the chills. The truth is, is that you’re cold as fuck. When you leave, the water will make it worse. But you’ll get there when the time comes.

The both of you heat up the food, watching as Finnick uncoils the rope, trying the noose. You don’t ask him how he knows to tie it, you just watch, and then you prod yourself a little bit. Taking in an assessment of how you’ll be able to turn your body.

Your ribs on your left side are still very painful, turning that way is like getting stabbed. It’ll take a while for them to heal, unless the Capitol has something for that, to get it to speed up and get placed right back where they need to be, not floating around in your body, causing more harm than good.

The bruises are almost gone, they’re just a very light purple now. Pressing on them doesn’t hurt anymore, it’s nothing compared to everything else that you’re feeling. Your body as a whole is weak, so there's no worry about specific knees or arms, it’s just the both of them. Not good, but you won’t have to catch yourself before you use the wrong one. You’re always taking a chance.

All cuts are now scabs, there’s a few more scars here and there, but besides that, you’re ready to go. Finnick finishes eating pretty quickly, you guys finish off all the food that you had set aside. You feel absolutely sick to your stomach, since it was hard getting it down in the first place. Overfeeding isn’t helpful by any means, until you’re trying to put on weight.

If you guys get hungry later on, it’s possible to grab something from the pond-lake or whatever. You’ll be inside of the woods, near the middle, but it won’t be that far from the pond-lake if lunch would be needed. But by the look on Finnick’s face, he’s not that hungry either. He stuffed himself just as badly as you had. 

He shoves everything into the backpack. The rope, what water you guys have, which he still looks guilty about. Small meaningless knives that you don’t need, the works. After that, he helps you onto your feet, you both take your weapons of choice, and leave the cave.

There was no point in stomping out the fire, you guys won’t be back. Which is why you guys left the sleeping bag, and all the other little things that came with the backpacks when you got them. For all you care, they can burn up in a blaze. The fire will put itself out before it reaches the water.

Finnick leads the way through the water. Instead of going straight out of the waterfall, a little to the left, you guys go right diagonally. If you were to go straight, you’d head right for the cornucopia. You guys want to do it in one of the big ass trees, out of sight of them in case they were to come looking.

You hold Finnick’s trident, as he holds the backpack above the water since it isn’t waterproof, and you guys don’t want the rope to get wet. You’d rather it be dry, it’ll be more harsh when it gets around Lennox.

“Almost home.” 

“We should have built a treehouse. I mean, it’s been a month, we had the time.” You laugh, he snickers.

“Gamemakers would have had a fire.”

“Wouldn’t have been smart. I’m sure that the tourists would have loved to stay in a personalized treehouse! Oh Finnick, do you think we have time?” You bat your eyelashes when he looks to you, he rolls his eyes.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You can hardly stand.” 

“So? It won’t be so hard.” You reason about the hypothetical treehouse, daydreaming about having one. What would go inside, how much time it would take. How you would replace materials like nails with vine and all that. Or very thin rocks that you can hammer into the wood.

“No treehouse.” Finnick tells you, and then the both of you laugh at each other.

When you reach the land finally, you guys take the time to ring out your clothes. Then you continue to the place that Finnick had picked out last night. When you get to it, you’re thoroughly impressed to see that it’s a big ass tree, and there’s plenty of land around to run around in. This is a place you could build a house, raise a family and all of that.

Finnick unpacks the rope, you take it, throwing it around your neck to keep it from going anywhere. You tuck your spear between your pants and belt, with the blade down. You take your water and put it in your jacket, Finnick kisses you quickly, wishes you good luck, and then you turn to the tree.

Spear, rope, water, a good luck kiss. Now, to climb the tree without falling. Your body will complain and give you hell for this, but it’s all for the greater good. 

You climb the tree slowly, being careful of your left side. Right hand, left hand, right foot, left foot. Occasionally you’ll reach higher than you should, wobble, but catch yourself the next time around.

The spear gets in the way and you have to keep moving the water to where it needs to be. You take a break on the sturdy branches, and continue when it’s just enough to make it to the next one.

Before you know it, you’re at the one branch that stretches over Finnick below you. You wrap your legs around the branch, and even go as far as to tie the non-noose end of the rope to your body. Then, you strip free of the jacket, dropping it for Finnick. The boots follow, and you’re disappointed to see that he dodges where you tried to drop it on him.

“Pants too?” You ask, Finnick shakes his head.

You take a long drink of water, since the sun is in your eyes. And then you take another before dropping it for Finnick, setting up the scene where Trink and Lennox will come along just to die.

Lennox is going to be heavy, he’s had plenty of food to eat from because of the middle. He’s going to weigh what he normally did when he came in. Maybe a few pounds shorter. You however, aren’t at all where you need to be. 

The big breakfast helped, but it wasn’t perfect. You’ve got one, two, possibly three pounds more than you had originally. You’ll fail when it comes to pulling Lennox up with the rope using just your muscle strength. To actually hang him, he’ll need something to balance out his weight, almost.

He’s going to be below you, you get the noose around his neck, you yank and what? Choke him for a split second? Finnick will be fucked.

You didn’t propose this part of the plan to Finnick because you knew he would say no. He won’t ever say yes to something this dangerous and risky, which is the exact reason why it’s going to work. Risky, but odds in your favor.

“I’m ready.” Finnick tells you, you nod.

“Let’s do it!”

You cut yourself free quickly, then you measure out just about what you’ll need to fall through on this. Your eyes keep darting to Finnick, worried about when he’ll yell.

You drape the extra rope across the branch behind you, out of sight out of mind. The noose rope is shorter, but still long enough to reach Lennox. Finnick comes over now, standing right next to it, and nods up at you. Perfect length.

It’s going to get shorter though. You tie a constrictors knot, which will be impossible for the Capitol doctors to get off of you, but they’ll manage. They have to save you, and your leg if it’s possible. If there’s no reason to cut it off, then they can’t. It’s not a medical problem, it’s rope.

You dangle your leg, seeing how it reaches the same height as before presumably. Then, you draw some of it back up to keep out of sight of the others when they come in.

Just in time to listen to Finnick give a blood curdling scream. You clench your teeth together, eyes on the direction the others are going to be coming in at. Listening as Finnick continues to scream for your placebo self to wake up. Yelling for Mags to send in some sort of medicine, to save you.

“Please! Please!” Finnick screams, and at the first snap of a branch, your eyes flicker to Trink and Lennox, “No—!”

“She’s not dead yet?” You think you hear Trink ask.

You wonder if the Capitol can spare a false cannon to see what happens. If they’ll attack him immediately, like a bunch of rabid dogs.

“Leave her alone,” Finnick seethes, he’s crouched over, backing up which is drawing the others to walk over. You can see the smiles on their faces from here.

“I’ve got him.” Trink chirps.

“No!” Finnick lunges forward slightly when Lennox gets close to your body, you begin to lower the rope little by little.

Lennox jumps for your body, you can feel your heart pounding in your chest when you free the rope. Only to see it come up short.

“Shit.” You curse, and then you dip your leg over, getting it right around Lennox’s neck.

Finnick attacks Trink, who’s caught up watching the rope. She goes to warn Lennox, but Finnick shuts her up.

Before Lennox can do anything, you take a deep breath. Feeling the fear try to paralyze your body into rethinking this. You don’t let it, you throw your body the opposite side, to the left.

Lennox chokes, you feel the air on your skin as you watch the branch of the tree get further away. Until the momentum comes to a slow, and you’re dangling in the air by a rope from your foot.

You look to see Lennox, face turning purple as he grabs onto the rope to relieve the pain of choking, you curl your body slightly, pulling him up a little, and his eyes bulge. The sound of a cannon startles you, because it’s clearly not Lennox, who you’re staring at, and he’s staring at you. Still alive.

You go to yell Finnick’s name, but it gets caught in your throat. The blood is rushing to your head, the headache increasing in power. The pain just seems to skyrocket the longer you hang here.

“I’m alive.” Finnick tells you, and then you watch as his trident flies through the air.

It misses Lennox by an inch or two, getting lodged in the tree. You sigh, reaching for your spear now. You don’t want to get yourself free. You want to kill Lennox, and you’re sure that it will be a sight to behold, him hanging from a tree, with you suspending him on the other side, a spear through whatever you can get. 

With it in hand, you lean forward, your left side aches from the sit up. You and Lennox lock eyes, and he shakes his head slightly, beginning you not to even though his face is a deep purple and blood is coming out of his nose, trickling down his lips.

You draw your arm back, waiting for the rope to stop swaying, and then you launch it forward, the very last of your strength going along with it. You’re not even able to see if it goes through anything. The sound of a cannon gives it away.

“You did it!” Finnick yells, but his voice is drowned, you can hardly hear it.

You can feel your body relax, arms going past your head. You try to blink away the spots, but they don’t go anywhere. In fact, they take out your vision completely. 

—

I told her so, and if she say,

That she was wrong,

Then may it be,

A quick little bug,

That will come and go.

—

She will lay,

In clean, white sheets, 

A full tummy,

And a cup of tea,

She will rest,

And she will think,

How this will be,

The very last time.

—

But here comes grey,

Water-filled clouds,

She pulls on her shoes,

And her coat,

So that she may,

Go in the rain.

—

I will come,

To the porch,

To warm her of,

What may come,

She will laugh, 

She will splash,

But she won’t listen.

Then she will come later with;

Rain-soaked clothes,

Not feeling good,

And beg me to care for her.

(the poem is a circle).

--

LACUNA IS THE FIRST VERSION OF BELAMOUR

//MASTERLIST//

[bloodypapercut]

something missing (g.w. x reader)

request from @lilyydfg : Hey! Can you please write about reader trying to make george (her boyfriend) feel better and get out of depression after Fred's death? :)

tw: this is heavily centred around feelings of being numb, dejected and hopeless.there are mentions of death and slight mentions of the battle (blood and injuries but not much). please don’t read this if it’ll dampen your mood and if you do read please do so with caution. <3 stay safe lovebugs 

(requests are open)

word count : 2.1k 

    It had been months, but the initial shock never seemed to fade away. It plagued both of them horrifically, but George never fully recovered. The memories repeated themselves in his head, while he slept, worked, ate, laughed, cried, drank, and walked. They were intrusive, relentless, vivid, and unforgiving, they consumed every second of his life, so much so that guilt clawed at the back of his throat. The thought that he got to experience all the things they had promised to do together without his other half left him overwhelmed with grief. Why was it that he got to see the business they had worked so hard for thrive, why did he get to be in a relationship with plans for the future, why did he get to hug his mother and father at the burrow, why did he get to laugh alongside his siblings while Fred was gone, buried in the ground? It didn’t sit right with him, it wasn’t fair.

-----

   After the hours of screaming, crumbling walls, peril, the bodies of those they loved limp and battered on the stone floors, bloody hands, and frantic running they returned home. The silence smothered them, it was inevitable. They were shattered. They couldn’t process what had really happened, surely none of it was real. Fred was just missing, it was the wrong body they saw laying there with a lazy smile still etched on his face, Fred was just playing a cruel prank. They told themselves anything but the truth because deluding yourself feels better than facing what’s really in front of you. It wasn’t until they had finished getting ready for bed that it struck them. They followed the routine that they’d had for years on instinct, brush their teeth, wash their faces, get changed, rush to Fred’s room to say goodnight, but when they found his room empty and undisturbed it became clear that he was really gone. Fred, the loving, goofy, sometimes obnoxious but always kind redhead, the reliable older brother, the loyal best friend, the free-spirited stranger was gone, forever. There would be no more shared birthdays, family photos with his cheerful grin, knitted jumpers with a large golden F laying around, ear-piercing singing, and raucous laughter followed by rushed footsteps. It was all gone, in a matter of a few hours. It was there where George broke the silence, more like shattered it. His sobs were violent and agonizing, his pain was palpable. As he sunk to his knees he hugged Y/N’s legs, clinging onto anything that would ground him. His body shook against her calves and his tears were pooling on the hardwood floor, leaving a puddle where his reflection stared back at him. He aguishly looked back at himself, he hated what he saw, it was just a reminder of what was missing.

“I’m sorry, I need to be alone right now.” He made haste to rush to his office and lock the door. She rushed after him, trailing behind his footsteps but as the door shut in her face and the smashing of frames, ripping of paper, and choked sobs resonated through the door it was clear that that’s what he really needed.  

-----

For months George kept to himself, he seldom spoke of anything that he didn’t need to. He was reserved and feeble, avoiding interacting with people and finishing what he needed to do before heading straight to bed. It was unusual, to say the least, in his mind, there was no George without Fred. A part of him died that day, and it will never come back. He was numb, devoid of any genuine emotions. At any mention of Fred, he’d freeze up and immediately leave the room, if he saw something that reminded him of his older brother he’d snatch it and throw it into a box that he kept hidden under the bed. It was heartbreaking to see someone so vivid and bright suddenly solemn and burnt out. It was shattering to see George force himself to forget about the existence of his best friend to avoid the harsh sting of reality.

    He dealt with all of the pain alone. Whenever he’d wake up in a cold sweat he’d rush out of the room, refusing to look Y/N in the eye. Every nightmare was kept to himself, only to fester in his subconscious. At any offer of consolation or guidance he’d simply shake his head and walk away or offer a hopeless “no,” “I don’t care,” “what difference does it make,” or “I don’t want your help” as he kept his head down. No one knew what he was thinking, no one knew how he was. He remained stoic, afraid that once he confronts his fears that it will all become too real.

    It wasn’t until one night when one of his nightmares felt a little too hostile. It was the kind that plucked at any sense of security you thought you had and left you bare and vulnerable. His chest was weighed down and his breathing was labored. The erratic rise and fall sent the bed into light vibrations.

“Georgie, are you okay?” He remained silent and stared vacantly at the illuminated lamp resting on the vanity across the room. The tears in his eyes and remnants from where they rolled off his cheeks glimmered in the dull glow. She took his silence as a sign that he needed to be alone like he always wanted to be. An ache grew in her chest but she knew he wanted to be alone. She shrugged the blanket off of her legs and kissed his cheek lightly while stroking rogue tendrils of hair off his forehead.

“Do you wanna be alone, love?” She smiled warmly and wrapped her robe around her shoulders, preparing herself to leave the room.

“Stay, please, I can’t do this alone anymore.” The grip on her wrist was relieving and her heart swelled at the thought that George was taking the next step, ready to face what had been haunting him for so long. He continued to cry leaning into her embrace and letting his arms wrap around her waist. His head was against her chest, and she felt his tears soaking through her jumper. Her hand danced up and down the expanse of his back, reminding him that he wasn’t alone, that she was there and always will be.

“Let it out Georgie, it’s okay, you’re so strong. Just let it out.” The hold around her waist got tighter and he released all the emotions he had been holding in for so long. His sobs were haunting and lingered in the air. After a couple of minutes, his weeping decrescendoed but didn’t seize. He looked up into her eyes, worried that he was unloading too much onto her by divulging all the feelings he tried to keep so secure.

“Tell me whatever you’re comfortable telling me, it’s okay. I’m here George, you’re not alone.”

“Before the battle, we were sitting in the garden. The gnomes were running around, they didn’t bother nipping at our ankles like they always do, even they knew how horrible things had become. We were against the fence and he told me,” George paused abruptly and swallowed forcefully, “he told me that it was unlikely that both of us would make it out. I remember laughing and throwing grass at him, but Y/N he knew, we both knew, I was just too scared to admit it. We promised each other that no matter what, we’d seize the days that followed, even if one of us didn’t survive, but how could I go on without him? He died that day for me, he saved me. And even though he made me promise, I just couldn't. I felt so guilty. Every time I find myself smiling or laughing or even being happy in the smallest ways it always reminds me that Fred would never experience it with me. He will never see his first gray hair, or see his children run around the yard, or see how many people loved the things he invented. It’s so crazy to think that when we drank that aging potion in year 6, that that was the only time I’d ever get to see him all old and wrinkly.”

    He became silent as she traced shapes on the expanse of his back and dragged her fingertips along his forearms. Tears slowly welled in his eyes once more with the same urgency streamed down his face. Gently Y/N lifted his head and held it tenderly in her hands, his tears were kissed away by her cushiony lips.

“I really miss him. Not a day goes by where I’m not tortured by his absence. I feel horrible that I’m doing the very thing I swore I wouldn't do, but memories of him haunt me...and I’m letting them. Every time I hear his name or see anything that reminds me of him, it makes me so,” he paused, his hands rubbing at his red eyes in a frantic state, “so fucking angry, so mad and scared and confused and hurt and sick. I feel everything that he always managed to rid me of, but now that he’s gone it’s just so different. I just wish that he’d barge in like he always used to, but he’s gone, and I can’t accept that, I don’t want to.” His sobs echoed throughout the room once again, the unabating raw emotion seeping through every cough and gasp for air. His grip on the ends of Y/N’s jumper was fervent and desperate.

“You don’t have to forget about him.”

“I don’t want to, but it hurts so much because all I’m reminded of is what’s missing when he isn’t around,” he paused and as he did an ignominious expression painted over his face, “Merlin, Y/N I’m so sorry for dragging you into all of this, I’m being so selfish. I must be such a burden.”

“What? Angel, no no please don’t think that. I’m here because I love you, and I care for you. Never apologize for having feelings, you’re allowed to and it’s not something to be ashamed of. I’m not here because I have to be, I’m here because I want to, and because you deserve every ounce of love this world has to offer. Okay? Look, I know it’s easier said than done but you truly don’t have to forget him if you don’t want to, you just have to learn to understand what you’re feeling and to act accordingly. I’m here to help you with whatever you think is best. That’s all I want for you, that’s what Fred would want too. So tell me what you want help with, and I’ll be there every single step of the way. Anything to help you, you’re not alone.”

    The room seemed a little less daunting from George’s point of view. Upon hearing the words she uttered so softly and so passionately he felt at ease, and for the first time in a long time without guilt. A new cloak of warmth draped over his shoulders, he didn’t know what to make of it but as he looked up at Y/N and around the cozy room he realized it was acceptance and relief. He quickly summoned the box he kept as his contemptible secret for months. It sat comfortably in front of him on the duvet, it’s presence was overt and consuming, but for once George was okay with that. For once he let the box serve as a reminder of his brother’s presence, not as something to smother it.

    They spent the next hours slowly inspecting each piece in the box, smiling and reminiscing on the memories. It felt like Fred’s presence was flooding back, bringing more color and liveliness to their seemingly dull world. After hours of sitting close together, George let out a yawn and ruffled his hair.

“I’ll run a bath and then we can sleep, okay?” He nodded and Y/N headed to the bathroom, and within minutes she beckoned George to come in. Gingerly he rid himself of his clothes and sat down in the bath, leaning his head against Y/N’s warm chest. She soaked a sponge in the water and slowly dragged it across his tense shoulders, the water cascading down his ridged and freckled back. The sound of the water falling back into the bath and their steady breathing created a peaceful symphony in the room.

“I love you, angel, thank you.”

“I love you too Georgie, I know you’d do the same for me.”

[kessielrg]

[Kingdom Hearts] Stronger Dreams

Summary: Before Lost Lights, before the Thinner Disaster, Wasteland was a world already in hurt. As Eraqus is soon to find out, the truth of why is a lot more complicated than what he or Yen Sid had first anticipated. Even if the world does not want to separate from its healing heart, then perhaps it will accept a compromise instead? 

Rating: K

Word Count: 2,326 words

If you liked this story, please reblog!

---

“Do you have to go?”

Eraqus looked up, then over to wear Terra was standing. The young boy, no more than seven now, tightly held his wooden Keyblade as he stared at his master with intent. Eraqus gave the child a smile. He walked over to him to give a reassuring pat on the head.

“I won’t be long.” Eraqus promised. “Yen Sid wants me to investigate a certain matter that he is personally unable to attend to right now. It should only be two days in our world- perhaps three.”

“When do I get to go with you?” Terra then asked. His young face illustrating a rather relenting seriousness.

“When you’re older, and when you become a Keyblade Master.”

The annoyed grunt the child gave made Eraqus laugh.

“While I am gone, you are to resume your studies.” he then reminded the child. “Be nice to your teacher- they’re an old friend of mine.”

“Yes Master.”

Eraqus gave Terra a kind smile as he got down to his height. Terra didn’t seem to notice at first- his gaze had been turned down, his expression still rather bitter that he wasn’t able to do anything more interesting.

“Don’t give in to that darkness, Terra.” the master gently told his student. “Keep your faith, and keep your light burning strong. I promise you that I’ll be back as soon as I’m able. Keep your light strong for me, and I guarantee that I’ll come back every time. Understand?”

For this, Terra finally looked up at his master. The corner of his mouth twitched as he tried to find some way to argue against it. But there was a sincerity to Master Eraqus’s gaze that made Terra relax. The boy’s face slowly went from apprehensive to a bright smile. He even placed a hand over his heart as he looked up at Eraqus.

“May your heart be your guiding key.” he recited with certainty. Hearing the phrase gave Eraqus a small start. Beyond the day that it was first introduced to Terra, he had never once used it before. He was using it now to wish his master good luck. The sentiment immediately put a smile on Eraqus’s face.

“May your heart be your guiding key,” the master replied.

. . .

Even if Eraqus thought young Terra could handle being in this world, he still would not have let him come. The world Eraqus was set to visit sat very close to the darkness. The Keyblade master didn’t quite appreciate this until he actually touched down on the world. You could feel it in the air- more electrifying than any open current. Even the place where he landed -a plaza-like area with a modest train station at one end, and several businesses here and there- had an uncanny feeling of being on edge. He could be wrong, but it felt like a proverbial damn was destined to break here, but no one knew when or even if they should be caring or not. It was all rather… discomforting.

Eraqus cautiously made his way down the street. There weren’t many of the land’s natives out today. It only made the place even more eerie- a natural ghosttown. (Never minding that there were actual ghosts around here, from his understanding.) Still, his mission required him to go underground. Eraqus found the entrance to this world’s underground and went in without a second thought. The feeling of something being slightly off did not leave in this new environment. If anything, it almost got worse.

The Keyblade Master had to squint at first as his eyes adjusted to the much dimmer lighting here. There was a makeshift path ahead of him, one that likely wasn’t all too safe, that he chose to follow. When a flash of blue crossed his sight, Eraqus had assumed he was only seeing things. At the second flash of blue, Eraqus paused. He was looking around before seeing several more flashes of blue. The longer he looked, he noticed there were a few streaks of green along the path as well. The Keyblade Master observed these orbs of light with suspicion. They weren’t doing anything that easily spelled trouble for him. He figured after a few moments of observation that they were harmless, so he kept going onward.

But the orbs still wanted his attention.

Several more of the orbs in both blue and green whizzed by his face. Eraqus honestly considered swatting them away before remembering the world order; who knew how important these creatures were. He certainly didn’t, and he wasn’t going to push his luck. It might have been the better thing not to mess with them too- they were guiding him through the underground.

It wasn’t anything Eraqus noticed right away. The mysterious orbs were trying to guide him, but in a silent, nudging sort of way. They made sure that they were in his path enough for him to follow. If he went in the wrong direction, one of the green orbs would touch his skin. He learned very quickly that, while little, they packed quite the sting. At some point, Eraqus even started to talk to them. Most of it was just to make sure that he was going in the right direction and avoid the green orbs’ wrath.

When the dull underground passage opened up to a large cavern, Eraqus had to take a moment to fully take in the new surroundings. Several natural waterfalls came down on the area, reflecting its patterns onto the walls. As Eraqus took several cautious steps out in this new area, he realized that below him was an active lava flow. There were several metal panels above the main lava river that led up to some sort of machine meant to capture the heat.

This place was actually rather overwhelming. The intense difference between the two areas seemed to exemplify this world’s off-edge feeling. Moreso because the guiding blue and green orbs seemed a lot more animated here.

“Of course,” Eraqus mumbled to himself, “They originate here. This is their home.”

The orbs jumped at his recognition. They went into a small frenzy as if they were incredibly excited about something. Several hit the dirt beneath Eraqus’s feet to scratch out their name.

‘Guardians. Tints. Turps.’

Eraqus let out a thoughtful hum as he read the words. Several of the blue orbs hovered over the word ‘Tints’. Several of the green orbs hovered over the word ‘Turps’. After a few moments, they all rushed to him like they expected him to understand. It reminded the Keyblade Master of Terra when he wanted Eraqus to immediately look at something.

“Guardians.” Eraqus repeated back to the sprites. “You are divided by two species; Tints, and Turps. I understand.”

The Guardians went into another frenzy- looking a lot like fireworks in the process. Eraqus couldn’t help a smile.

“You must be the ones that Yen Sid told me about.” he decided. “The one whose heart is hurting.”

At this, the Guardians suddenly froze. Eraqus frowned at their reaction. Then, just as he was about to request them more, the Guardians started to carefully arrange themselves into a silhouette of something. It took him a moment, but when Eraqus recognized what they were forming, his heart jumped into his throat.

A girl.

The Guardians had formed the absent silhouette of a young girl.

“Who is she?” Eraqus questioned. It sounded a lot more forceful than he intended, but he had been in shock. This absent silhouette didn’t look to be much older than what Terra was now. What could have caused a heart so young to be hurting so badly?

To answer him, a few more Guardians appeared. They formed the outline of a heart. The heart started to break apart, pieces of which floated aimlessly until he reached a different, much bigger, heart. Together, the large heart held the smaller heart inside itself, allowing the two to become even bigger than before.

“Her heart is sleeping inside the heart belonging to this world?” Eraqus pondered. He placed a hand over his mouth in thought. “That… certainly complicates things.”

Eraqus took a look back at the absent silhouette. A faint memory of his grandfather came to mind. It was a story about hearts from the Age of Fairytales; at the end of their time, the wielders were given the choice of going to sleep or being melted into another heart. He wondered if this child had chosen the latter. Would it really have been possible for the heart of a world and the heart of a wielder to become one?

Suddenly feeling unease once more, Eraqus carefully offered out his hand to the absent silhouette.

“I can help you. You do not have to be the same entity.”

He moved his hand closer in further goodwill, but the Guardians dispersed in a frenzy just before he made contact. Eraqus studied their reaction with a frown.

“I see.” he mumbled to himself. To the Guardians proper, he then asked, “Is the heart that you are protecting that damaged?”

The Guardians did not answer him. In fact, they seemed to have left his general vicinity altogether. Eraqus let out a heavy sigh. This really did complicate things. He’d have to reconvene with Master Yen Sid on this matter- although he was unsure if there was anything they could do about the situation. He wanted to be able to do something, though. It felt wrong just leaving these creatures just like that.

“If you will not allow me to help separate you two,” he then said- more to the empty air than anything in particular, “Then allow me to place a spell of protection on her heart. When time comes that she is strong enough to be on her own again, then the separation can occur naturally. It can only happen with someone you trust with her. Does that sound better to you?”

A few Tints came up from the ground again. They hovered at Eraqus’s eye level as if to judge if he was deceiving them or not. It took them awhile, but they seemed to come to an agreement in a gesture not unlike a nod.

“Thank you,” Eraqus said to them. He summoned his Keyblade (an act that seemed to surprise the Guardians, making them jump a bit) and followed its lead to where he could best apply the spell. Its guidance led him to face a rock face. Eraqus knew better than to question the direction, instead pointing his Keyblade directly at the rock. A shot of light went from the Keyblade to the rock as the spell was cast. Not even a second later, the air around them changed in a new way. It felt less… stifling than before. As if something, somewhere, had taken in a large sigh of relief. Eraqus had taken this as a sign that the spell had worked.

“There.” he mused, “That should keep both your hearts steady until hers is ready to depart again.”

Eraqus turned around and found himself startled at the Guardians floating not far from his face. The Tints and Turps had made themselves form a new outline; one that looked a lot like a fedora-like hat with a feather sticking out from it. The Keyblade Master could feel his body tense at seeing it.

“My grandfather used to have a hat like that.” he carefully said. “I might still have it somewhere. Did he come here?”

The Guardians arranged themselves so that the girl from earlier was proudly wearing the fedora. It admittedly took Eraqus a moment to understand its meaning. When he did understand, a grin started to etch his way onto his face.

“So now it all becomes clear,” he snorted. “This was why Yen Sid wanted me to investigate this world; I have distant ties to this heart.” Eraqus let out another chortle before telling the Guardians, “Don’t worry. Her heart will be safe. A part of her will always be with this land, and vice versa. May your heart be your guiding key.”

If he didn’t know any better, Eraqus would have believed that the Guardians had smiled.

. . .

Eraqus touched down at the Land of Departure again well after nightfall. He grinned in realizing that Terra had gone to sleep waiting for him at the steps. The boy must have started waiting for him after supper. Eraqus carefully picked up Terra to take him to his room. Never once breaking his slumber, the child clung close to Eraqus, a small hum coming from his lips.

After laying Terra down in his bed, Eraqus went to his own room and immediately crashed on his mattress. Sleep came easy for him, and within it he had a dream. He had taken the body of his grandfather (who had been much younger in this dream) and was sitting beside a girl not unlike what the Guardians had presented to him earlier. She was a pretty little thing- long, black hair with dark brown eyes that looked back at him with an intense focus.

“Why did you do it?” she questioned.

“Because I had to.” he replied back, giving a careless half shrug. “You would have done the same for me.”

“Maybe I wanted to stay asleep.”

“Maybe you wanted to wake up.”

The two looked at each other- the girl glaring rather darkly while he returned it with a friendly grin. After awhile, the girl fiercely looked away again.

“I’ll wake up when I feel like it next time- not because you wanted me to.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said back. He reached over to ruffle her hair- an act that got a noise of disgust out of her. Eraqus laughed. He didn’t know if this dream was just a dream, or some sort of vision from the past- but he did know something. Her heart was safe, and that’s all that mattered.

[container-of-apple-juice]

Finally posting my take on Naruto’s First Time Outside at the tender age of Five years old. Before he knows that the world has already cast him aside.

“This key opens and closes the door to this room. Do not lose it.”

These are the only words spoken to Naruto as the third Hokage roughly presses a small metal object into his hands.

[[MORE]]

Naruto is five years old, and clutches the small piece of metal tightly in his fist as the tall man leaves his apartment once again. Naruto vividly notices a lack of the familiar click directly following the older mans departure.

He looks down at the oddly cut metal piece in his hands- the key as the third had said- and then looks back up at the colorless, wooden door in front of him. He’d never before seen what was beyond that door other than bright bright light from all around. That and the nameless shinobi that shuffled in and out of it with wordless grimaces thrown in his direction.

He scuffled toward the entryway to his apartment, key still firmly in his grip, and he reached for the door knob with notable hesitation. He felt scared. He was familiar with his small apartment and nothing else but...this object given to him felt significant. More so than any object he’d been given up to that point. He thought it would be silly not to act on this change in the status quo. After all, there hadn’t been a click when the hokage had left him this time.

That click had grown to torment him in the few years of his existence that he was capable of remembering. That click always meant he was alone once again. The click always meant he wouldn’t know how long it would be before he saw another person, let alone before another person would talk to him- even look him in the eye.

Most of the guards that were sent to check on him would act as though he didn’t exist, simply dropping off bags of groceries or performing their wellness check before clicking the door behind them as they left without a word.

Naruto was so used to being alone. But now...he could go out into the space where everyone always went off to. He could leave these walls which held only himself and a painful, deafening silence.

He reached for the doorknob, his little fingers splaying awkwardly over its surface, barely curving around its edges as he twisted it.

It creaked open noisily and Naruto felt himself tense, heat rushing to his face as though he would be caught and punished for daring to open the barrier between him and every other person he’d ever seen.

But no one came. Only silence followed the deafening creak. After a moment he pushed the door forward and released the knob from his grip. He didn’t dare step out from his apartment right away, even as the door swung open before him, revealing a dull wall opposite him and bright sunlight on every side.

Once his eyes adjusted to the change in lighting he felt them grow to the size of dinner plates as his gaze settled on the openness before him. He felt half tempted to shut the door once more and wait for someone to go with him, wait for one of the taller people to show him this new world themselves, surely someone else knew better- one of the guards or the third himself- they could show him. After all, they’d left him behind in favor of this bright, new, mystery world countless times.

But even then Naruto knew that would never happen. The third had neglected to click the door behind him intentionally, but he had no intention of showing Naruto the ways of this outter world.

Naruto would have to discover it on his own.

He itched with nerves.

The third always visited Naruto just as the sun began to rise, so Naruto knew he had several hours of sunlight left in the day for this adventure. That was plenty of time to explore this new world, figure out what it held in store for him, and find his way back to his safe and familiar closed walls.

He squeezed the key in his hand- “do not lose it-“ and stepped out of his home, no shoes to be seen on his feet, only wearing his favorite, oversized, orange tshirt and a pair of baggy blue shorts.

The hallway had much similar floor paneling to his home, a slightly scratchy wooden board. But on either end of the hallway there were bright openings beyond which he couldn’t make out much detail.

He numbly chose to walk to the right of his doorway, not bothering to close the door behind him. Not knowing any better.

He was met with a steep drop, with cascading steps leading downward- stairs, as he would come to know them later on. He gulped loudly at the sight of the ground so far below him and leaned against the wall for a sense of stability. Sweat prickled on his forearms and he considered turning around and going right back inside but he felt somehow...compelled to continue.

Naruto plopped down onto his butt at the top of the stairs.

It was clearly the safest option. He slid his butt toward the first step and lowered himself onto it with a gentle thump. He repeated the process delicately until he was about halfway toward the ground below him.

“Oh! Excuse me dear-“ a voice startled Naruto as he was about to slip down another step, causing his heart to nearly jump out of his chest as he whipped around to see the source of the voice.

An elderly woman was frozen on the step just above him and she had a strange look on her face unlike one Naruto had ever seen before. It was similar to the unhappy look he received from most guards who came to check on him but this expression was new to Naruto in such that it seemed...afraid? Which he supposed made sense. This was a scary situation! Naruto was scared too- he didn’t even know if he’d make it down these stairs, let alone how he would get back up them, or- god forbid- what he would do when he reached the bottom!

But before he could muster up the courage to speak to the elderly woman, she had abruptly turned and gone back up the stairs and away from Naruto.

He stared after her for a few moments but eventually huffed out a breath and continued his path down toward the lower ground. He’d never seen someone so old before, he was already seeing so many new things. He wished he could have spoken to her, but she seemed in a rush to get away. He hoped he could see her again some time.

Once his bare feet had finally met with the grassy floor at the bottom of the steps, Naruto sighed, but quickly followed it up with a startled gasp at the sensation of the dewy earth between his toes.

His mouth gaped at the scene before him. He didn’t yet have the words to describe what he saw, but grass and trees would quickly become some of his favorite things. He hunched forward and pushed his hands roughly into the grass, dragging his feet back and forth through it from his spot on the bottom step. He laughed openly as he enjoyed the new sensations before silencing himself in worry of who else might be around beyond his sight. But...maybe it wouldn’t be too bad if someone noticed him!

Naruto had seen countless guards enter and leave his apartment in the four years he’d been alive, and they had all gone out into this new outside place. He had no idea how many guards, and now elderly ladies, might be out here, but he was suddenly determined to speak to one of them before the day was over. The idea, while exciting, made him nervous and he brought his hands back out of the grass to clutch against his chest. He also realized with a gasp that he’d almost forgotten his key in the grass amidst his excitement.

Naruto immediately shoved the key deep into one of his short’s pockets for safe keeping. He couldn’t even begin to imagine how scary it would be to not be able to get back into his safe place back up the stairs. Not to mention how angry the third would be, and he was never in a good mood to begin with.

With a deep breath of encouragement Naruto lifted himself from the bottom step, feet placed more firmly in the grass as he stood up. He glanced around, pushing his long hair out of his eyes to get a better grip on his surroundings.

To his left was a trail that lead to more tall buildings like the one he came from, and to his right was more grass and bushes and trees.

It was an easy decision to make, if you asked him.

He began walking toward the forest’s edge before realizing with a rush that he could run there. His tiny legs took off in a sprint and he laughed aloud to himself at the feeling of freedom and openness. Even as his foot caught in an unexpected dip in the ground, sending him tumbling forward, he was only taken aback for a moment before he was laughing again, rubbing his dirty hands in the grass once more before rising back up onto his feet.

Once at the edge of the forest Naruto felt hesitant, it was pretty dark in there. He decided he would just walk along the edge until...well he wasn’t sure. But his feet carried him forward anyway.

When Naruto saw his first butterfly he froze in his tracks as he watched it fly about, only looking away when a bird chirped to his left from within the forest. He couldn’t see the source of the noise but he stared after it until he heard it again, to which he replied with his own (admittedly weak) attempt at an imitation.

When Naruto saw his first squirrel he tried to chase it down, but quickly lost track of it as it ran up a nearby tree. The branches weren’t low enough for him to grab onto but oh how he wanted to climb. He looked for a tree with low enough branches and eventually found one.

The bark was rough and he felt the wood scrape uncomfortably against his exposed calves on occasion but he couldn’t fight the smile threatening to consume his face when he reached the top.

He thought maybe he should be scared because there was a bit of unease in his belly as he looked down at the ground which was once again far below him, but instead he just felt completely satisfied. He leaned back against the trunk of the tree and thought that maybe he would never leave this spot. The air was crisp around him and birds sang as the sun settled well into the sky.

He didn’t want to go back to his room where the air never moved like it did outside and the sun never warmed his skin because, within those walls, the sun was nonexistent.

But...he had a key now, he reassured himself as he wiped the tears from his cheeks. He didn’t want to waste his time outside crying about eventually going back inside.

He began to make his way back down the tree, eager to take in more of the world around him when he lost his footing and felt the world fall out from beneath him.

He screamed as he fell the rest of the way to the ground below which, luckily, wasn’t too far, but felt the tears spring to his eyes once more when a passing branch snagged his hair and ripped out a small amount of it.

“Wow you fell so far are you okay?!” The shrill voice immediately brought Naruto out of his gloomy state as he sprang up to face its owner.

His jaw should’ve hit the floor with how dramatically it dropped open, but he couldn’t hide his shock at the sight that met him.

This person was his size. He’d never seen anyone his own size before. He supposed it made sense that he wasn’t the only one, but it was shocking nonetheless. They had hair that fell down their back, almost as long as his own, and they wore a purple shirt and purple and white striped pants. They looked shocked to see him as well, brown eyes wide and shining.

“You’re like me!” He yelled, forgetting what the other person had initially said.

“What’s that supposed to mean? Jeez you musta really hurt your head just now. Is your mom around?”

“Mom?” Naruto quirked his head to the side in confusion, still running the sore spot where his hair had been pulled.

The kid looked at him strangely, but before Naruto got an answer he saw a taller person jogging up to the both of them.

“There you are! I told you not to go off on your own- oh!” The taller person, who looked just like a bigger version of the kid in front of him (only wearing a dress instead) stepped in between them and gave Naruto a look similar to the one he’d been given on the stairs.

“Don’t come near my daughter again.” The words were spit at him before the pair walked away hurriedly.

“But mommy-“ Naruto heard the ‘daughter’ begin, but the look that the...’mommy’ gave her stopped her from finishing her thought.

Naruto was left rubbing the back of his head in utter confusion. So...the person who was his size was called...daughter? Was he a daughter? And the taller person was called mommy. Were all the tall people with long hair called mommy? Some of the guards who stopped by his room had long hair and seemed somehow different from the other guards he would see more often. Were they all mommies? Then what were the people with short hair called?

He shook his head and resolved himself to ask the third these questions the next time he saw him. Even though the third rarely answered his questions.

The rest of the day passed by in a blur of sunshine and solitary laughter, with one hour being entirely devoted to following a cat around a nearby park and down a side sreet.

The few people he came across all seemed to not like him for some reason so he decided he’d try talking to them again another day and avoided going into crowded areas for the meantime. He mostly stayed along the forest’s edge and the surrounding park areas. Instead of meeting new people he focused on trying new things by himself, like drinking water from a fountain that had coins at the bottom of it and tasting various flowers and leaves. Naruto decided flowers do not taste as good as they ought to with how pretty they always were. And how good they smelled!

He shoved rocks and bugs into his pockets and made cakes out of mud (which also didn’t taste as good as he thought they should).

Naruto had long since decided to ignore the growling of his stomach, not yet ready to go back to his room for the day. He still wasn’t completely convinced that he would be allowed to leave again, despite feeling the key still firmly placed in his pocket.

But his bare feet felt sore and his hands were caked with dry mud, leaving him more than a little uncomfortable.

He was debating going back to his room just to take a bath and eat something when he stumbled upon a river flowing from a grassy clearing and into the forest.

He grinned at the sight, not knowing exactly what it was but incredibly excited that water seemed to just appear randomly outside sometimes. It was like a bath in the dirt. Perfect.

He walked over to it, a bit tired of running at this point, and stuck his feet in without hesitation.

Shivers ran down his spine at the chill of the water, but his smile didn’t waver. He felt smooth rocks against his toes and marveled at the sparkle that the sun created in the gently rippling current. The splash of his initial entry got his shorts a bit wet and he walked further into the river, planning on fully submerging himself in the cold water.

“You’re gonna soak your clothes, you know.” A voice once again stopped Naruto in his tracks. He turned to see yet another person that was the same size as him, only this time he had shorter hair, but it was sorta long in the front? And the back looked like he’d just gotten out of bed. It was a funny look, Naruto decided, laughing a little at the sight.

The kid had his hands shoved in the pockets of his shorts as he looked down at Naruto from his place in the grass only a few feet away. One eyebrow was raised high on his forehead and Naruto noticed that he didn’t look at him the way most other people did, although judgmental, his dark eyes held a glint of amusement within them instead of fear or disgust.

“Then what’ll you do?” The boy continued when Naruto didn’t respond.

It was then that Naruto remembered the key in his pocket. He gasped loudly, causing the boy across from him to raise his other eyebrow to match the first.

“Hey you’re right! Gosh, thanks. Wow, that could’ve been real bad, huh?” Naruto sloshed over to the boy as he spoke and dug a dirty hand into his pocket, extracting the key from the mess of treasures he’d shoved in there alongside it throughout the day.

“Hey, ykno, y’think you could hold this for me? Just for a second, like, I need it back, ykno, but I don’t wanna lose it in the water.” Naruto didn’t wait for a reply as he pushed the key against the boys chest, getting dirt on the navy blue material as he did so.

The boy made a noise of disgust but instinctively grabbed the key anyway, eyeing Naruto’s appearance now that they were so close together.

“Actually...maybe soaking your clothes would be an improvement.”

And even with these mocking words Naruto still didn’t see any genuine disgust in the kids teasing stare. He beamed at the black haired boy before turning around and running back to the river, suddenly feeling revitalized at having exchanged more than a few words with another person.

Without so much as a second thought Naruto jumped into the deepest part of the river, allowing himself to dip under the water’s surface with a loud splash. When he came back up he shook his head wildly and brushed all his hair back out of his face, smiling at the boy who was still at the edge of the river.

“You should come in too, ykno!” Naruto shouted to him.

“Dummy, I have your key, remember?” The boy held up the key in question, but began walking to the very edge of the river.

Naruto watched as the boy knelt down to the water’s edge and dipped the key in briefly before wiping it with his fingers and repeating the process.

“Do you cover all of your stuff in mud?” He asked after a moment, smirking up at Naruto as he sat back into the grass and away from the water, seemingly satisfied with the cleanliness of the key.

Naruto found himself at a loss for words as he simply stood in the water for a few moments. No one had ever really done...well, anything for him. The guards didn’t even help him put his groceries away anymore. This boy didn’t have to clean his key for him, heck, Naruto had half expected him to drop it in the grass and walk away the moment Naruto crashed into the water.

But the way the kid was teasing him felt...friendly? Naruto felt his face heat up, and frowned at the boy in the grass.

“And so what if I do, huh?” He asked the question as he made his way out of the water. For some reason Naruto did not want this boy knowing that this was his first time actually seeing mud. Or a river. Or another person who was the same size as him.

Naruto plopped down in the grass next to the boy, but not close enough that he would drip on his new companion. Still glaring at the boy in question, Naruto held his hand out for his key.

The kid held the key back and away from Naruto, giving the blonde’s hands an incredibly skeptical look.

Naruto looked down at them and felt his face heat up even further at his blunder. His hands were still fairly muddy, and he felt horrible that he was about to ruin all the hard work his new friend had put into cleaning his key for him.

It was as though he had been burned with how quickly he withdrew his outstretched hand and plummeted them back into the water, scrubbing furiously.

“Won’t your parents be mad if you come home all muddy and wet?” The boy asked after a snicker at Naruto’s obvious embarrassment.

Shaking his wet hands and holding them out once more, Naruto quirked his head to the side as he spoke.

“What’s a ‘parents’?”

But Naruto thought maybe that had been the wrong thing to say because suddenly the face in front of him was twisted in all sorts of confusion.

“...you’re really weird.” Was what the boy finally said, finally pressing Naruto’s key back into his wet palm.

Naruto had never heard the word before (something he was becoming incredibly frustrated with today) but he thought it must be something bad by the tone of the boy’s voice. He clutched the key tighter in his fist and got up onto his knees, leaning slightly into the other boy’s personal space.

“Hey what’s that supposed to mean, huh? Maybe you’re weird, y’kno!” Naruto had half the mind to push the kid over, but he still didn’t want to scare him off. He just...didn’t want to be called weird. Whatever that meant.

But the other boy only laughed at him again.

“And your easy to mess with.” The smirk that was directed at Naruto with that statement left him once again speechless.

He’d never spoken to another person this much before, and this felt....weirdly easy. Sure this boy was annoying and dumb but it made Naruto feel...included. Like he was part of something. Like he meant something to this kid, even if they were only getting on each other’s nerves.

The boy had done nothing but tease him so far and yet nobody else had ever taken the time to even notice him. People barely looked in his direction and here this boy was staring him down like it was some sort of competition between the two of them.

Naruto narrowed his eyes at the kid, a knowing smile slowly spreading across his face.

“Hey, I like you. I’m Naruto, ykno.” This seemed to catch the other boy somewhat off guard, but the same smirk was back in place only a moment later as the boy stretched his hand out toward Naruto, causing the blonde to lean back slightly.

“Sasuke.” Was all the boy said in reply.

Naruto committed the name to memory as he stared at the hand in front of him, eyebrows scrunched together in confusion as his head quirked to the side once more.

Sasuke rolled his eyes but didn’t withdraw his hand.

“You’re supposed to shake, dummy. Like this-“ with his other arm Sasuke grabbed Naruto’s hand and placed it into his own, fingers curling around Naruto’s nearly-dry skin before lifting their joined hands up and down a few times.

“It’s called a hand shake, it’s what you do when you meet someone new. Jeez don’t you know anything?” But there was no real bite behind the words as Sasuke finally withdrew his hand.

It was then that Naruto realized he’d been holding his breath, and he released it with a huff.

“Yeah ‘course I knew that! I just thought you wouldn’t wanna touch my dirty hands after all the fuss you made ‘bout it n stuff.” Naruto mumbled the last part, finally sitting back on his heels, cradling his own hand and brushing a thumb over where Sasuke had grabbed him.

Hand shakes were warm.

“Sasuke, it’s time to go.”

Both boys whipped their heads toward the new voice, Naruto feeling his heart begin to race once more. He immediately looked toward his new friend, seeing a strange look on the boy’s face as he seemingly acknowledged the taller boy now standing before them.

This new person looked remarkably similar to Sasuke, but despite his longer hair Naruto knew this couldn’t possibly be Sasuke’s...mom. No, this person had a deeper voice and didn’t seem as old as other grown ups he’d seen.

Sasuke nodded in the taller boy’s direction before returning his gaze to Naruto.

“Keep that key out of the mud if it’s so important to you, usuratonkachi.”

Naruto spluttered after Sasuke’s now retreating form.

“I will! Dummy!” Naruto added on the now familiar insult as a second thought, not wanting to let his new friend get the last jab in their conversation.

But as he watched the pair of boys walk away from the river he felt panic bubble up inside of him once again.

“H-hey!”

Sasuke stopped, causing the taller boy to stop and turn as well, inquisitive looks on both of their faces.

Naruto felt heat rush to his face as he struggled to come up with something to say now that he had their attention.

“Uh, I mean- do you live here?”

“....at the River?” Sasuke looked unimpressed.

Naruto huffed out a breath once again. This kid was seriously annoying. He didn’t want to lose him.

“Of course you don’t live at the..River. I just mean...will I see you again?” Naruto held the boy’s gaze with wild determination.

Sasuke only smirked and let a breathy, unbelieving laugh escape him.

“Sure. I’ll see you...Naruto.”

[concussed-to-pieces]

Stay Safe Part Eight: Savior At High Noon

Fandom: The Mandalorian [Star Wars]

Pairing: Eventual Mandalorian [Din Djarin]/Reader

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: You kids ready for a firefight? I'm talkin' Yojimbo, bringing a knife to a gun fight levels of firefight. Enjoy!

Tag List: @wrestlingfae @huliabitch @toxiicpop @helplessly-nonstop @culturalrebel @renegademustelid @sinnamon-bunn @literal-fand0m-trash @fioccodineveautunnale @hxldmxdxwn @lizajane3 @thewaythisis @nellyneko @absurdthirst @kylolover96 @crownofmanga @talesfromtheguild @robbinholland @lukesrighthand @hoodedbirdie @lackofhonor @thyestean-feast @oh-no-who-am-i

Part One: Should Have Known Better

Part Two: Tranquil Turmoil

Part Three: Vibroblade Mettle

Part Four: Reaching Out

Part Five: Dark Past

Part Six: Go Alone

Part Seven: Like A Ghost

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains graphic depictions of gore. Stay safe!]

You walked through the night and on into the next day, only stopping briefly for short breaks or to halfheartedly gnaw at a tasteless ration bar. You hadn't actually meant to go for so long without a proper rest, but it was as though your legs had a mind of their own. You just kept putting one foot in front of the other, studiously avoiding the thoughts that threatened your fragile emotional state.

When you finally arrived at the city gates as the sun was setting, you were momentarily confused to see two stormtroopers posted there. Oh, right. That message mentioned something like this.

"Chain code." One of them ordered as you approached, his scanner already out.

"Uh." Your voice rasped dryly and you winced, clearing your throat. "Um, let me…" You wearily dug through several of your pouches before you finally located the battered card, holding it out to the trooper. He scanned it silently, held it up to the light, and then handed it back with a nod. 

"Don't cause any trouble, drifter." His modulated voice sent a sad little tremor of familiarity through your body. You trudged past the sentries, feeling exhaustion burn at your eyes. Maker, you could use a nap. What time was it? 

Slogging your way through the sand, you waved to a few people you did recognize, well on your way to sleeping wherever you stopped next. The sheer number of stormtroopers around was something that you knew you ought to find concerning, but at the moment you couldn't muster up the ability to care.

Aside from that, this was normal. This was what you knew, comfortable in its familiarity. The clunky droids, the sand in your boots, the whirring grind of hoverskiff engines.

Normal. 

You finally landed beneath a rare unoccupied overhang in an alley, your small pack clutched to your chest as you curled up on your side in the sand. 

Normal.

This was what you had wanted to return to when all of this started out, you reminded yourself sternly while you wrapped up in your cloak. Stability. Safety. Work. 

Why did your chest ache so much?

Your shoulders heaved as you sucked in a breath, the pack you held seeming too heavy. The child hadn't been heavy at all. Negligible, even. You wondered where they would go after all of this was sorted out, whether the Mandalorian would come back regularly once the Guild was reinstated and his record was expunged.

The galaxy would keep on spinning, despite your weary ruminations.

I'll never see him again, will I? Him or the child.

Overhead, the stars began to reveal themselves one after another as night descended upon the small city, and you slowly lost the fight with the tears that you had been holding back since you left the cockpit.

This is the Way. 

...

A dull rumble roused you from your uneasy slumber, and you briefly feared that there was a storm coming. The beaming sunlight seemed to contraindicate that notion, though. You squinted upwards, trying to gauge the time. It would appear that you had slept through the night; if you had to guess, you would say it was nearly noon.

Your stomach growled and you sat up slowly, digging around in your pack for the bar that you had forsaken the day prior.

A black ship roared by overhead and your eyes widened, certain that-- 

What the hell was that?! You pinched the skin of your inner arm, then swore loudly at the pain. Several more rumbles echoed through the streets, and now you could dimly pick up the rattle of automatic blaster fire. Armed conflicts were not unheard of, but never on a scale like this. It sounded like a full-blown invasion!

You scrambled to your feet, your pack abandoned on the ground. After a moment of hesitation where you thought better of whatever it was that you planned on doing, you set off running towards the commotion. 

The ruckus seemed to be moving steadily in the direction of the town cantina. Your own path took you parallel to the main thoroughfare and after a few moments, you caught a fleeting glimpse of the IG unit zipping past. 

What? 

You skidded to a stop, then changed direction to emerge out onto the main road. It was IG-11, the spindly droid astride a speeder bike taking out stormtroopers left and right. "IG!" You yelled, waving your arms to get its attention.

The droid didn't pause in its fire even as it greeted you, eyes rotating to catch any and all encroaching threats. "There has been a change in the plan." IG-11 said calmly. "Kuiil has been terminated. I would advise you to pick up a weapon and assist me in defending the child."

Kuiil has been terminated. Your heart broke, but you barely had time to register the grief. "You have the baby?!" You gasped, noticing the pack around the droid's torso as you did. 

"Of course. I have been programmed to protect."

You rushed to yank free one of the plastoid armor sections from a fallen stormtrooper, ending up with the whole sleeve shucked off in your hands. It was no beskar, but hopefully it would help. You had seen the Mandalorian defend his head by simply shifting his shoulder. If you used that same technique, you might be able to get away with lugging less armor along. 

You pulled the armor up over your shoulder, the black body-sleeve gripping your bare arm tightly. A standard-issue blaster settled into your hands, clunky and unfamiliar but you would make it work. You had no real choice in the matter. You nodded stiffly up at the IG unit, who revved the speeder bike. "I cannot wait for you. It is imperative that I make my way forward with haste." The droid informed you.

"I get it. You go on, I'll follow." You replied, reaching out for one indulgent second to cup the baby's cheek. They were simply watching silently from the satchel, those huge eyes looking slightly dazed. A bruise darkened the skin over their left eye. "Take care of them. Please."

"Of course." IG-11 sped off in a cloud of dust and you squared your shoulders. 

Well. You couldn't say that a plan not going properly was anything new. 

You trailed along after the capable droid, striding across the sandy streets with renewed purpose. Few stormtroopers escaped IG-11's blaster shots and if they did, your own soon finished them off. Every pull of the trigger was pragmatic, removed from you but still holding weight. You refused to dwell on the carnage at this moment. Later, there would be time. Just like for Kuiil. Time to grieve, time to process...

You checked your ammunition and kept moving, your eyes scanning the sand clouds ahead. You were approaching the town square, the locale of the cantina which served as the hub for the Guild on Nevarro. Blaster shots lit up the dust, red lines crisscrossing again and again. It sounded like the fighting was at its thickest here. 

You forced your legs to keep carrying you forward when an explosion rippled through the air like thunder, refusing to be immobilized by your fear (no matter how much you wished you could be!). Your shaky fingers shoved a new canister of blaster gas into your pilfered rifle as you peered around the corner of the closest structure, trying to make sense of the chaotic scene in front of you through the haze of dust and smoke.

Stormtroopers scattered to and fro, their ranks disjointed. You kept to the edge of the square, doing your best to avoid the fray that raged in the center. Not exactly a difficult task, seeing as the only person everyone had it out for was an achingly familiar, deafeningly loud instrument of death clad in highly-reflective armor. 

The Mandalorian had an entire E-web gun in his hands, holding it like some kind of battering ram. How he even managed to lift it was a mystery in and of itself! The stand for it stood nearby, forlorn and empty. The old cantina looked like it had taken the brunt of the assault from the weapon before it had been...commandeered. 

The armored man widened his stance and you were just close enough to hear him scream, "Dha Werda Verda a'den tratu!", his voice raw with fury. The E-web repeater spun up like a gatling gun, chewing through the stormtroopers with a vengeance. The Mandalorian didn't stop shouting in Mando'a, beskar plate sending out spark showers from all the haphazard shots aimed his way. His boots stomped rhythmically against the ground, shoulders squared and head tilted downwards as he swung the gun in a wide semi-circle.

You caught a brief glimpse of Cara in the cantina doorway, her borrowed Bren drum-fed blaster pounding away at the stormtroopers. Over her head was an older man dual-wielding a set of pistols, his deadly accurate shots booming loudly through the automatic rattle. 

You raised your own rifle, settling the stock against your shoulder and carefully leading your targets. If there had been one thing you learned on Sorgan, it was to be cautiously aggressive. You aimed for knees, exploiting the weakest area in the trooper armor to topple them quickly and leave them floundering in the sand.

So thorough was your focus, you nearly missed the man swathed in black. 

His cape billowed out behind him, a void in the sandy chaos. He was clearly a leader of some sort, the way he carried himself and the fact that he moved through the battlefield with no helmet enough to give you pause. You lined your rifle up almost on instinct to take a shot at his unprotected head, flinching when he stopped moving and you lost your bead on him. By the time you had relocated your target, a stormtrooper had posted up alongside him. You swore, about to adjust downwards to deal with the trooper first.

Your attention was snagged on the way by the commander's service blaster raising. You followed the line of his shot with your eyes, realizing where it was headed a second before he fired. 

Your mind scrambled for a solution and you cried, "Aru'e!", though you knew there was no way he could even hear you. Enemy ahead!

You saw the Mandalorian's helmet jerk up at the word and he stopped dead, staring directly at you while the E-web chewed uselessly through a section of masonry off to the left. You could feel it, even through the glossy black of his visor; he heard you, he saw you. He knew you were there. 

His shoulders slumped, defeated. 

"Nari!" You screamed, making a shoving gesture, move! But he didn't. It was like he was rooted in place.

The commander's bolt cracked into the Mandalorian's helmet at close range, the ringing blow staggering the beskar-wearing man instead of dispersing over the armor. 

And as the Mandalorian struggled to turn, slicing a wide and clumsy circle back with the E-web, the commander lowered his blaster to aim for the power supply still attached to the vacant tripod. 

With a simple pull of the trigger the entire tripod exploded forcefully, black shrapnel flying outwards in a deadly haze. You couldn't help your distressed cry as the Mandalorian was pitched violently back from the fiery blast. 

Once he hit the ground, he didn't move. 

Get up, you begged mentally. Please get up. Please don't be dead. Please. Your vision blurred with tears, grief threatening to swallow you whole as he continued to just...lay there, his flight suit smoking slightly. Then…

Then, you gritted your teeth.

"Cara!" You yelled, straining to be heard over the cacophony of gunfire. The woman started visibly, glancing around until her eyes landed on you. "Cover me!" You requested, drawing your old knife.

She tapped her ear and nodded to indicate that she understood. Then, she let out a war whoop, her auto rifle throwing slugs over your head to take out your pursuers. Meanwhile, you took the path of most resistance and least distance. 

Dodge. Jump. Roll. Onto stomach. Back up. Kick shin. Knife, knife, done. Keep moving! 

Several blaster bolts whined by your face, throwing up clouds of sand to your left with a loud pank! You hurriedly raised your shielded arm to protect your head.

Off the barrel. Good! Jump. Knife to the neck. Too close. Behind the crate! Rifle to the head, pull one two, done. Keep moving! 

You weren't sure if you were imagining Cara coaching you through these skirmishes, but you could hear her voice yelling instructions and suggesting movements all the same just like on Sorgan, pick up your fucking feet rookie! 

A stormtrooper's plastoid was made for taking blaster energy. It was not made for the blunt force trauma you inflicted with the spine of your heavy old knife or the stock of the rifle. White shards flew every time you struck, and every strike was a new opening for Cara to take advantage of.

Two shots grazed your shielded arm, distributing over the plastoid with a crackle of wasted effort. You barely noticed, your eyes fixed on the shimmering beskar of the Mandalorian. It gleamed and twinkled in the desert sun like a mirage; the sheer volume of the material alone was worth a king's ransom, but the real prize you were after was the man wearing it. 

I'm going to save you.

Something clipped your side and your stride faltered, the impact making you stumble and almost fall. You didn't have time for pain at that point, shoving it down to deal with later, the adrenaline will hold the pain! Your heated advance had clearly been noted, but now the IG unit was also running interference for you, tipping the odds even further in your favor. You slung your blaster around by its tote strap and gathered yourself for one last burst of speed, your legs burning as you forced yourself to outrun the scattered gunfire trained on you.

I have to make it. 

Skidding to a halt beside the Mandalorian's body, you hurriedly sheathed your knife, dug your fists in beneath his shoulders and ripped him backwards with all your might. His cape aided you in your adrenaline-fueled struggle, ensuring that the edges of his beskar wouldn't catch on the sand. You stayed half-crouched, using his armor as a shield while you slowly, slowly dragged him back to the cantina. 

You hadn't had the time to ruminate on whether he was alive or not, so hellbent to just get him off the battlefield that you almost missed him slamming his gauntlet against his hip like he was chambering a round. 

Flames poured out of the thrower on his forearm, engulfing two troopers that you hadn't spotted on your left. "Thanks!" You gasped.

"W-What are you--" His speech was labored, barely-there. "T-T-old y-y' to st-stay s--afe..."

"As you can see I'm doing great at listening to you!" You nearly lost your grip, straining to move him quicker before screaming in frustrated panic, "Why the fuck do you wear so much fucking armor?!"

"Please--j-just..."

"Be quiet!" You yelled, tears pricking the corners of your eyes.

Cara was suddenly beside you, the shadowy doorway of the cantina a looming sanctuary over your head. The shock trooper grabbed one of the Mandalorian's arms, taking some of his weight to help you haul him deeper into the cantina.

"Stay with me buddy!" Dune encouraged him, "We're gonna' get you out of here!"

"This is our only path out, can you clear it?" That older man asked the IG unit, gesturing frantically at one of the ventilation grates. You recognized his voice from the message you had heard, the one that had sent the Mandalorian into a silent fury, but you were drawing a blank on his name. Karga, possibly?

"Certainly." The droid replied cordially, bending down in front of the indicated grate. A small cutting torch flared to life in its hand and it began what promised to be the somewhat arduous process of searing through the thick grating.

"And you! I don't know what the hell you were thinking, running out there like that!" The older man turned to scold you. "Nobody's worth that loyalty, you hear me?!" He paused, then continued, "aside from...well, maybe one or two people." He stuck his hand out. "Greef Karga, chairman of the Bounty Hunter's Guild on Nevarro."

You clumsily shook the pro-offered hand, still moving the Mandalorian. "Wish we could have met under better circumstances." 

"Too true!" He agreed, shaking his head. "What a mess you made of things, Mando. You and that baby are a menace."

"I'm n-not gonna' make it," the Mandalorian coughed when you and Cara managed to prop him up against a ruined table. "Go-"

"Shut up, you'll be fine! You just got your bell...rung." Dune's sure tone faded and when you looked over, you realized her hand was brick red with blood from where she had cupped the back of his neck. Glancing down, you found out to your horror that your own palms were liberally streaked with the substance as well. Fear raked its claws down your spine and you saw your hands start to tremble even harder.

"Leave m-e." The armored man pleaded, his voice rasping.

"I'm gonna' need to take this thing off." Cara reached urgently for the side of his helmet.

His gauntlet slammed shut on her wrist, hard enough that she winced visibly. "No. Y' leave me. Y' make sure the child is safe." He fumbled at his neck, tearing loose a small pendant that was shaped like the skull of a strange beast. "H-Here. When you get to the Mandalorian covert, you show them th--at."

Your confusion was probably plastered on your face (Mandalorian covert?), but Cara nodded like she understood. 

"You tell 'em…" He paused, wheezing stridor rattling loudly in his chest. "Y' tell 'em it's fr-from...D-Din Djarin..." His name, his name. You felt sick with the realization, your eyes going wide in shock. "You tell 'em the Foundling was in my pr-protection, and they'll help you." He instructed, pressing the pendant into your hand.

"We can make it." Cara assured him, glancing worriedly at you for confirmation. 

You were already moving to haul his arm up over your shoulder again. "C'mon, let's go!" You encouraged, his dead weight dragging hard at your back.

"I'm not gonna' m-ake it, n' you know it." The Mandalorian wheezed. His hand covered your own, rolling your fingers into a fist around the pendant. 

Flames abruptly poured through the cantina door, forcing both you and Cara to duck down against the armored man. When you raised your head again, the cantina was ablaze. "They're trying to burn us out, Imp fucks!" Cara snarled, her hand clenching down on one of the Mandalorian's pauldrons. "Can't that droid cut through the grate any faster?!" She shouted at Karga.

"You're more than welcome to assist it, with the torch that you don't have!" Greef retorted.

"Y' protect the child. I can h-hold them back long enough to help you escape," the Mandalorian panted. "Let me die a w--arrior's death." 

"We're not leaving you!" Cara insisted.

You echoed her sentiment softer, pushing your forehead against his. "Can you see me?" You whispered, staring through his visor.

"Y-Yeah." He gasped after a momentary pause. 

"I'm not leaving you alone in the dark." You heard his breath hitch with a sob and you bit your lip, quelling your own tears. "I'm right here with you." You drew your thumb down your chest, and then tapped your chin. I promise. "I'm here."

A second gout of fire roared into the cantina, nearer this time. Bottles of liquor began to explode nearby from the heat, various amber browns and neon blue spotchka feeding the flames. "Why won't y'...you're going t'...p-lease-"

"I said, I'm with you." You shook your head, trying vainly to imbue your next words with some sort of apologetic tone, "this is the Way."

"This i-is the W-ay." He echoed brokenly. His hand grasped at your arm, clinging for dear life despite imploring you to leave.

There was the sharp clatter of durasteel. You heard Cara start swearing a blue streak, which prompted you to glance behind you. The horrifying sight of a flame trooper was what met your eyes, the stripes on their armor turned blood red in the smokey haze of the cantina. They leveled their flamethrower and you realized that the child, the child was between you and the stormtrooper. 

You lunged for them just as the trooper pressed down on the trigger, knowing in your mind that there was no plausible way you would be able to save them. Hell, even yourself, or Cara, or the Mandalorian. You were all in the blast zone. 

It was futile. But you still moved. 

Your hands outstretched to pick up the child. The heat alone stole your breath. Maybe you could toss them, get them out of harm's way--

The flamethrower blast roiled and seethed forward, but then...it just stopped in midair. Hovering, a massive fireball, a miniature sun. When you saw the child's arms extended out in front of it, somehow you knew that they were what held it at bay.

Their tiny hand made a gesture, a simple motion of the wrist and the fireball soared backwards, engulfing the unsuspecting flametrooper. With a blast of backdraft, the trooper's fuel tank exploded and rocketed the body back out through the cantina door.

The child sat down heavily, then slumped to the side, their eyes rolling shut.

A loud clang echoed through the boiling room. It appeared that the IG unit had managed to get through the grate, the robot finally kicking it out of the way. 

"We're through! Come on, let's go!" Karga urged.

IG-11 clattered forwards over the flaming debris, carefully scooping up the child's limp form before you could shake off your shock. "Escape and protect the child. I will administer aid to the Mandalorian, and they shall assist me." The IG unit instructed calmly, metal pincers safely depositing the unconscious baby in Cara's waiting arms.

You tugged free the piece of fabric she appeared to have been using to cover her tattoo, rushing to tie it around your head. "Keep them safe, please." You implored her, running a hand over the unconscious child's head. You tucked the Mandalorian's pendant into their robes as an afterthought.

Cara's eyes went steely and she leaned in, forehead hitting yours as she demanded in her best trooper voice, "promise me you'll bring him. Drag him if you have to."

"You have my word." The IG unit answered for the both of you. You nodded in agreement, watching Cara and Greef flee through the destroyed grate before you pulled the cloth down over your eyes. Effectively blinded, you knelt in the sand and groped forward until you found the beskar-wearing man's arm.

"Y' have to go." The Mandalorian begged desperately, weakly shoving at your chest in an attempt to push you towards the grate. "P-lease…"

"We must remove his helmet if we are to save him." IG-11 stated.

You heard the sound of a blaster priming. "Try it n' I'll kill you. Blow your goddamn neural harness to Endor. I-It is. Forbidden." The armored man seethed through his teeth. "No living thing has seen me without this helmet si-since I--" He had to stop, a wet cough interrupting his speech. "-since I swore the Cr--eed."

"I am not a living thing." The robot pointed out pragmatically. "And they have covered their eyes. Out of respect for your traditions, I hypothesize." 

"We need to take care of you. Please." You found the hand that held the blaster and you wrapped your shaking fingers around it tightly. Now that your audience was gone the panic surged through your body, threatening to send you into hysterics at any moment while you clung to the last shreds of your composure. "Please." You begged frantically. I don't want you to die. "The kid needs you." 

I need you. I love you. I'm so sorry.

You felt him yield at the same time that you heard IG-11 move, the reformed bounty droid tugging at the beskar helmet. "I require assistance." It stated after a momentary struggle. "The surface is deceptively smooth."

You ran your hands over the Mandalorian's arm, working your way up to the base of his neck and resting just beneath the edge of his helm. You knew you were running out of time. Even now the flames grew hotter and hotter on your back, the air around you becoming unbearable with smoke. "Here, put your fingers on the edges instead. I can't actually be the one to take it off, so hold it like this."

You guided IG's less-certain metal claws to a better spot to grab, making sure that it wouldn't slip. The Mandalorian's shoulders tensed weakly, like he was waiting to be attacked. 

With a firm tug and that muffled hiss of air, the helmet came off. In the moment, it was no thing of gravitas. Clinical need overrode even the Creed he kept so close to his heart and here you were, blind and all business while you fended off your terror. 

He reached up shakily to brush his knuckles against the cloth you had covered your eyes with, a silent admission of trust. "You cryin'?" His voice still sounded so foreign without the modulator, husky but clear, soft. 

"Don't worry about that right now." You moved on autopilot to support the back of his head, grimacing when you felt your fingers card through matted hair and immediately grow slick with blood. "Maker, okay, alright." You muttered, nausea making your stomach pitch as you gingerly maneuvered his head to the side so IG-11 could perform whatever interventions it had in mind.

"Can't really feel my legs." The man admitted hoarsely. "Fingers are...tingling. What I can feel hurts like a--h-ah, dammit." He struggled to inhale, another wet cough choking him.

There was a soft ping. "This is a bacta spray. It will heal you in a matter of hours." IG-11 informed him.

You felt the armored man flinch when the bacta hit the open wound on the side of his head, hissing in a breath through his teeth.

"You have suffered damage to your central processing unit." The IG said bluntly.

"You...mean my brain." The Mandalorian murmured slowly after a beat. 

"That was a joke. It is meant to put you at ease." 

In spite of the peril that loomed, you were thrilled to hear a pained snort of amusement. Leather-clad fingers twined with your own. "Helmet." He pleaded. 

"Can we put his helmet back on? Are we all set?" You asked IG-11, squeezing the Mandalorian's hand in an attempt to comfort him.

"Better to do so. These open flames will not aid in the bacta absorption or ease of respiration." The robot replied. 

You felt around for the helm, burning your fingertips on the contoured surface before you managed to get it over the Mandalorian's face once again. You were startled when he clumsily cupped your jaw and pressed his helm to the cloth that covered your eyes. "I could kiss you, little mudhorn." He rasped through his modulator, clearly delirious on a combination of pain and strong drugs. 

"I would advise that you attempt such activities at a later time." The IG unit intoned. 

The Mandalorian then allowed you and the bounty droid to haul him upright, his fingers fighting with the cloth over your eyes before you helped him shove it up out of the way. His heated armor seared at your skin even through your clothes, but the pain was a background worry compared to your relief. 

He was alive. Staggering, stumbling, most of his weight resting on either you or the spindly droid, but alive. 

As you made your way through the tunnels beneath the city, his steps became more sure. "Damn, that bacta's got some kick to it." He remarked, shaking his head and rolling his shoulders out. "Hits like a blurrg to the gut."

"I would advise against strenuous activities while you heal." The droid droned.

"I'd love to oblige you," The Mandalorian retorted sarcastically, "but I don't think I'll have the luxury." His hand rested on the top of your head, fingers buried in your hair. 

When you finally caught up with Cara and Greef, the former soldier met the three of you with a grin of relief. "They'll have to try harder than that to keep you down!" She crowed, thumping a fist into the Mandalorian's shoulder.

The Mandalorian's response was a wry, "I'd rather they didn't." 

...

Now reunited, the group of you traversed ahead. Despite being a little turned around, the Mandalorian quickly latched onto the correct path to the aforementioned covert. Progress grew more expedient as his body absorbed the bacta properly, the hunter soon able to walk unaided. 

Your rushed exodus came to an abrupt halt, however, when you stumbled upon a pile of beskar armor. 

The Mandalorian stopped dead in his tracks, and then sank to one knee. Shaking hands reached out and plucked a helmet from the pile, his thumb rubbing against the black sharding left over from where the visor had shattered.

Everyone huddled together in silence, not really wanting to interrupt the clearly-grieving man, but knowing too well that the Imperials would be overrunning the tunnels shortly.

"We should go." Cara finally murmured. You put a gentle hand on his shoulder between his cowling and pauldron, squeezing to let him know that you were there.

"You go. Take the ship." The armored man replied brokenly. "I...I can't leave it this way." You felt his shoulder tense up under your touch and you instinctively braced for impact. "Did you know about this?" He breathed, the inquiry directed at Karga. "Is this the work of your bounty hunters?" The title sounded like a curse, dripping with hatred.

"Of course not!" Greef protested. "When you left the system and took the prize, the fighting ended. The hunters just...melted away. You know how it is. They're mercenaries, not zealots!"

"Did you do this?!" The Mandalorian raged, shaking your hand off as he lunged upright and turned on the Guild leader. "Did you?!" 

"It was not his fault." said a stern female voice. Another Mandalorian emerged from a side tunnel, her majestic bronze helm adorned with small horn-like protrusions. She wore a cuirass beneath her armor that had a luxurious pelt around the neck (possibly nexu?), giving her the illusion of sporting a thick mane. 

You did your best not to gawk, though you had the feeling you were unsuccessful. She carried herself almost like Cara, but more refined, almost regal.

"We revealed ourselves. We knew what would happen if we left the covert." Leather-gloved hands reached into the pile and reverently picked up a breastplate, which she proceeded to deposit onto an already-loaded hoverskiff. "The Imperials arrived shortly thereafter." She gestured down at the armor. "This...is what resulted." Her voice was soft with grief.

"Did any survive?" The Mandalorian rasped desperately.

"I hope so. Some may have escaped off-world."

The Mandalorian looked down at the pile and then jerked his helmet back up. "Come with us." He implored.

"No." She replied disdainfully, almost as if she was scolding him for even daring to suggest such a thing. "I will not abandon this place until I have salvaged what remains." She then turned on her heel, beckoning for the group to follow her into the side room. 

As the others trailed along behind her, you dallied just outside the doorway. With a hand pressed to your side, you took a shaky inhale. It was beginning to hurt to breathe, but only just. Like the adrenaline was dulling the pain. You didn't want to actually look at the wound for fear that it was worse than you thought, so you carefully shifted your cloak to hang over your side. 

There. Out of sight, out of mind.

Part Nine

[mochalattea]

It’s been a long time since I’ve written anything.. but I’ve “come home” to dl again recently, and in reviewing some of the stuff I’d written in the past, I wanted to write a response to something I wrote a few years ago.. as choppy as it is, I’m trying to get my creative gears turning again.

Winter whipped up around her, in violent gusts of relentless snow and ice that pelted her frigid body. She’d gotten her wish: to succumb to the cold and watch the inky black figure of the being accompanying her vanish in the white-grey distance. Her fingers curled weakly in her gloves, feeling hot enough to burst under the pressure and cold. The storm quieted in her ears as her senses dulled and eyelids grew too heavy to keep open.

There was hardly any reaction at all when a tall creature encroached on the tree-lined path. A faint flickering up of her eyes came when she sensed it, but over the rim of her glasses with her consciousness already slipping, she couldn’t make out the long white hair which elegantly whisked around. Nor could she see the golden eyes that were so inhuman. No—this entity shrouded in billowing maroon robes was hardly perceived at all. A mildly intrigued snap of his fingers sounded and got carried off by the winds; lost, now. He disappeared just as inexplicably, leaving her stuck in time, slumbering through the storm.

                                                            ❈

There was no dawn, nor midday, nor dusk, nor night when she awoke to the oddly gentle sound of glass—ice?—shattering. The snow and ice that built up on her back weighed on her, now that it was no longer suspended over her in a delicate, timeless cocoon. There was only stormy winter and ambiguous white-grey that blurred the division of land and sky.

When she looked up, it appeared that there were eyes in the sky. Dozens of single, unpaired gold eyes blinking at different intervals; what would have been surrounding skin and eyelid blended in with the expanse of cloud. Fear jolted through her spine as these eyes began squeezing shut and popping, audibly, until the illusion broke and sky returned to normal. Dizzied and repulsed by the sight, she coughed hard enough to expel blackened bile, rolling slightly from her front onto her side, and gasped against the cold snow as the snow that had encased her crumbled off of her.

Her clothing crunched as she moved, stiff like cardboard with the slightest bit of give. She had no sense of the time that had passed. Had it been moments? Her brain reeled wildly. Days? That’s impossible. Years? Even more so. Suddenly, it came back to her—those fading memories of a black coat drifting over the banks, being peppered with white snow, freshly falling. Her stomach churned again, and she wretched once more, but nothing except strings of saliva came up this time. Tears pricked her eyes. Terror gripped her, as hot as an iron pressed into the small of her back.

   …I don’t want to fade away and disappear!

Shakily, she began to move. Her fingers stung, ballooned and swollen from the conditions that they were dumb, and hardly braced against the ground beneath her as she struggled to rise to her feet. The trees shuddered; sheets of snow collapsed from branches and landed thickly on the banks below. The howling of the winds were sick laughter. The bare branches chattered against one another in the wind, mocking her.

                                                           ❈

It was unclear how long she ran in the winter. The winds hushed her cries, muting her until her voice was hoarse and dry. So thoroughly oppressed by the weather, it played with her relentlessly. Frost creeped into the bridge of her nose and tears froze on her cheeks as quickly as they fell from her eyes.

At last she stumbled upon her destination and threw herself against the heavy oak door, the closest one she happened across, up an abundance of stairs. A newly installed one that must have been a renovation completed during her undetermined absence. Her arms were paralyzed and uselessly fell to her sides. Again and again, she hurled her shoulder against the door, uncaring as to how bruised and battered she became, until it opened, and in through the doorway she fell.

It is a wordless encounter. She only sees the fine tailored dress pants and polished shoes before black begins to eat at her vision.

Reiji’s eyes fix on her. His lips press into a thin line. He gives a wry laugh, bending down to clutch the collar of her jacket and drag her up on her knees. “Oh? I see. So on the brink of expiration, you thought of nothing other than returning to my side.” His voice is measured, but the words sound unmistakably barbed to her ears. They are neither whispered nor hissed.

The door shuts firmly, hitting her feet in the area it sweeps across. She doesn’t flinch.

His hands worm their way under her armpits and lift her until her feet dangle freely with no ground beneath them. He chuckles against her ear, nose pressing through her hair—matted from the wind and overgrown since she’d last been in his presence. Fear, too, was something the cold has numbed her to.

“Did you think this would please me? I know not whether to praise you for returning to your senses,” his nails dig through the layers of fabric nearest to her flesh, “or to wring your neck the rest of the way myself.” He drops her. “I have absolutely no need for an expired vessel.”

Her legs fold in on themselves and she collapses under her own weight. She pools onto the now-wet carpet of his study. She breathes choppily, still unable to muster words, but finds the sights and smells familiar comforts that make her weep. Reiji leaves, going into an adjacent room after muttering that her reaction was so undeniably human, giving her time to collect herself some. The study is blurry through her tears, but she can tell it is much like she remembers it. A fire burns in the fireplace.

“Stand on your feet and come along, you unbecoming thing.” He stoops some once he returns and helps her along to the bathroom. The process of shedding her winter wear is a painful one, and he scolds her, speaking of the very real possibility of the fabric bringing her skin off with it. Perseverance prevents this, and a new set of dry clothes are swapped out for the wet and weathered ones. The warm knits crunch faintly as he brings them around her shoulders, the threads not used to being stretched after sitting unworn for so long. Reiji removes her glasses, polishing them with a square from his pocket before placing them back on her face.

He next sets about working through her hair. “Well, I suppose even at its best your hair tangled easily, but this…” Starting at the crown of her hair is futile, and so he changes tactics, swiftly bringing the comb through the matted ends. He speaks few words otherwise, aside from the reminder for her to keep her head up, occasionally slipping his gloved hand under her jaw to level her head as it tips forward from fatigue. Once he finishes and can see her hair cascade in limp waves past her shoulder blades, halfway down her back, he readies the scissors.

Locks of her hair fall in coils onto the floor. Slowly, her head feels lighter as her former hairstyle is restored, the ends of her hair narrowly kissing her shoulders. She’s shaking, from the cold and exhaustion, as he brings his fingers down the short length of her hair and curls the side pieces in to frame her face.

“It is finished,” he says, “your appearance is as it should be.” His smile is somewhat pleased—but who’s to say that it’s more of a matter of admiring his own handiwork or the final result itself. He ushers her back into the study and into his armchair as he retreats back into the bathroom.

                                                           ❈

The fire is warm, almost too much so, as she finds herself sitting more at an angle to protect her legs from the immediate heat coming off of the hearth.

She looks around the room, languidly surprised at its abnormal state of disarray. Books are off of the shelves and sit in thick piles. Skimming some of the titles on the spines, she recalls them as having been recent additions to his ever-growing collection not too long ago, yet now they are in need of repair. She averts her gaze, not wishing to question how much time has passed and how it’s even possible that it’s been long enough for her to witness such decay. At Reiji’s desk are more books at various stages of being restored and rebound. Stained pages being aligned and pressed between wooden blocks, ready for glue to be applied. Another book has a threaded needle sitting atop of it, ready to be bound by hand. There’s paper and card used to stabilize covers, and odd bottles and jars of glue.

Still finding her at a loss for words upon his return, he accepts her silence. It’s a return to normalcy. Before, he’d grown accustomed to her company. Something about it is nostalgic to him. He readies another kettle of water so that he can remove the glue from the loose pages soaking in a shallow container on a side table.

Once the kettle starts whistling and he removes it from the burner heating it. A nice aroma fills the room as his tea steeps. After he tends to his work, using the rest of the boiled water on the pages needing glue removed, he turns towards her and starts across the room, cup and saucer in hand. “The temperature is less than ideal for drinking, so I no longer need it. You, however, will not protest to drinking it, I trust? Your tolerance for hot beverages was always quite low.”

“You didn’t have to go to the trouble…” Her first words.

He sighs. “Good grief, must you make me repeat myself?” He sets it down on the table beside her chair. “You have increased my workload plenty with your reappearance. This is simply not allowing my previous efforts to go to waste, understood?”

She nods meekly.

“Speak of your gratitude in a way that is acceptable. Open your mouth; use your voice.”

She thanks him, taking the cup and saucer to her lap before bringing the cup to her lips.

“Very good,” he praises. He swiftly returns to his desk again, beginning to handle the wet papers and scrape the seams clean.

                                                           ❈

Time passes. After she’s had her fill of warm tea, she begins to doze, and finds herself slouching in her chair. She’s never out for very long, and once she’s up again, she watches how he is always switching tasks, seeming to make quick work of the array of books that are repairs in progress. He pulls thread through perforated pages in slow, strong motions. She nods off again.

Eventually he finds himself at a standstill, waiting for glue to set, letting wet paper dry, and weighing down a leather cover that he retouched the gold lettering of. Only then does he bring his attention back to her, still seated in the chair he set her in. He notices that some colour has returned to her cheeks. Her lips and eyelids are no longer an icy purple either.

He saunters over, bringing himself to her level. “Well, how are you feeling? Your condition looks noticeably improved. Come now, sit up properly. You are a lady, after all.”

She’s easily coaxed into shifting in her seat once his words stir her.

He’s so close to her now; the hand she’s had on the armrest is where his falls to, covering it delicately. “Your temperature, now…” He brings his other hand to her hair, smoothing down the back of her head so that her forehead presses against his, and his fingers and palm settle against her neck. “…Could be improved.”

She musters a half smile.

His voice falls to a whisper; softer, gentler. The tone she was hoping he’d greet her with. “Warm yourself soon, for cold blood is as unappetizing as cold tea.”

[idio-cies]

Together by Scrubb- 2gether

This is my interpretation of the song(s) by Scrubb, so please be kind. I am open for people responding and adding their interpretations ^-^ I then relate to the series and the character of Sarawat and Tine... 

Enjoy! Listen here This is a little long...

This is the opening song for their partnership and the series in general. Appropriate, considering the series is called 2gether aha. We don’t really hear the lyrics of it, but it is established that it is Tine’s favourite song by Scrubb despite it being cut off. 

This song is about someone who felt they have been roaming the earth in a somewhat meaningless way, but meeting this person has changed that. Most Scrubb songs are really upbeat and simple, this one is no different. 

Going through this, I do feel like this is both from the perspective of Sarawat and Tine, but from different angles. What needs to be established is that Tine is constantly on the lookout for love, whereas Sarawat doesn’t really pay much attention to wanting it, until he comes across Tine. This song may be more oriented around Sarawat, but I do feel like Tine also has the perspective.

Verse 1:

Walking by, looking at people I don’t know, circling and existing

The narrator here seems a little cynical- doesn’t think that there is much worth to other people, they also detach themselves from being involved; they are observing. Cyclical nature (”circling”) makes it monotonous.

I do feel this is more from the perspective of Sarawat as he is pinned as a person who doesn’t care about many things. I do also see Tine in this where he’s actively looking for that right someone. It’s apt because of where this song is used for Tine… He only keeps his eyes on Sarawat when listening even if he is out of it at the Freshy night concert.

I look and feel the same as I used to

They are searching, but the past participle of “used to” makes it seem that they may have lost this person and are reflecting. 

I try looking past the memories I have, there’s only me

This person seems to have spent a lot of time with themselves and it is increasingly cynical. They don’t want to be on their own anymore

The one person I know, as usual

“As usual”- yep this person is having a tough time loving themselves, it’s satirical. Feeling that they have no worth and are ultimately very lonely

Bridge:

The days, months, and years used to be just a passing wind

“Passing wind” indicates that it was uneventful, and mundane. Use of the past participle is meant to show that things have changed from what they used to be, it is building up to the catalyst...

Since meeting this person, the days, months and years may be elongated as the narrator is not in contact with this person.

(But) Someone made my time feel meaningful

And there we have it. This person has brought colour to the narrator’s once dreary life. This is also another place where I think it applies to both Sarawat and Tine respectively. This song makes it seem that they stumbled upon this person. Sarawat definitely stumbles across Tine, who walks into his life and just changes his perspective on many things, and makes his “time” meaningful which is the painful thing when Tine says that Sarawat only wants the popularity. Sarawat literally does not care and only cares about Tine because something in him makes him believe that he is actually able to have some meaning in life; and that is to love Tine. 

As for Tine; as stated previously, he actively tries to seek a loved one, that being a girlfriend. This is where Tine’s narration in the first episode is significant because it applies to this song. Sarawat changes the game. He basically states that he has always been searching for the right person, never finding them, but then he comes across Sarawat, he is completely stumped when he is face to face with Sarawat. Tine’s heart does a lot of things, but his brain takes a while to process. 

Chorus:

One person changed everything

Please see previous

The person who can make me smile, no matter how sad I am

If you didn’t already know, or couldn’t already tell… Sarawat only smiles around Tine. It’s like his other feelings were on reserve for him and I think it’s pretty significant that he is still able to smile even when Tine has literally just rejected him. The scene after the IG following scene thing is the most prominent one to think of here; Tine tells him to follow other people and even though he glossed over the fact that Sarawat was confessing, Sarawat still manages to smile. 

You made my love change

The narrator probably struggled with what the meaning of love was, whether they could feel it or show it. I feel this applies to Sarawat because he is very reserved. Again also relevant to Tine because he always tries to force love, never finding the right fit and that’s why he has a hard time working out what he feels towards Sarawat is actually love. It is literally a case of “What is this that I am feeling???” and it just leaves him confused because he has never experienced love like this.

I don’t know, I don’t understand, it might be because we belong together

Pretty self explanatory. This reminds me of the message of other Scrubb songs we come across. Love is hard to explain or express, but the narrator just knows that there is a connection between them. That is the only reasonable explanation that they can think of.

Sarawat knows that he likes Tine and wants to be with him, that they are good together. Tine knows, at the end of the day, that they are good together, they have an ease when talking and can be very comfortable in the others presence even when they aren’t saying anything. It’s slow, but Tine does get to the realisation that there is some kind of connection between him and Sarawat.

Verse 2:

One day, just looking at you walk by, you were the only someone I didn’t know

This changes the perspective of the 1st verse where everyone else they didn't know were still meaningless. Verse 1 states that they watch people walk by that they don’t know, but this indicates that this is the one person that is of significance by not knowing them; that they now yearn to know who this person is. 

*Spoiler alert here!!!*

If you don’t know, it is said that Sarawat actually has had an interest in Tine since high school at a Scrubb concert and has been trying to find him, but he didn’t know who he was. This definitely applies to Sarawat. This plot line is indicated in ep 5 when Man talks to Sarawat about "finding the one"

*You can read again now*

But you made my days of existence change from the usual

The narrator has found a meaning to life and it is no longer dull. This person just shakes up their life by just seeing this person. 

This song seems very distant. It is about yearning. There doesn’t appear to be anything that has happened between these two people, even an interaction. This makes me think that it’s heavily based on Sarawat’s perspective (because of the spoiler). It can also be Tine’s because he is the one to actively chase after Sarawat, even if it is for an alternative plan, but there is an exaggeration over the fact that it had to be Sarawat. Tine just isn’t aware, compared to Sarawat who has always known. This is probably due to his character by being reserved and introverted, only knowing himself, which opposes Tine who doesn’t know himself well enough yet. 

I would just like to add in here another bit of Tine’s narrative that applies:

Repeat of Bridge

Repeat of Chorus

Repeat of Bridge after instrumental 

Then another Chorus

I hope people have enjoyed this analysis. As I said at the beginning, please feel free to add and discuss. 

I apologise for the horrible screenshots. I will try and find GIFs of some nature. 

The Answer | Close 

[thewhumperinwhite]

Vamp AU: mirror mirror

this is... a possible scene from the story FBI AU is an au of. For context: 1.) Karim is a vampire, Art is human; 2.) This is toward the end of their first week together, which started with Karim promising to Murder Art.

this is inspired by this post about vampires not being able to see their reflection in mirrors because mirrors have traditionally been made of silver; i futzed with the science/history a little in the interest of angst, though.

TW for: referenced suicidal ideation; self-hate/internalized dehumanization; referenced child abuse; mild eye horror (not really, but vampires cry blood and karim is a weepy baby); panic attack; referenced death/murder.

@whumpitywhumpwhump

----

“I have a theory,” Art says.

He has been sleeping in Karim’s apartment for a week now. During that time Karim thinks he must have seen Art excited about something other than Learning New Facts About Monsters. Art must have been excited about—sleep or food or some other thing living people like. Perhaps this “theory” isn’t about Karim at all. The sparkle in Art’s eyes still makes his hands tighten nervously on the bedsheets.

Art must see that, but his only response is a wide unrepentant grin. That’s fair, Karim guesses. It must be hard to feel sympathetic when he knows Karim’s stomach is full of his blood.

“You’re going to like this one,” Art says.

He’s holding a small flat object wrapped in cloth. Karim eyes it warily.

“So,” Art says. “There are two types of mirrors primarily used for decorative purposes.”

…that’s not okay. Karim doesn’t want to hear this. He sits up, reaching for the bundle in Art’s hands; maybe he can break it and will not have to sit through this. Art dances back out of his grip, grinning.

“The most long-lasting and effective mirrors are made by layering silver and waterproof paint behind glass. However,” he says significantly, laughing and pulling the mirror against his chest, where he knows Karim won’t try to take it because he doesn’t want to hurt him, “there is also a process called silkscreen printing—”

“Arthur,” Karim says, over whatever he’s saying about silver, because he can see that Art’s about to pull the cloth away from the mirror he’s just bought with a flourish, and Karim is going to see the empty room reflected back at him when the glass refuses to show his reflection, and he has seen that more than enough.

Art lets the cloth flutter to the floor, exposing the cheap plastic surface of the clearly-secondhand mirror he’s been out buying, and the mirror obligingly shows Karim his own face.

It’s a thousand times worse than seeing an empty room.

He told Art he didn’t know the last time he’d really seen his reflection, and that was a lie: he remembers exactly, and it was seven years ago.

Karim is not the unchanging thing his Father is. Apparently that comes with time. The shadows around this creature’s eyes are notably darker than they were when he was new, and the eyes themselves… Karim had light-colored eyes to begin with, alive he had light eyes, but now they are bright, almost fluorescent, the color of no living person’s eyes, turquoise like the stone if it were glow-in-the-dark. And the mouth, wide and full-lipped, is a different shape than the mouth that Father kissed a thousand years ago when he—when he made Karim—

He doesn’t know how anyone can look at this creature and not know what it is. He doesn’t know how living people let it pass them on the street.

The creature slides out of view as Art slowly lowers the mirror.

“Karim,” he says, from very far away.

Art Lange is beautiful, is lovely in the most movie-tragic way, is a renaissance painting that wants you to kill it. And yet he looks dull and ordinary beside the painted movie-monster face slipping out of sight as Art lowers the mirror to his lap and presses his pale living hands against the back of it.

“Karim,” Art says again, but Karim can barely hear it. One of Art’s white breakable alive hands peels up from the back of the mirror and moves toward Karim, toward the tooth-filled painted mask of Karim’s face, and he moves back from it so fast that he would stumble off the bed onto the floor if he did alive-things like fall over anymore. As it is he shoots up to his feet, spinning away, reaching for the bleach-dulled straightened mess of his hair and tangling his fingers in the strands, which were curly and black and alive when he was a person and not a thing that lives on death and has precious-stone eyes to pull the living into its poisonous orbit.

“Fuck,” Art says from behind him, and then Art’s voice moves closer; Karim throws an arm out toward him, with his face still turned away, not looking at Art—not looking at anything, really; his pretty shiny eyes aren’t working well at the moment, which is a mercy; it might’ve been nice if they’d stopped working a few minutes ago, instead.

“Don’t,” Karim says; he feels his mouth making the word and he’s pretty sure the sound travels out into the world but he has no idea what it sounds like, what tone he’s using at what volume. “Don’t—come any closer.”

“Okay,” Art says, and Karim can hear his tone, alright, and he’s never heard Art use it before, like he’s talking to a little kid or a frightened animal, like he’s trying to be soothing. “I’m—I’m not, Karim, I’m staying over here.” He hesitates; Karim reclaims the arm he swung out towards him and puts it back in his hair, which he now realizes he’s pulling on, hard. “Karim, I’m—I’m sorry.”

Karim feels air leave his mouth; it might be a laugh but it’s hard to be sure. “You’re sorry,” he says, stupidly. Art’s sorry, with his broken heart and his breakable hands and his big dull alive green eyes. If Karim hugged him too hard he could snap all his ribs at once. And Art’s sorry.

“O-kay,” Art says, and his voice is shaking a little, like Karim is scaring him, like he’s scaring him now when he should have been scared all along. “You—maybe you should—Karim, you’re gonna fucking hyperventilate, idiot.” Pause, then, “I don’t mean that, you’re not an idiot. Karim, seriously—”

Karim can feel Art getting closer, like he isn’t something Karim wants to eat, and he spins back, stumbling away, knocking into the little table by the bathroom door so hard it rattles against the wall and the vase on it falls off with a crash of shattering ceramic, which is what he’s going to do to Art whether he wants to or not.

“Are you out of your fucking mind,” he says, and he can hear his tone on that one, at least a little; he is yelling. He points at the mirror Art is still holding, where he’s standing a few feet away. “That doesn’t scare you?”

“What,” Art says. “Your face?”

“How can you—” He has to look away, shake his hair into his eyes; it isn’t long enough to really hide behind but it’s something, one flimsy layer between Art and the thing he’s apparently been seeing this whole fucking time. “How can you stand to look at it? How can—how can you look at that and not know it isn’t real?”

Art’s face creases, like Karim is upsetting him, which is the first reasonable expression he’s had since Karim fucking met him. “’Isn’t real?’” he repeats, confused.

Karim puts his hands back in his hair, so his arms can cover his face and he can pull hard and feel the dull burn in his scalp which isn’t enough but is something, at least. “Why do you think it looks like that?” he shouts. “It’s for you, it’s for people like you, so you come close enough for me to kill you, doesn’t that fucking—”

“Karim, shut up,” Art says, and it makes him stumble a little. He can feel his breath tearing in and out of his throat, hard and fast, which it must have been doing this whole time. He doesn’t look at Art.

“You are the least threatening person I have ever met,” Art says. Karim closes his eyes, because Art doesn’t even know how terrible that is, how it immediately makes Karim want to cry.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, because he is, because what a horrible little life, where you go home with the first monster who agrees to ask before he hurts you. “That shouldn’t, it shouldn’t be that way, you shouldn’t have to live—”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it,” he says, firm but not sharp enough to cut, like it should. “Karim, look at me.”

Karim—can’t. He presses his back against the wall and his arms against his face and he’s breathing too hard so he holds his breath, even though that just makes his chest spasm and shudder while his dead lungs try to pull in air they don’t need and aren’t getting.

His heart is too loud in his ears—pumping blood that isn’t his, that he only gets by stealing—for him to hear Art closing the gap between them, and when Art puts his bony alive-person hands around Karim’s wrists Karim is too startled by his sudden closeness to keep Art from pushing his arms aside. Karim’s eyes are squeezed shut; when Art cups his face in both hands Karim tears in a single horrified breath before he clamps his mouth closed and stands there, as still as he can, because he’s too scared to move.

“Karim,” Art says, and he’s no longer trying to sound soothing—he sounds serious and a little angry; he sounds like Art. Karim hears him take a breath, in and out, and finds himself matching it, shakily, without really meaning to.

“You were never going to kill me,” Art says.

Karim opens his eyes, startled. Art is looking up into his face. His hands are still cupping Karim’s jaw and there can’t be more than four inches between Karim’s heart and his, now.

“Yes I was,” Karim says, and it comes out in a shaky airless whisper. “I was, I have, I’ve—”

“No, you weren’t,” Art says softly. He is looking at Karim’s terrible gemstone eyes, and his face is softening. “You thought you were for, like, twenty minutes at the beginning, and I don’t think you even had it in you then, actually. You can’t kill people once you know their names, Karim, it’s your worst feature.”

Karim stares at him, frowning. He almost doesn’t realize he’s breathing again.

Art drops his gaze, looking straight ahead at Karim’s chin instead of up at his eyes, and bites his lip; he lowers his hands to Karim’s shoulders. “No one’s ever stood between me and my father except you,” he says very quietly. Karim feels it like a punch to the stomach, and curls up around Art a little, until their foreheads touch.

“You have to know that’s terrible,” he whispers, and Art closes his eyes. “They should have, a dozen people should have, that doesn’t—”

“Yeah, well.” Art leans closer to him, sliding his arms around Karim’s shoulders and hiding his face in the crook of Karim’s neck. “People let you go nine years thinking you’re a scary evil monster, too. People are terrible.” Art’s hand slides up into Karim’s hair, cups the back of his head. “Congrats on being better than most.”

Karim closes his eyes. His breaths still feel shaky and uneven. He wraps his arms around Art’s narrow chest and pulls him in closer, because he knows Art won’t let go without a fight now, and because he can’t run away without hurting anyone, and because he wants to. “You’re a terrible judge of character,” he says in an embarrassing wobbly voice.

“You know I’m not,” Art says softly. Karim can feel Art’s breath against his throat; when he pulls Art in he can not only hear his heart but feel it beating against his chest. Art gives Karim’s hair a little pull, so gentle it probably wouldn’t even hurt a living person. “You’re just being mean to my boyfriend, and I will not stand for it.”

Karim laughs once. It sounds watery. He hopes he isn’t crying; he hates to waste blood like that.

“I’m sorry,” he says shakily. “You were trying to be helpful. I didn’t mean to—I shouldn’t have—”

“I was being an asshole,” Art says, pulling back—he seems about to step away, and then softens at the sight of Karim’s face—he must be crying after all. Terrible.

Art wipes the blood leaking from Karim’s right eye with his thumb, because he has no sense of reasonable human disgust at all, and smiles at him, his face soft and warm in a way Karim has never really seen before.

“We can talk about it later,” Art says gently. “For now I’m desperate to see which of the identical white girls Matt-or-Mike-or-whatever will choose this week, aren’t you?”

Karim laughs, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. Art takes possession of his other hand, giving it a tight squeeze and then a gentle tug. It would take absolutely no effort to pull Art’s skinny pale arm right out of its socket, so Karim holds his hand very carefully, and lets himself be led.

[cosmic-affinities]

BKDK DM fic/Twt thread

BKDK Soulmate Mind Reading Word Count:1322

AU Summary: Everyone has a soulmate, at 16 you gain the ability to hear/read their thoughts, the only way to stop the mind reading for good is to kiss your soulmate (If the pair has previously kissed they have to kiss again after they come of age)

This is a Ficlet/DM fic/ twitter thread thing SO that just means it is not structured the same way as something I would post on AO3. The format is much more loose and is more so me detailing a plot from start to finish rather than an actual fic. I write these in a chat so the spaces are message breaks, after I hit send on a message. I hope you give it a chance! I have another one of these posted on my twitter (this one is over there too!) which you can visit here

A BIG BIG thanks to @we-stanjirou for encouraging my bkdk rants that eventually become these fics and for getting me to finally post them!

The mind-reading starts at 16 and it happens on your birthday (so there are a couple of months where Bakugou can hear Deku’s thoughts before it’s mutual)

You have to focus on it for it to work, it’s not just someone else in your head all the time (unless you are unfocused and kinda just listening)

They become roommates because they were training in Bakugou’s room and busted up two walls and, instead of giving Bakugou a new room, Aizawa moves them both to an extra room on the fourth floor slightly bigger than the rest of them because they would have to share

They were stressed about it cause they were both crushing hard while also having their soulmates voice in their head

They both tended to try and keep the voice away unless they were alone but now that they were sharing a room it was a bit more difficult, they each caught themselves listening to the voice before bed or in the shower, etc

When Bakugou focused on it a majority of the talking was vaguely about people or it was detailed work

He figured out that his soulmate went to Yueii because they were thinking about principal nezu one day

He really tried hard to not pay any attention to the voice but he couldn’t help wanting to know

Deku on the other hand was really curious about who is soulmate could be but he never got any hints about it, he guessed he was never listening at the right time

When they became roommates they found themselves thinking about their soulmate more and more often, leading to them accidentally reading their souls mates thoughts just because when they began to think a little too much about their roommate they redirect themselves to a more abstract concept

Bakugou heard a curious thought one night ‘I wonder who /he/ thinks about at night.’ before he could even process the question his mind supplied ‘Deku obviously’ and he could only hope his soulmate wasn’t listening to that (sadly he wasn’t)

The next time something big happened it was in class, Aizawa had given them some free time and the class ended up having a big conversation

Bakugou had been commenting vaguely but mostly keeping to himself

Deku had been lost in thought

At one point Bakugou sent a light push at Kirishima for something stupid he said when he heard the voice say

“I wonder if /his/ soulmate is Kirishima”

(they can tell when the voice is about them, special soulmate bond)

His immediate reaction is to scoff and he whispers a quite “tch shitty hair is not my soulmate”

Deku looks over and says “did you say something Kacchan?” and Bakugous focus on his soulmate voice drops

He quickly patches things up saying “tch no I didn’t fucking say anything” although he was a bit unconvincing

Deku let it go and Bakugou let out a breath hoping no one else caught his response

The implications of his soulmate 1-knowing who Kirishima is and 2-wondering about their ‘relationship’ right after they interacted didn’t hit him until a few minutes later

His eyes widened and he looked around him knowing that one of these shit heads had to be his soulmate and he, unusually, had a preference

He glanced at Deku and wondered if he was reading his thoughts

He decided to try something, he wanted to try and push his way into his soulmates head, whoever reacted would be his soulmate, it was better than not knowing

Bakugou turned away and focused and repeated in his head “are you listening”

Once he stopped he focused on the voice which responded with a repeating “I’m listening”

He smiled and began repeating “I’m in class A and I’m pretty sure you are too”

After he replied he took a look around, no one seemed to be acting weird

Deku was trying very hard to not make it obvious that he was freaking out a little

There was only one person in class A that he would want as his soulmate but that was unfair to both of them (Kacchan and his soulmate)

Bakugou took the chance to focus on the voice again and heard “you’re right I am”

Bakugou decided to kick it up a notch, the voice seemed panicked and he figured whoever it was, was on the verge of reacting

So he decided on “by the way shitty hair isn’t my soulmate, he and pinky can hear each other even if they don’t know it”

After a moment, one he assumed his soulmate took to focus on his thoughts, there was a crash

Behind him Deku had dropped his textbook into his desk, surprised to hear Kirishima and Mina be called by nicknames only Kacchan calls them, in his head

In order to try and keep his cool he let out a quick “sorry lost my grip!”

Everyone but Bakugou believed him fully and continued with their conversations

Bakugou decided to push even harder and say “it’s you isn’t it, I’m right”

Deku just barely held back a squeak and then announced he was going to use the restroom

Bakugou knew this was his chance and left a few minutes later

He figured Deku might be overwhelmed so he stopped pushing thoughts and decided to actually talk to the damn nerd

He hoped he would find him fairly easily and he was right, Deku had only turned a corner and then stood against the wall

Bakugou walked up slowly and cleared his throat while he was still far away enough so he wouldn’t startle Deku

Once Deku looked up at him his eyes widened and he let out a “Kacchan!” and then Deku took a deep breath and said “Did you have to do that in the middle of class?!” and Bakugou smiled, of course, his nerd was just worried about all of the extras in the room

“I saw my chance and took it, you were the one thinking that shitty hair was my soulmate”

At the word soulmate, the reality of the situation hit them both and Deku wondered out loud “I wonder if Aizawa knew when he put us in the same room” (he did)

Bakugou shook his head slightly and said “you’re gonna have to keep saying our thoughts out loud, I don’t plan on being able to hear them after today”

Deku was confused for a second until he remembered the way to stop being able to read your soulmates thoughts and blushed darkly

“Really now? you really want me to say them all out loud?” Deku shot back with a raised eyebrow (the effect was slightly dulled but the bright blush)

Bakugou laughed quietly and took the comment as an ok (it was more like an enthusiastic yes but that’s beside the point)

He slowly closed the distance between them and landed a solid peck on Deku’s lips

Bakugou had begun to pull back, not wanting to overwhelm Deku once again but he was chased backward

They eventually made their way back to class staggering their entrances by a few minutes

Once Bakugou walked in Aizawa said “Bakugou, Midoriya come here for a moment”

They made their way to the front and Aizawa squinted his eyes at each of them

“Midoriya was everything resolved?”

“Yes sir!”

“Good maybe now you two won’t be so distracted in the middle of my lessons, go take you seats”

They both took their seats and then look at each other before bursting out with laughter

Everyone looked at them weird and questioned them, they both just said “nothing don’t worry about it”

For the rest of the class, they held hands around their desks facing the wall

No one was surprised to see their room had the beds pushed together and how much friendlier they became with each other leading up to the big reveal of their relationship

[therealmadblonde]

October 22

A chihuahua?” The Thing in the Circle suggested. “Just for laughs?”

“Nope,” I answered. “Language barrier.”

“Come on!” it said. “I’m almost strong enough to break out of here on my own now. It won’t go well with you if you keep me till I do.”

“‘Almost,’” I said, “isn’t good enough.”

It growled. I growled back. It flinched. I was still in control.

The Thing in the Steamer Trunk had become a lot more active, too, glaring at me through its aperture. And we had to install a sliding bar on the wardrobe in the attic, as the Thing there succeeded in breaking the latch. But I drove it back again. I was still in control there, too.

I went outside then, checking for foci of interference. Finding nothing untoward, I walked over to Larry’s place, intending to bring him up to date on everything and to see what news he might have. I halted as it came into sight, though. The Enderby coach was parked out front, the heavy man beside it. Had I let this go on too long? What might the Great Detective find so fascinating here that it warranted a return visit? Nothing I could do now, of course.

I turned and walked back.

When I reached the neighborhood I found Graymalk waiting in my yard.

“Snuff,” she said, “have you been calculating?”

“Only in my head,” I replied. “I think it might be easier to work this one out from a vantage.”

“What vantage?”

“Dog’s Nest,” I said. “If you’re interested, come on.”

She fell into step beside me. The air was damp, the sky gray. A wind gusted out of the northeast.

We passed Owen’s place and Cheeter chattered at us from a branch: “Odd couple! Odd couple!” he called. “Opener, closer! Opener, closer!” We did not respond. Let the divinators have their day.

“It is an odd curse you are under,” Graymalk remarked after a long while.

“Say rather that we are the keepers of a curse. Perhaps more than one. If you live long enough, these things have a way of accumulating. How do you know of it?”

“Jack said something of it to the mistress.”

“How strange. It is not usually a thing we speak of.”

“There must be a reason.”

“Of course.”

“So you have been present at more than one. You have played the Game — many times?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think he might be trying to persuade her to change — orientation?”

“Yes.”

“I wonder what it would be like?”

We passed Rastov’s place but did not stop. On the road, later, MacCab went by, a stick in his hand. He raised it as we neared, and I snarled at him. He lowered it and muttered a curse. I am used to curses, and no one can tell when I smile.

We continued into the countryside, coming at length to my hill. There we climbed to the place of fallen and standing stones. Southward of us, the black clouds rumbled and glared above the Good Doctor’s house. The winds were stronger at this height, and as I paced the circle a small rain began to descend. Graymalk crouched on the dry side of a block of stone, watching me as I took my sightings.

Out of the southwest, I took my line from the distant graveyard, extending it to all of the other points of residence in view or in mind. Then, from the place where lay the Count’s remains, I did it again. In my mind, I beheld the new design. This pulled the center away from the manse, downward, southward, passing us, coming to rest ahead, slightly to the left. I stood stock-still, the rain forgotten, as I worked it out, repeating the process line by line, seeing that center shift, positing where it had to fall…

Again, the same area. But there was nothing there, no outstanding feature. Just a hillside, a few trees and rocks upon it. No structures at all nearby.

“Something’s wrong,” I muttered.

“What is it?” Graymalk said.

“I don’t know. It’s just not right. In the past, they’ve always at least been interesting, acceptable candidates. But this is — nothing. Just a dull stretch of field to the south and a little to the west.”

“All of the other candidates have also been wrong,” she said, coming over, “no matter how interesting.” She mounted a nearby stone. “Where is it?”

“Over there,” I said, pointing with my head. “To the right of those five or six trees clustered on that hillside.”

She stared.

“You’re right,” she said. “It doesn’t look particularly promising. You sure you calculated correctly?”

“Double-checked,” I answered.

She returned to her shelter again, as the rain suddenly grew more forceful. I followed her.

“I suppose we must visit it,” she said a little later. “After this lets up, of course.” She began licking herself. She hesitated.

“I just thought of something,” she said. “The Count’s skeleton. Was that big ring he wore still upon his finger?”

“No,” I said. “Whoever did him in doubtless collected it.”

“Then someone’s probably doubly endowed.”

“Probably.”

“That would make him stronger, wouldn’t it?”

“Only in technical prowess. It might make him more vulnerable, too.”

“Well, the technical end of things counts for something.”

“It does.”

“Do the Games always get confusing at some point? Do they mess up the players’ thinking, ideas, values?”

“Always. Especially as events begin to cascade and accelerate near the end. We create a kind of vortex about us just by being here and doing certain things. Your confusion may trip you up. Somebody else’s confusion may save you.”

“You’re saying that it gets weird, but it all cancels out?”

“Pretty much, I think. Till the end, of course.”

There came a flash of light from nearby, followed by an instant crack of thunder. The Good Doctor’s storm was spreading. Abruptly, the wind shifted, and we were drenched by the sudden pelting.

We bounded across the way immediately, into the shelter of a much larger stone.

Sitting there, miserable in the special way that wetness brings, my gaze was suddenly fixed upon the side of the stone. There, brought out perhaps by the moisture, a series of scratchings and irregularities now appeared to be somewhat more than that.

“Well, I hope the whole gang of them appreciates all this trouble,” she said, “Nyarlathotep, Chthulu, and all the rest of the unpronounceables. Makes me wish I had a nice simple job catching mice for some farmer’s wife — ”

Yes, they were characters in some alphabet I did not know, incised there, worn faint, emphasized suddenly as the trickling water darkened the stone in some places, bringing out contrasts. Even as I watched, they seemed to be growing clearer.

Then I drew back, for they began to glow with a faint red light. They continued to brighten.

“Snuff,” she said then, “why’re you standing in the rain?” Then her gaze moved to follow my own, and she added, “Uh-oh! Think they heard me?”

Now they were ablaze, those letters, and they began to flow as if reading themselves. Excess light formed itself into a high rectangular perimeter about them.

“I was only joking, you know,” she said softly.

The interior of the rectangle took on a milky light. A part of me wanted to bolt and run, but another part stood fascinated by the process. Unfortunately, it was the latter part that seemed to be in control. Graymalk stood like a shadowy statue, staring.

Deep within it then came a roiling, and I suppose it must be called a premonition, for suddenly that other part of me was in control again. I sprang forward, seized Graymalk by the nape of her neck with my teeth and sprang away to the right. Just as I did, a flare of lightning sprang from the rectangle and fell upon the area we had occupied but moments before. I stumbled, feeling a small shock, feeling my hair rise. Graymalk wailed, and the air smelled of ozone.

“I guess they’re kind of touchy,” I said, rising to my feet and falling again.

Then I felt the wind swirling about us, ten times stronger than it had been earlier. I tried again to get to my feet and was again knocked down. I glanced back at the stone, saw that the roiling had subsided, that another lightning bolt might not be imminent. Instead, a faint outline hung there, of a silver key. I crawled nearer to Graymalk. The wind increased in intensity. Somewhere, a voice came chanting, “Iä! Shub-Niggurath! The Black Goat of the Wood with a Thousand Young!”

“What’s happening?” she wailed.

“Someone opened a gate to provide means for expressing disapproval of your remark,” I suggested. “That’s done now, but the door hasn’t swung shut yet. That’s what I think.”

She leaned against me, back arched, ears flat, fur risen. The wind, stronger still, was pushing against us now, near to the point of irresistibility. I began to slide across the ground in the direction of the gate, dragging her with me.

“I’ve a feeling it’ll close too late!” she cried. “We’re going through!”

She turned then and leaped upon me, clinging with all four paws to my neck. Her claws were very sharp.

“We mustn’t separate!” she said.

“Agreed!” I choked, as I began sliding faster.

I was able to gather my feet beneath me as we moved. Rather than being pushed through, willy-nilly, some measure of grace might provide a survival edge.

It was easy to stop thinking of it as a rock wall that we were approaching, for there were obvious depths to it, though no clear features presented, and the image of the key had already faded. What lay beyond, I’d no idea; that we were going to go through, I’d no doubt. Better a little dignity then…

Straightening my legs, I leaped forward. Into the breach. Into the mist…

…Into the silence. Immediately, as we passed through, the sounds of wind and rainfall ceased. We did not come to rest upon a hard surface, or any other surface. We were suspended in a place of pearl gray light — or, if we fell, there was no sensation of falling. My legs were still extended — forward and back, as if I were leaping a fence — and while misty eddies and currents, faint as high clouds, played about us, my sense of motion was paradoxical; that is, by turning my head in any direction, I could create the feeling of pursuing a different vector.

I did turn my head to the rear in time to see the rectangle fade behind us, paling stones and grass within it. Dotted about the place where it had been, as well as about ourselves, droplets of rain and a few leaves and strands of grass hung in the air. Or perhaps we were all falling together, or rising, depending on —

Graymalk gave a little wail, then looked about. I felt her relax after that, then she said, “It is important that we not be parted here.”

“You know where we are?” I asked.

“Yes. I’m sure I will land on my feet, but I don’t know about you. Let me move around onto your back. We’ll both be more comfortable that way.”

She worked her way about my neck then, finally settling into a position behind my shoulders. She did retract her claws as she settled.

“Where,” I said, “are we?”

“I see now that something tried to help me as we were being swept forward,” she said. “This is not of a piece with the lightning stroke. But the way was opened and he seized it as a means of rescue. Possibly there is even more to it than that.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand you,” I told her.

“We are between our place and the Dreamworld now,” she said. “You have been here before?”

“Yes, but not right here recently.”

“It feels as if we could drift here forever.”

“I suppose that we could.”

“So how do we go ahead — or go back?”

“My memories of this part are all scattered. If we do not like where we find ourselves, we withdraw and try again. I will try it now. Call to me if anything too unnatural occurs.”

With that, she grew silent, and while I waited for whatever sequel was to ensue I thought back over the events which had brought us to this place. It struck me as odd that her mere disparaging mention of the Elders had not only been heard, but that whichever had taken umbrage thereby had been strong enough to do something about it. True, the power was rising in this, a most powerful time, but I wondered at such profligacy with it when there must have been multitudes of better uses to which it might be put — unless it were simply another instance of that famous inscrutability which I sometimes think is to be better understood as childishness. Then a possibility struck sparks deep within my mind, but I had to let it go, unexamined, as alterations began about me.

There came a brightening from overhead — nothing as patent as a single light source, but an increasing contrast to the darker area below my feet. I said nothing about it to Graymalk, for I had resolved not to address her — barring emergencies — until she spoke. But I studied that light. There was something familiar about it, from driftings off and awakenings perhaps…

Then I realized it to be an outline, as on a map, of a continent or island — perhaps two or more — hanging there, as in a skiey distance, overhead. This did peculiar things to my orientation, and I struggled to alter my physical relationship to it. I moved my legs and twisted, trying to turn my body so as to look downward rather than up at it.

It was almost too easy, for there followed an immediate turning. The view became clearer, the land masses larger, as we seemed to drift nearer, topographical features resolving themselves against a field of blue, wispy swirls of cloud hung above prominences, along coasts, a pair of large islands surmounted by great peaks between the two greater masses — to the west, if what seemed upward along the vertical axes were indeed north. No reason that it should be, of course, nor, for that matter, that it shouldn’t.

Graymalk began to mutter then, in a flat, affectless tone, “.    To the west of the

Southern Sea lie the Basalt Pillars, beyond them the city of Cathuria. East, the coast is green and home to fishers’ towns. South, from the black towers of Dylath-Leen is the land of white fungi where the houses are brown and have no windows; beneath the waters there, on still days, one can see the avenue of crippled sphinxes leading to the dome of the great sunken temple. To the north again, one may behold the charnel gardens of Zura, place of unattained pleasures, the templed terraces of Zak, the double headlands of crystal at the harbor of Sona-Nyl, the spires of Thalarion…”

As she spoke we came even nearer, and my attention was taken from spot to spot along the coasts of that sea, those features somehow magnified across the distances, so that I beheld things with the vision of dreaming; though a part of me was baffled by this arcane phenomenon, yet another accepted with a feeling more of memory than discovery.

“…Dylath-Leen,” she mused, “where the wide-mouthed traders with the strange turbans come for their slaves and gold, anchoring black galleys whose stench only the smoking of thagweed can kill, paying with rubies, departing with the powerful oar strokes of invisible rowers. Southwest then to Thran of the sloping alabaster walls, unjoined, and its cloud-catching towers all white and gold, there by the River Shai, wharves all of marble…

“And there lies the granite-walled city of Hlanith, on the shores of the Cerenerian Sea. Its wharves are of oak, its houses peaked and gabled…

“There, the perfumed jungle of Kled,” she went on, “where lost, ivory palaces sleep undisturbed, once home to monarchs of a forgotten kingdom.

“…And up the Oukranos River from the Cerenerian Sea slope the jasper terraces of Kiran, where the king of Ilek-Vad comes once a year in a golden palanquin, to pray to the god of the river in the seven-towered temple whence music drifts whenever moonlight falls upon it.”

We moved steadily closer as she spoke, drifting now over vast regions — brown, yellow, green…

“…Baharna is eleven days sailing from Dylath-Leen, most important port on the island of Oriab, the great lighthouses Thon and Thal at its harbor’s gate, quays all of porphyry. There is its canal to Lake Yath, of the ruined city. It flows through a tunnel with granite doors. The hill-people ride zebras…Westward lies the Valley of Pnoth, amid the peaks of Throk. There the slimy dholes burrow among the mountains of bones, cast refuse of ghouls from centuries of their feasting…That peak to the south is Ngranek, two days’ ride on zebraback from Baharna, if one would brave the nightgaunts. Those who dare Ngranek’s slopes will come at last to a vast face carved there, with long-lobed ears and pointed nose and chin. It does not appear to be happy.

“…And back to the northern land, fine Ulthar lies near the River Shai, beyond a great

stone bridge in whose arch a living man was sealed when it was built, thirteen hundred years ago. It is a city of neat cottages and cobbled streets where wander cats without number, for the enlightened legislators of long ago laid down laws for our protection. A good, kind village, where travelers take their ease and pet the cats, making much of them, which is as it should be.

“…And there is Urg of the low domes, a stop on the way to Inquanok, frequented by onyx miners…

“…And Inquanok itself, terrible place near the waste of Leng, its houses like palaces with pointed domes and minarets, pyramids, gold walls black with scrolls and swirling with inlays of gold, fluted, arched, capped with gold. Its streets are of onyx, and when the great bell sounds it is answered by the music of horns and viols and chanting voices. High up its central hill lies the massive temple of the Elder Ones, surrounded by its seven-gated garden of pillars, fountains, pools wherein luminous fish sport themselves and reflections of tripods from the temple balcony shimmer and dance. The temple itself bears a great belfry atop its flattened dome, and when the bell sounds masked and hooded priests emerge, bearing steaming bowls to lodges beneath the ground. The Veiled King’s palace rises on a nearby hill. He rides forth through bronze gates in a yak-drawn chariot. Beware the father of Shantak-birds who dwells in the temple’s dome. Stare too long and he sends you nightmares. Avoid fair Inquanok. No cat may dwell there, for many of its shadows are poison to our kind.

“..And there is Sarkomand, beyond the Leng Plateau. One mounts salt-covered steps to its basalt walls and docks, temples and squares, column-lined streets, to the place where the sphinx-mounted gates open to its central plaza and two monumental winged lions guard the top of the stairwell leading to the Great Abyss.”

We drifted even lower now, and it was as if I could hear the winds that blow between the worlds as she continued her litany of Dreamworld geography.

“…On the way to Kadath we cross the terrible wasteland of Leng, where, in the great windowless monastery surrounded by monoliths, dwells the High Priest of Dreamworld, his face hidden by a yellow silk mask. His building is older than history, bearing frescoes of the story of Leng; barely human creatures dance amid gone cities, the war with the purple spiders, the landing of the black galleys from the moon…

“…And we pass Kadath itself, enormous city of ice and mystery, capital of this land…

“…Coming at last to fair Celephais in the land of Ooth-Nargai on the shores of the Cerenerian Sea. ”

Now we swooped very low, above a snowcapped peak.

“…Mount Aran,” she intoned, and I saw ginkgo trees upon its lower reaches; then, in the distance, marble walls, minarets, bronze statues. “The Naraxa River joins the sea here. There in the distance lie the Tanarian peaks. That turquoise temple down the Street of Pillars is where the high priest worships Nath-Horthoth. And so we find our way to the place where I have been summoned.”

We dropped steadily then, to touch the bright-cut onyx-stone of the street. Immediately, there were sounds about us once again other than the wind, breezes that I could feel.

Graymalk leaped from my back, alighting beside me, shook herself, and stared.

“You wander these lands in dreams of catnappery?” I said.

“Sometimes,” she replied, “and sometimes elsewhere. And yourself?”

“I think that sometimes I might have.”

She turned in a complete circle, paused, then began walking. I followed. We walked for a long while; none among the merchants and camel drivers or orchid- wreathed priests disturbed our passing.

“There is no time here,” she remarked.

“I believe you,” I answered, and sailors passed us from the pink-vapored harbor and sunlight sparkled upon the streets, the minarets. I saw no other dogs about, smelled none.

In the distance, a blinding spectacle came into view and we made our way toward it. “The rose-crystal Palace of the Seventy Delights,” she said, “whence he has called.”

And so we walked toward it, and it was as if a part of me normally awake were sleeping and part of me normally asleep were awake, a reversal which led to easy acceptance of wonder, to easy forgetting of daylong movements and concerns these past several weeks.

The crystal palace grew before us, gleaming like a piece of pink ice, so that I looked past it rather than directly at it. Our way became more quiet as we approached, and the sun was warm.

When we came into its precincts, I beheld a small, gray form — the only other living thing in sight — sunning itself on the terrace before the palace, head upraised, regarding us. Graymalk led us that way. It proved to be an ancient cat, lying on a square of black onyx.

Drawing near and prostrating herself, she said, “Hail, High Purring One.”

“Graymalk, daughter,” he answered. “Hello. Rise, please.”

She did, saying, “I believe that I felt your presence at the time of an Elder One’s wrath. Thank you.”

“Yes. I have been watching for all of your month,” he said. “You know why.”

“I do.”

He turned his head, antique yellow eyes meeting my own. I lowered my head out of respect for his venerability, and because Graymalk obviously regarded him as someone of great importance.

“You come in the company of a dog.”

“Snuff is my friend,” she said. “He pulled me out of a well, cast me back from the Elder One’s lightning.”

“Yes, I saw him move you when it fell, right before I decided to call you here. He is welcome. Hello, Snuff.”

“Hello — sir,” I answered.

Slowly, the old cat rose to his feet, arched his back, stretched low, righted himself.

“Times,” he said, “are complicated just now. You have entered an unusual design. Come walk with me, daughter, that I may impart a small wisdom concerning the final day. For some things seem too small for the Great Ones’ regard, and a cat may know that which the Elder Gods do not.”

She glanced at me, and since few can tell when I am smiling, I nodded my head.

They strolled along into the temple itself, and I wondered whether, somewhere, an ancient wolf in a high, craggy place were watching us, always alert, his only message, “Keep watching, Snuff, always.” I could almost hear his timeless growl from the places beneath thought.

I sniffed about, waiting. It was hard to tell how long they were gone in a place without time. But it followed that it should not seem to take long. Nor did it.

When I saw them emerge, I wondered again at the strangeness which had paired me in friendship with an opener. And a cat, at that.

Coming up to me, I saw that Graymalk was almost disturbed, or at least puzzled, by the way she raised her right paw and regarded it.

“This way now,” the old one stated, and he looked at me as he said it, so I knew that I was included in the invitation.

He led us up an alleyway beside the Palace of Seventy Delights, where fluted dustbins of umber, aquamarine, and russet, their sides inscribed with delicate traceries of black and silver, handles of malachite, jade, porphyry, and chrysoberyl stood, holding forgotten mysteries of the temple. Purple rats fled our approach, and a single lid shivered, emitting a bell-like tone which echoed from the rose-crystal wall.

“In here,” he told us, and we followed him into a darkened recess which held a temple postern. Beside it, a less substantial door quivered upon the crystal wall — a churning milkiness beginning within its suddenly apparent rectangle there as we approached.

When we came up before it, he turned to me.

“As you have been a friend of one of my own,” he said, “I would give you a boon of knowledge. Ask me anything.”

“What does tomorrow hold for me?” I said. He blinked once.

Then, “Blood,” he said. “Seas and messes of it all around you. And you will lose a friend. Go now through the gate.”

Graymalk stepped into the rectangle, was gone. “Thanks, I guess,” I said.

“Carpe baculum!” he added as I followed, somehow knowing that I recalled a bit of my Latin, and doubtless getting some obscure cat-laugh out of telling me to fetch a stick in a classical language. You get used to little digs from cats about being a dog, though I’d thought their boss might be above that sort of thing. Still, he is a cat, and he probably hadn’t seen a dog in a long time and just couldn’t resist.

“Et cum spiritu tuo,” I replied, moving forward and entering.

“Benedicte,” I heard his distant response as I drifted again in that place between worlds.

“What was all that business at the end?” Graymalk called back to me.

“He gave me a quick quiz on my Virgil.”

“Why?”

“Damned if I know. He’s inscrutable, remember?”

Suddenly, she wavered within another rectangle. It was odd, watching her go two- dimensional and ripple that way. Then she turned into a horizontal line, and its ends collapsed upon its middle and she was gone. When my turn came it didn’t feel that complicated, though. I joined her atop Dog’s Nest before the block of stone, which was again just a stone with some scratches on it. The sun was far into the west, but the storm was over.

I turned in a circle. No one was sneaking up from any direction.

“There’s still enough light to check out that spot you located,” she said.

“Let’s save it for tomorrow. I’m late making my rounds,” I told her.

“All right.”

We headed homeward. I thought about the old cat’s boon, but that wasn’t till tomorrow.

“Dognappery’s a lot less lush than Celephais,” I said, as we walked.

“What’s it like?” she asked.

“I’m back in a primal wood with an old wolf named Growler. He teaches me things.”

“If there are any Zoogs about,” she said, “we passed over your wood to the west of the River Shai. It’s below the Gate of Deeper Slumber.”

“Maybe,” I said, thinking of the small brown creatures who lived in the oaks and fed on the fungi, except when there were people about. Growler laughed at them as he did at most things.

The clouds purpled in the west and our paws grew damp from the grasses. Blood and messes…Perhaps I could use a review.

Tonight Growler and I would ramble, till we fought and I was beat.

[beepbeeprichiellc]

If ur doing prompts from the prompt list can I get something that's like sad fluff with #131? For Reddie

A03

“Lets run away together.” 

It had been a quiet night, most of the students too busy with the end of semester parties to even bother to use the library. Eddie busied himself with putting away books and processing returns in order to keep his thoughts at bay. It was better like this-he had decided-because if he was anywhere else other than work then his mind would find its way back to a certain boy who would surely turn his brain into toxic mush. 

Three weeks and two days.

It had been three weeks and two days since they had last spoken, violent words had been thrown between them as Eddie did his best to not break away from the truth. Richie had said things that could not be taken back, truths that buried itself under his skin and made a home there. Eddie carried them around with him like a badge; he had dared to speak against the grain and in return he had been burned by the person who had meant the most to him. 

“You sure you are okay locking up?” Mike asked from the front counter. 

“Yes.” Eddie replied for the millionth time. “Like I said, go and have fun before Stan goes home for the holidays. Don’t worry about me.” 

Mike chewed on his cheek, obviously torn with the temptation of a good evening and his obligation to a friend. With bated breath he leaned against the countertop, eyeing Eddie from across the room. “I know you and Richie had a fight but you shouldn’t close yourself off like this. You did the right thing, even if it doesn’t feel like it right now-you were being a good friend.” 

“Okay.” Eddie said, his voice flat and unamused. 

“Eddie.” 

“Mike, look I appreciate the sentiment but I am fine.” He nearly growled into a copy of prelaw literature , “I don’t need to be reassured, I told the truth and if Richie doesn't want to believe whats right in front of him, then it’s none of my business.” 

“Come on man, don’t be like that.” 

Eddie sighed, muttering an apology under his breath and asking. “What do you want from me here Mike? Does it suck that my best friend hates my guts? Yeah. But I’m a fucking adult, I don’t need Richie and if he wants to be an ass and give me the cold shoulder then his loss.” 

“Your right.” Mike said then, grabbing his coat and slinging it onto his back. “It is his loss.” 

They said their goodbyes then and once he was alone Eddie dropped the charade he had been performing the entire evening. He had been sleeping at the end there, the grief nearly leaking from the gaping hole in his chest. Slowly he finished what he was doing and began to close up, taking his time on even the easiest tasks and allowing himself to wallow in his self inflicted pain. His feet were heavy, his heart even more and after everything was done it was well past midnight. 

The door to the library opened and instinctively he shouted across the room, his back still turned, “We are closed, come back during regular hours!”  

“Ah come on, can’t you make an exception.” 

Eddie’s breath caught in the back of his throat and as he turned he was met with the sight of the trashmouth, his face turned upwards into a forced grin. Whispering a warning to his pounding chest he replied coldly, “Sorry but no can do, rules are rules.” 

Richie laughed, it was hollow and fragile; shattering against the books. “Same old Eds, can’t break a rule even if he tried.” 

I broke plenty with you, Eddie thought to himself. “What do you want Richie?” He didn’t bother hiding his harsh tone, allowing it to soak through to their core. 

“It’s funny you know.” Richie muttered, mostly to himself. “I had this whole speech prepared but now that I’m here I can’t remember a single fucking thing.” Again there was a chuckle and again Eddie felt himself shiver. “You were right about her but I guess you already know this.” 

“I do.” Eddie admitted, “I wasn’t lying.” 

Richie nodded, taking very cautious steps towards his fiend. “I know that now.” Stopping he was in full view now and Eddie could really see him, his messy hair and askew clothing. His glasses magnifying his sad eyes, emotion swimming in those deep pools nearly drowning Eddie with emotion. “I caught her Eds, caught her sucking a guy off right were you said I would. I mean holy fucking christ, you were telling me the goddamn truth and I just didn’t want to believe it.” 

Eddie knew Richie was near his breaking point, the air around them tearting on the edge of despair. So many things could be said then, so many of them Eddie desperately wanted to say but couldn’t-wouldn’t because deep down in his soul Richie already knew them all. It was the reason Eddie had been the one to tell Richie about his girlfriend, the reason he had taken the abuse and fury, the reason he felt so goddamn guilty for doing the right fucking thing. 

Eddie was a goner for Richie. 

He had always been. 

“Say something.” Richie pleaded, “Please yell or scream-tell me to go fuck myself or whatever.” When Eddie shook his head it was like the rage began to climb the mountain that was Richie’s emotional capacity, “I called you a bad friend Eddie, I told you to never fucking talk to me again! I said-fucking christ-I called you so many names. If anyone here has any reason to be angry it’s you! So for the love of god, be angry!” 

“Is that what you want?” Eddie whispered, “For me to tell you that I told you so?” 

Richie shoved a pile of books that Eddie had placed atop of the shelf, the clatter shooting right into the air like a bullet to a dulled brain. This made Eddie jump in surprise, his eyes watching the pages fall open exposing unread words. The trash mouth breathing came in short bursts tears threatening to stain his perfectly flawed face. “This whole school fucking knows I’m an idiot Eddie! Everyone! I want-I just want to run away! I want to leave! Lets-lets run away together okay? Just leave this town and these shallow people and never look back. Me and you right? Me and you against the world that’s what you told me when were were kids. I can’t do this anymore.” 

“Richie.” Eddie whimpered, moving to comfort but finding a wall that had been built over their weeks apart. His body staggered forward and Richie took that opportunity to become a heap on the floor. “Come on, it’s okay.” 

“No it’s not! I called you-I called you a faggot Eddie!” Richie repeated the word in disgust, this time the arrow was aimed at his own heart. “You are the only person who cared and I called you-I called you-” 

“Alright.” Eddie soothed, finding strength in the word this time around. Kneeling beside his friend he did his best to calm the sobbing, rubbing Richie’s back and whispering encouraging sentiments. “Stop that crying okay, this is a library you are supposed to be quiet.” 

Richie laughed though his tears, pulling Eddie into a warm embrace. Although he fought against it at first Eddie eventually melted, allowing himself to let go of the grudge he had been holding. “Can you read to me?” Richie asked against his chest, “You know, like how you did when we were kids.” 

Eddie did know because how could he forget the night he had spoken though raw vocal cords, watching his best friend relax against his bed frame, his eyes fluttering with tales of far away lands: of wizards and princesses that came to life with Eddie’s voice. Despite himself he agreed, urging Richie to pick a book as he locked the front door-something he should have done beforehand. When he came back Richie practically shoved a paperback into his hands, his eyes wide and desperate. 

Eddie read the title, “Really? This?” 

“It was my favorite when we were kids.” Richie explained, sitting down in the middle of the isle and patting the floor, a signal for Eddie to follow. Eddie obliged, leaning his back against the shelf. Before he was able to begin Richie laid his head onto his lap, curling his long limbs inwards as he cuddled up to Eddie’s thigh. He must have felt Eddie stiffen because he asked, “Is this okay?” 

“Yeah.” Eddie sighed, reminding himself that they were friends. Just friends. “Its fine.” As opened the book up to read his hands found Richie’s curls, tangling themselves into the thick strands and petting the skin there. Richie sighed as he began. 

“In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.”

Richie hummed.

[ft-dads-au]

Once Upon a Nightmare - Chapter 2

Shadowlight Week 2020 Prompt: Duality Pairing: Sting x Rogue

A Collaboration by @mdelpin and @oryu404

AO3 | Prev: Ch 1 | Ch 2 | Next: Ch 3

Summary: After learning what happened to Rogue in his absence, all Sting wants is to talk about it and support him as much as he can. Rogue, however, just wants  to pretend it never happened, like he's done all along, leaving them on opposite sides.

Chapter 2: Duality

Rogue didn’t want to be by himself, but the alternative was even worse. He couldn’t bear to see the look on Sting’s face when he found out what had happened. Had never wanted him to find out in the first place.

In hindsight, Rogue wondered what he’d been thinking all this time, offering half-truths and distractions just so he could keep running from his nightmare, knowing god damn well he had nowhere to run. Now his nightmare had finally caught up to him, swept his legs out from beneath him, and caused him to inadvertently hurt Sting in the process. That was something he’d never considered during all those moments when he’d had the chance to be honest. One by one, he’d let them slip away, and now shit was going to hit the fan, and he’d have no one to blame but himself.

What would Sting think of him now? Would he believe him when he said he hadn’t wanted it? That he’d fought Maru off as best he could. Or would he see those as excuses?

Rogue's hands shook as he reached for his pack of cigarettes, desperate for something to do to help take his mind off what was happening in the bedroom. He felt caged, like an animal with nowhere to go but with too much energy to stay where he was. And as much as he’d love to step outside, he knew he’d only feel even more vulnerable. That left him only one choice - the basement.

Rogue descended the stairs to the basement his father and Gildarts had finished years ago, flicking on a single light and walking over to the large bar to examine its contents. He settled on a bottle of the whiskey Gildarts preferred, poured himself a drink, and lit a cigarette as he sat down to wait.

0-0

Sting felt sick to his stomach all over again, and yet he’d read every word twice to make sure that he wasn’t imagining things, letting the sentences they formed sink in one by one. Once he was done, he was still staring blankly at the page, defeated and numb from learning the truth he’d been so eager to learn.

He hadn’t really had any idea what to expect, but a violent sexual assault had never entered his mind. A part of him understood why Rogue hadn’t been willing to talk about it. Another wondered how he’d been able to carry it around for- he quickly did the math- almost 7 months. And all this time, he’d had no clue.

If only he’d been more observant, maybe then he would’ve caught on to the fact that there was something more disturbing going on in Rogue’s life than just the issues regarding his family.

If only he’d taken that little voice in the back of his head more seriously when it had been expressing concerns during the time they’d spent together around Christmas.

If only he’d known sooner so Rogue wouldn’t have been dealing with this alone for so long.

Screw that. If only he’d never left, it wouldn’t have happened in the first place.

Sting dropped the notebook on the bed as he hid his face in his hands. All the why’s and if only’s were going through his head, repeating themselves like a broken record as he picked at his memory and felt the guilt weigh him down until they led him back to the events of that day. Specifically that morning, when he’d found Totomaru on their doorstep.

“I didn’t know you were back.”

“I was hoping to speak to Rogue?”

Speak to Rogue? What the hell was this sick fucker getting at? Sting tried but failed to stop himself from imagining what could’ve happened if he hadn’t been there. If Totomaru had shown up a week or even a few minutes earlier. He should consider himself lucky that Sting didn't know then what he knew now, because if he did, not even his own mother would have been able to recognize him. The towel around his waist would have done nothing to stop him.

Sting knew he couldn’t stay in this room for much longer, Rogue was bound to be waiting for his reaction, and it wouldn't do him any good if he'd let his emotions prevail, but he couldn’t seem to make himself move. He didn’t know what to do or what to say, and within him, there grew a great fear that somehow he’d only manage to make things worse. Do or say the wrong thing.

But doing nothing at all would be the worst thing he could possibly do. So with no clear idea or plan, he forced himself to calm down and get up from the bed, returning the journal to the drawer from which Rogue had grabbed it, knowing intuitively that his boyfriend wouldn’t want to see it when he returned.

He left the refuge the bedroom afforded him, and when he didn’t find Rogue in the living area or the backyard, he made his way down the basement stairs.

0-0

Time had ceased to have any meaning for Rogue as he sat on a barstool in the near dark, its passage only marked by the number of cigarette butts that littered the ashtray and the ounces of whiskey he’d downed as he waited. Its smooth taste bitterly reminding him of better times he’d spent in this room and the people that had been part of them. People that had left him behind or that he had sent away.

The sound of Sting’s approaching footsteps sounded loud in the otherwise silent house, and Rogue could feel his heart begin to race in apprehension. What was he going to say?

His hands, which had finally settled, began to shake once again. In the time he’d sat there, he’d managed to run many scenarios through his head, but he still didn’t know what to expect.

He moved towards the wall where they kept the cue sticks for their pool table, realizing he didn’t want to be found wallowing in alcohol. He grabbed a stick and approached the table, not bothering to set up a game, merely going after whatever ball was closest.

He could see Sting's silhouette appear out of the corners of his eyes, casting a striking figure behind the wisps of smoke that curled in the air, but Rogue didn't stop to look up from his game. Sting hesitated for a few seconds, there wasn't a sound but the click of the cue stick hitting a ball and the dull thuds that followed when it bounced back against the felt-covered sides of the pool table.

"It's been a while," Sting finally pointed out as he made his way over to the bar, grabbing a glass and pouring a drink from the same bottle of whiskey, and it wasn’t until he’d taken a sip and continued that Rogue realized that he was referring to the last time he'd played a game of pool. "Can I join you?"

Rogue nodded and put his cue down so he could gather the balls and rack them for a standard game of eight ball. They played in awkward silence for a couple of turns, all the while he was wondering if Sting was waiting for him to address the obvious or if he’d decided not to speak about it at all, and Rogue wasn’t sure how to feel about either option. Hoping to find the answer hidden in his expression, he forced himself to look.

Maybe Sting had been awaiting that or perhaps it was just a coincidence. Either way, he came closer, extending his arms for a hug but stopping at the last second.

“I’m sorry-” he sat down on the edge of the pool table, “I- I don’t really know what to say... what he did to you was despicable. I get that it was hard for you to talk about, and I wish I hadn’t pressed the way I did.”

Rogue slowly released the breath he’d been holding in, resting the end of the pool cue on the floor and gripping it firmly with both hands as if it was his only tether to reality. Once again he nodded, to indicate that he understood and harbored no hard feelings towards it. At this point, he was just glad that his story wasn’t being called into question, and even though he wished it had gone differently, he knew that he hadn’t really made any other outcome feasible.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you really needed me,” Sting continued, “if I had been, it wouldn’t have happened.”

“It isn’t your fault,” Rogue shrugged, focusing his attention back on the game, pretending that that thought hadn’t crossed his mind at least once during his deepest lows. “And we’ll never know that for sure anyway.”

“Are they always that bad?” Sting asked, and for a moment Rogue was confused, until he remembered the nightmare that had brought all this about.

“No,” he was quick to assure him, “This one was the worst I’ve had in a while.”

His thoughts inadvertently went back to the nightmare, which used to be a repetitive reconstruction of the attack but had taken a different course that night.

Instead of the alley, the scene had taken place in their home this time. Starting at the front door and ending in the bedroom. Rogue guessed that his panic at seeing Maru through the peephole that morning had a role in that, but unlike what he’d done then, he was stupid enough to open the door in his dream, with all its terrible consequences.

And dream-him had known exactly what those consequences would be, but still, his body had moved, ignoring his mind even as it had screamed no.

It had only gotten worse when Sting had tried to wake him up from it, giving the original ending a twist on top of that, but Rogue decided to leave all of that out. There was enough guilt to go around between them as it was, the last thing he wanted was to keep piling it up. He drank what remained inside his glass in one sip, swallowing hard at the burn in his throat.

“Can I- uhm, can I take a look at your scratches?”

Rogue stared at Sting blankly, not entirely sure how he felt about it.

“I swear I can hear my dad yelling at me for not doing it already, especially with the smoke.”

Rogue managed a wry chuckle, knowing Sting wasn’t just trying to be funny. And maybe it was the relief talking or his need for things to return to some sort of normalcy, no matter how slight, but he found himself nodding in silent agreement.

“Okay,” Sting said softly, putting his cue stick back up on the wall and waiting for Rogue to do the same before leading him back upstairs to their bathroom, where they kept all the first aid supplies.

0-0

After washing his hands with antibacterial soap, Sting busied himself searching for the supplies he would need to patch Rogue up. He ran the list through his mind, cotton swabs, hydrogen peroxide, antibacterial ointment, gauze, medical tape. Once he found each item, he placed it on the counter, feeling the weight of Rogue’s gaze as he did so.

Even though he remained outwardly calm, Sting was still reeling from the shock he’d felt at reading the diary. His every move was marked with apprehension, his thoughts carefully filtered and examined before he let them spill out of his mouth, and it was entirely outside the realm of his experience. He’d always been one to just blurt out whatever he was thinking without much thought to the consequences.

Knowing that could prove disastrous on this occasion, he willed himself to focus only on the angry red marks on Rogue’s neck, hoping that in doing so, he’d manage to keep himself under control. Sting opened the bottle of hydrogen peroxide and grabbed a cotton swab before turning to find Rogue was indeed watching him, eyes slightly hooded, nose wrinkled in distaste as the smell of the chemical filled the room.

“Do you have to use that stuff?” Rogue frowned, his features settling into a pout. “It always stings.”

Any other time Sting would have been amused by the childish attitude but faced with the seriousness of the scratches in front of him, he could barely muster a reassuring smile.

“It only hurts for a second,” he soothed, “Besides, it needs to be done. Lots of nasty stuff hides underneath your fingernails,” he reminded him, beginning to wet the swab with the hydrogen peroxide, “You don’t want them to get infected.”

As he leaned closer to get a better view of what he’d be working on, he found himself shuddering at the sight of an injury for the first time in years. He’d seen plenty of them, his parents had taken him along to the clinic since he’d been deemed old and responsible enough, and this certainly wasn’t the worst he’d ever laid his eyes on. But it was different when it was someone you loved rather than a random patient, and what unsettled him the most was knowing that Rogue had caused them himself.

Pressing down the swab as gently as he could manage on the worst of the scratches, he heard the bubbling sound of the chemical as it cleaned out the area and flinched at the accompanying hiss from Rogue. It made him wonder just how badly he had looked after the attack and if he had even bothered to get himself looked at. Sting had a feeling he knew the answer.

Once again, he was consumed by rage, and he stepped back for a moment, masking his anger under the pretense of wetting another swab. How could anyone do that to another person? He tried his best to shake it off and regain his focus so he could finish the job, but when he approached Rogue again, he noticed him startling and ducking away in reflex, all tensed up.

It had little to do with the peroxide, it was the touch itself that he was having trouble enduring.

“Would you rather do it yourself?” Sting asked, keeping his tone as neutral as he could manage, offering him the swab after he tried again and noticed the discomfort oozing from Rogue’s features.

Rogue shook his head, and Sting could have kicked himself for being so insensitive. Rogue had written in his journal that he was no longer comfortable looking in the mirror, which he would need to do given the location of the scratches.

“I’ll hurry,” Sting promised, and with trembling hands, he did just that, using up two more swabs before he was done. Nothing in his life had prepared him for dealing with something like this, and to his frustration, the more he tried to be careful, the more mistakes he seemed to make.

What could he possibly say to make Rogue feel better? He racked his brain, trying to think of anything but came up empty.

It wasn’t your fault, you didn’t do anything wrong!

Sting screamed the words so loudly in his head he was sure Rogue must be able to hear them. He threw the bits of bloody cotton in the trash, closing the bottle and reaching for the antibiotic cream.

He hesitated briefly, knowing this part would be tricky as he’d have to touch Rogue’s skin directly. Hadn’t he done that before? During the past week, during Rogue’s visit to Edolas? More than likely, but as much as he tried, he couldn’t remember getting a reaction that hinted at something being wrong. Whether he’d been too caught up in the moment or Rogue had just kept it hidden really well, he disliked both answers.

“I’m almost done,” he informed Rogue, offering a small smile.

“It’s fine,” Rogue assured him with eyes full of a trust that tore at Sting’s heartstrings. Had he looked at Totomaru like that once?

Sting made himself a promise right then and there that he would strive to always be worthy of that trust. Squeezing a glob of the cream onto his fingers, he moved closer, and although he attempted to appear confident, the shakiness of his hand gave him away. Before he had a chance to say something to lighten the moment, Rogue surprised him by grabbing his wrist and slowly guiding it to his neck. It was a simple gesture, but it broke him all the same.

He felt the tears he’d been holding back stream down his cheeks, and there was nothing he could do to hide them, not when Rogue was so close to him.

“I’m sorry, it’s just-,” Sting wiped away at his tears with his other hand.

“That you’re a big crybaby?” Rogue teased him, a reference to all the times Sting had cried during movies.

“Yeah, that too,” he managed to chuckle through his sniffles, “but I’m...I guess just so overwhelmed. I’m really glad you’re sharing all this with me, but at the same time I’m also angry because this shouldn’t have happened to you, and it wasn’t your fault, and I want to be there for you, but I just don’t know what to do.”

He paused his acute word-vomit to take a breath, but before he could say anything else, Rogue stopped him cold.

“I get that you want to talk about this, and I do appreciate it, but I’m not ready to do that yet,” Rogue refused to meet his eyes, “I know that’s not what you want to hear, but it’s how I feel at the moment.”

Wasn’t ready to talk about it, not ready? What did he mean? It had been seven months already! Sting couldn’t even begin to understand those words. He tried to put himself in Rogue’s place, but he just couldn’t imagine letting something fester for that long.

Still, he felt like he should respect his wishes, even if only for tonight. It had been a long emotional night for both of them, and if that was what Rogue needed to feel better, then he would honor it.

For now.

“Okay,” he replied simply and began to wash the cream off his hand and put the supplies away, not even bothering with the gauze, already knowing Rogue would balk at the suggestion.

0-0

Rogue retreated to the bedroom the moment Sting was done with the cleanup, wanting to get out of the bathroom and away from that mirror. He didn't want to be there for longer than necessary either. One look at the bed had him seeing flashes of the nightmare all over again. So he grabbed his pillow and resigned himself to another night of sleeping on the couch. If he was able to get back to sleep at all, that was.

Sting had followed him up to the bed but remained there, awkwardly looking back and forth between his sleeping spot and Rogue without a clue of what to do.

"I'm going to the living room," Rogue announced, clutching the pillow under his arm, "do you want to come with me?" He cringed at the way that sounded because he usually wouldn't even have to ask, let alone wonder what the answer would be.

"Do you want me to?"

He forced what he hoped would look like a reassuring smile and nodded. The last thing he wanted right now was to be alone, knowing that it would only cause his thoughts to go rampant again. He doubted that it would be any different for Sting, who returned his smile with an equally weak one and grabbed his pillow off the bed before following him into the living room.

The scratches on his throat were still stinging from the peroxide, causing them to itch and irritate, and Rogue had to keep himself from making all the time and energy they'd just spent in the bathroom become in vain by scratching at them all over again. He hated the constant reminder, although he knew Sting had been right, and it was better than risking the chance of getting an infection, so he turned on the TV, hoping for some distraction.

"Wanna Netflix?" he asked, dumping his pillow in the corner of their large L-shaped couch and tucking himself underneath one of the blankets that were lying around.

"Yeah, sure," Sting replied. He sat down at the other end of the couch, and the sensible part of Rogue told him that it was probably just to give him some space, but the currently more dominant voice of anxiety suggested something else.

He browsed through the selection of available movies and series until he found something that countered his dark thoughts, a cutesy anime he thought would be right up Sting's alley. The intro started, filling the room with low volume cheerful tunes, but the distance between them set this moment apart from any other they'd spent watching TV together.

This was precisely what Rogue had feared would happen. The revelation was driving a wedge between them, even if, despite everything, Sting had responded to it better than he could've hoped. He didn't want this, he'd lost and locked out so many people he cared about already, and for once, he was yearning for someone to just hold him and tell him that everything would be okay, without wasting any words on it.

"Could you sit with me?" he pleaded softly, the idea of asking this from usually touchy-feely Sting so alien it made his gut wrench. He knew that he only had himself to blame for it because of his withdrawn behavior, so now it was up to him to fix it, and thankfully Sting moved closer without any objections.

Not close enough, so Rogue draped the other end of the blanket over him and curled up against his side. "I'm sorry," he spilled, hoping to get some conversation going and needing to get at least this off his chest, "for uh…kneeing you."

"It's fine," Sting assured him, "I know you didn't do it on purpose. I guess I was in the wrong place at the wrong time." He hesitated for a few seconds, tentatively wrapping an arm around him, "You know…If you do feel like you're ready to talk about it, I'll always be there. I'm not going anywhere."

It was everything Rogue needed to hear right now, and he didn't even bother to hold back the tears caused by the sudden rush of emotion that came over him. It would've been like carrying sand to the beach anyway because the “I love you” that followed would've shattered any resistance Rogue might have had.

He somehow managed to get out an “I love you too” and closed his eyes, all of his tension melting away into something as simple as a warm embrace. Mind now at ease, his body was quick to shut itself down, and telling himself that as long as Sting was there, he'd be alright, Rogue had no trouble falling asleep after a nightmare for the first time.

0-0

The opening theme of episode 6 -or maybe it was 5- was playing joyfully in the background, but even though Sting's eyes had been glued to the tv for god knows how long by now, he still had no idea what the show was about. The light of dawn was creeping in through the dining room’s sliding door, and yet he hadn't slept a wink since he'd woken up from his dream.

Snippets of phrases he’d read in the journal kept replaying in his head as he looked down at Rogue’s face, finally at peace in his slumber, and he was gripped with an intense desire to protect him from the world. To search out the person who had dared to put him through this hell and teach him a lesson he’d never forget.

He allowed himself a minute to fantasize about it, but it felt empty. Even though it would be satisfying in the short term, it wouldn’t do anything to change what had already happened, and quite likely might put him on a plane back to Edolas.

No, as frustrating as it was, the only one who could help Rogue out of this situation was Rogue himself. All Sting could really do was to offer him as much support as he was able to ride out this new awkwardness they were experiencing and not let it drive a wedge between them.

And as much as he respected that Rogue didn’t want to talk about it, he did. He needed to talk about what had happened and to work out his own role, if any. To know how to help his boyfriend without being always worried he was making things worse, and that left him in a very uncomfortable place. But how was he supposed to process this without betraying Rogue’s trust, and how could he coax him towards a point where he would consider getting help? It wasn’t hard to see, now that he knew what to look for, that Rogue was going to need it to find himself again.

More than anything, Sting wanted their relationship to work out, he’d moved to Magnolia with lots of ideas and dreams of a shared future after all, and he’d be damned to see it all collapse a week in. He’d find a way, of that he was certain. He was a fighter, and he had no intention of giving up on Rogue without a fight, but he could only hope that that fight wouldn’t accomplish the very opposite of what he wanted.

One thing was for sure: they were in for a rough ride. Some of the worst was yet to come, and as he held on to Rogue as tightly as he dared, Sting tried to catch some sleep, hoping it would give him the energy needed to walk through the emotional minefield again when he’d wake up in a few hours.

[buzzdixonwriter]

Our Regularly Scheduled Program Vs Binge Watching

Every now and then the little light comes on and I grasp an insight into something that previously stared me in my oblivious face.

I was watching episodes of a popular sit-com* from 35 years ago, not a huge hit but certainly a cult favorite popular enough to stay available on recorded media and now streaming.

Not having seen it in well over two decades, I plopped down and started watching episodes back to back.

I got tired by ep. three.

The problem, I realized, lay in how the material was originally presented.

It used to be we’d have to wait every week for a show to come back at its appointed time, and present us with whatever shenanigans the characters got themselves into that week.

Most episodes were standalones, there was little forward progress in the stories and the tiny bit that did exist was mostly in the backstory, not the main plot.

Every week they gave us the same thing, only slightly different.

Mind you, I can appreciate the diametrically opposed tension facing shows of that era -- I wrote and story edited for TV at that time.

The audience wants the same thing they liked the last time…

…only different.

With daily shows like G.I. Joe and Transformers and Jem, trying to come up with something new enough not to be a dull repeat but not so different to alienate the audience was a challenge.

Luckily, the Sunbow series were awash in Joes and Autobots and pop stars and Little Ponies, so we could always find some underused character to build a novel story around, or to add a fresh twist to our old standards.

But even there, I don’t think one can binge watch too many at a time without feeling a certain sense of sameness.

Modern streaming series take that into consideration, but for me that works against them:  I like my stories done in one.

Your mileage may vary, of course.

I’ll watch a 3 hour epic movie without qualm, but I start balking at 7 - 13 - 26 episode story arcs.

I loved season one of Daredevil, never watched season two.

I loved season one of Luke Cage, never watched season two.

I hear people telling me how great The Mandalorian is and I believe them 100%.

No desire to watch it, however (though this may be more the fault of seeing too many Star Wars features films).

Likewise zero interest in any new Star Trek, or for that matter any of the various Star Trek imitators out there.

One and done ripoffs / parodies excepted, of course.

I have the same problem with old movie serials, a genre and format I adore.

Nowadays I tend to watch serials by viewing the first three and last two chapters.

Everything in between tends to be padding.

The Sopranos seemed to be the exception, but then the show lost Nancy Marchand, who played Mama Soprano, and with it the entire raison d’etre of the series.

I clung with it for several seasons past that before abandoning it long before the final blackout.

The Venture Bros. still grabs my attention, but like the Sunbow shows it has a large enough cast to give it the needed flexibility to keep the stories varied yet part of the same universe as well.

It’s reportedly coming to an end with season eight, and to that I say good:  Better to go out at the top of your game than jump the shark and flounder.

. . .

Modern audiences -- at least modern audiences with cable / satellite / Internet access --  no longer have the tacit sense of an appointed time and often and appointed place to enjoy media.

Prior to the electronic age, few people could be entertained whenever they wished unless they or a family member sang or played music or read aloud or told stories.

There were kings and nobles who kept musicians on tap and theatrical companies close at hand but even they were constrained by time and space.

Today’s audience can just whip out a phone and listen / watch / read whatever they want.

As a result, the sense of being an audience seems vanish.

An audience used to be those who came to a performance of some kind, even if it meant simply showing up in their own living room on Tuesday at 8:30pm (5:30 Pacific) to listen to Fibber McGee and Molly.

Even in one’s home, it meant setting aside a time to come in and listen or watch as a production presented its entertainment.

One may or may not like what one experienced, but the audience placed itself at the disposal of the program.

Transistors started changing that.

Transistors made small cheap radios easily affordable and eminently portable.  

People could take their listening pleasure with them, and that marked the rise of recorded popular music programs instead of live scripted broadcasts.

It proved the first technological step in a long line of dominoes that completely upended the relationship of audience to entertainment.

The audience used to come and absorb patiently.

Now the entertainment needs to break through a thousand and one distractions.

It does so by escalating the sensationalism -- and by sensationalism I mean anything that’s designed to grab an audience’s immediate attention, no matter how well or thoughtfully executed.

It undercuts the lower key / slice of life popular entertainment audiences enjoyed generations ago.

(And, yes, Shakespeare & co. are filled with blood and thunder tales, but again, those were things one committed oneself to experiencing as the performers intended; audiences didn’t walk out en masse and go to a neighboring theater in mid-performance.)

. . . 

The problem with ongoing stories is this:  At any point they can be upended by fiat, negating all that’s come before.

Go ask a comic book fan how many times DC has destroyed the universe.

My reluctance to enjoy open ended fiction is that I like being able to mull over a story once it is completed, teasing out the full measure and meaning of what I’ve just experienced.

I’ll risk a program like The Queen’s Gambit because I know it’s a limited series withn a finite ending.

I wouldn’t watch an open ended series based on Walter Tevis’ book.

My career as a writer and an editor enables me to see the gears turning behind the scenes in a story.

More often than not I’m already several plot beats ahead of any movie or TV episode I’m watching.

I bailed on a highly recommended current program recently just halfway through the first episode.

I got the joke.

I knew where it was going.

Nothing about it enticed me to keep following.

The classic sit-com mentioned above wore thin because it was the same damn joke every time.

It’s a funny joke, mind you.

And when seen the way originally intended, I’d have a week to forget about the details of the previous episode, to be hungry of that particular brand of humor for a bit, and be willing to take a repeat of material a week later.

But back-to-back-to-back?

No.

Legendary writer / producer Stephen Cannel sold the first story he ever pitched to a detective series called Ironside w-a-a-a-y back in 1971.

Cannel began his pitch thusly:  “One morning Ironside wakes up with the worst toothache he’s ever had in his life…”

And instantly everyone in the pitch session paid rapt attention.

Why?

Because they knew that whatever came next, it wasn’t going to be something they’d heard a thousand times before.

I’d rather have one simple thing that grabs me than a million and one fireworks attempting to get my attention.

And I’d rather experience that one thing and be able to process it rather than see another installment that undoes everything set before.

. . .

As I’ve posted elsewhere, there’s a place for comfort food TV.

My wife and I enjoy Emily In Paris.

It reminds us of our trips to France and the stories and characters are just interesting enough to be amusing but not so demanding as to require full attention.

Nothing wrong with comfort food TV.

But the real nutrition is found elsewhere.

And for me, this applies to all modes of art and entertainment.

    © Buzz Dixon

  * No, I’m not going to tell you the title.The point of this post isn’t the particular show, it’s the manner in which televised stories are told now as opposed to how they were told the