#I have resigned myself to living on the floor in a puddle of tears

[twstjam]

This is kind of a hc but with how Meleanor was talking I am CONVINCED that she and Revan wanted to make Lilia their third (why not right!! He's already by their sides all their time and he has been since day one and they all have such immeasurable love and trust in each other) but couldn't because of the current circumstances.

Meanwhile Lilia is resigned having "missed" his chances with both of them (he mentions this in Chapter 4) and is fine with just being their friend, not knowing how highly they think of him and how much they love him, Lilia himself not knowing how he loves them just as much because after years of spilling blood and taking lives he thinks he can't love anymore, is incapable of it.

[sarah-writes-marvel]

Don’t: Bucky Barnes x Reader (platonic)

S.S: Heyo, its been a while since posting a story so here you go! BE CAUTIOUS!!! This fic ca nbe ver ytrigger so read at your own risk! Thank you guys hope you all had a wonderful holiday season!

Warnings: !!TW!! cutting, depressive/sucidial thoughts, anxiety, bleeding, needles, MAJOR ANGST and some fluff

Word Count: 1,798

Again, please read at your own risk!! Thank you!!

MASTERLIST

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The events of Endgame had affected everybody. The loss of Tony, Nat, and Vision, the resignation of Cap, Thor off in space, and Bruce was somewhere in Europe helping develop cures for diseases, everything had changed. There were only a few who stayed around the reconstructed compound anymore. Those few including Bucky, Wanda, Sam, and me. 

It was usually quiet, sometimes Pepper, Morgan, and Rhodes stopped by to see how things were going. Peter always came after school to see if we needed help on missions. T’challa and Shuri always checked in over the video call, same with many of our off-world allies. Valkyrie even checked in every once in a while, per Thor’s request when he couldn’t. It was nice, but nothing would ever be the same, and everyone knew that.

We each had our own ways of coping. The four of us that lived in the compound did our best not to bother each other. Bucky usually locked himself in his room, Sam went on runs, Wanda meditated and I blasted music so loud that I couldn’t hear my thoughts. It probably wasn’t the best way to cope but if it helped, it helped.

It was one of those days where memories flooded and tears fell without a second thought, so I plugged in my headphones and laid back in my bed getting lost in the bass vibrating in my eardrums. I watched the blades of my ceiling fan turn painfully slow while the urge to eat crept on me. I turned to my clock and realized that it was around noon and I hadn’t eaten since sometime yesterday. So I wiped the few stray tears away and managed to roll out of bed, feeling the cold wooden floor beneath my feet.

I pulled an earbud from my ear, even turned the music down just slightly as I walked down the hall. Even though there was plenty of room to spread out the four of us decided to share a hallway, the close proximity giving some comfort in the time of difficulty. It was nice.

As I passed a certain door, the sound of a muffled cry reached my ear. It was Bucky’s door. I understood why it had been so hard for him to lose Steve. He had been Bucky’s anchor in life, and his comforter after the whole Hydra situation. He had to put on a brave face before Steve left to return the stones, knowing that the punk of a friend would stay and live his life. He had to bite back the tears when he saw Steve sitting on the wooden bench, hair turned white from age and skin wrinkled. 

I took a step closer, removing my other earbud and pausing my music so I could hear better, pressing my ear gently against the door. Another strangled sob came from the other side along with a guttural scream. I felt awful, I wanted to check in but I didn’t want to bother him if he just wanted to be left alone. But I went against the latter and gently knocked on the door.

“Bucky? Are you ok?” I asked. The only reply I got was muffled sobs. Maybe he hadn’t heard me. So I knocked again a little harder. “Bucky?” Again, nothing but crying.

I took a minute, maybe he just needed a minute before he answered. So I waited, listening to the pained cries until I couldn’t take it.

“Bucky, I’m coming in,” I called through the door. I turned the knob and opened the door to see Bucky on the floor, sitting against the side of his bed, a throwing dagger in his metal hand, and fresh bloody cuts along his flesh forearm.

“Bucky? What are you doing, you’re gonna hurt yourself.” I closed the door before moving towards him, tossing my headphones and phone onto his bed before kneeling beside him. I took the stained knife from his metal grip, tossing it across the floor to pick up later, and pressed my hand over his cuts to minimize the bleeding causing him to hiss in pain.

“Please, please don’t.” he cried, his metal digits wrapping around my wrist.

“Buck, I’m gonna help you no matter how much you might not want it. I’m not gonna leave you,” I told him, looking into his lifeless blue-grey eyes.

“That’s what Steve said, now he’s gone. How do I know you aren’t lying?” his voice was weak and quiet, scared almost.

“I’m not Steve, I’m not going anywhere. I swear on my life,” My hand still pressed against his bleeding cuts. “But this needs to be a mutual agreement, so you cant leave me either. At least not right now. So I need your help, alright? I need you to work with me here Barnes.”

His gaze was hazy but he nodded and let go of his grip on my wrist.

“We need to get you to the bathroom, and I know I might be strong but your much heavier than you look, no offense.” I smile, trying to bring some light to the situation. Luckily I saw a small smirk form on his paling face before he nodded again. 

I removed my hold on his arm, standing up and reaching my hands down to pull him up, which was successful as he used the bed to help. His left arm wrapped around my shoulder as we shuffled to the bathroom where I set him on the toilet.

I grabbed the darkest washcloth in his cupboard of towels, pressing it against his wrist and placing his metal hand over it.

“I need you to keep the pressure on that, please. I know it probably hurts but you gotta do it,” I commanded gently, squeezing his hand around his arm. He simply nodded as his eyes followed mine lethargically. I continued to look through the cupboards for his first aid kit.

“Top cupboard to the left.” He sounded tired and I didn’t blame him. I had walked in on him sitting in a small puddle of his own blood and the emotional toll this event has all taken on us was more than enough reason to be tired. I opened the cupboard he suggested and retrieved the kit from the shelf opening it quickly and pulling out what I needed.

Even when the blood had been dripping from the cuts I knew some were deep enough for stitches, so I pulled the needle and suture thread from the box, gaining a groan from Bucky.

“I’m sorry but I know those cuts are too deep. It’ll only be a stitch or two and ill make it as painless as possible Buck, you just gotta stay with me.” I replied, looking at him. He replied with a nod as tears streamed down his face. I quickly wiped one away before sending him a small smile and returning to my task.

“Alright hun, we need to clean your arm so I can make clean stitches,” I stated, standing in front of him holding my hands out again to help him to the sink. He took my hands and hauled himself from his position and made his way to sink and began washing the cuts under the running water, wincing at the stinging pain.

Once he was back on his seat, I carefully patted the area dry with the used towel and began stitching the larger cuts. I only paused when Bucky hissed in pain or jerked away after I had pulled the thread through. A chorus of apologizes came from my mouth, and from his.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry.” his usual stern, strong voice was broken and came out in whispers.

“Buck, you dont have to apologize. It’s alright, life gets hard, it’s only logical to find a coping mechanism. It’s ok hun. It’s not your fault.” I cooed, trying to calm him.

“But I do, I just tried to kill myself because, what? Because I’m sad that my friend left me to be happy? How pathetic is that?” He denied, shaking with anger and sadness.

“It’s not pathetic because it is completely valid.” I began pulling the last stitch tight. “Life gets hard, and you have been through hell and back too many times to count. We have to cope with it somehow and pain can be a distraction, though not always the best option.” I continued looking at his sorrowful tear-filled eyes.  “Steve was your rock, the person you went to with every issue. And now without him, you feel lost and your drowning under the metaphorical waves of life. So your feelings are valid, and your actions were valid, just not the right way to go about it.” I finished as I wrapped gauze and Coban around the fresh stitches.

A moment of silence filled the bathroom as I finished wrapping his arm and cleaned up the supplies that had been used.

“How are you so good at this? Why weren’t you phased?” he questioned, breaking the eerie silence.

“That, my dear friend, is a conversation for another time. You need to focus on yourself right now.” I said with a smile while I watched my hands.

He looked away, down to his bandaged arm flexing his fist as the muscles shifted the bandage.

“Thanks,” he said quietly. “For helping me.” His eyes looked to mine, the small spark of hope back in his irises.

“It’s what friends do,” I replied. “Now you need some sleep,” I said helping him from the toilet and leading him back to his bed. Moving my phone and headphones out of his way, he settled onto his bed grabbing the fleece blanket from the foot of his bed and pull it over himself.

I carefully help before grabbing my phone and the knife on the floor and turning to leave. 

“Wait. I-uh- could you stay? Please.” he sounded like an innocent little boy who was scared of the monsters under the bed.

“Ya, of course I can.” I smiled, crawling into bed next to him. I sat with my back against the headboard, Bucky’s head on my lap, and his bandaged arm wrapped over my legs. My fingers found their way through his brunette locks as his breaths became heavier.

“You know you can always come to me,” I said quietly, leaning my head against the backboard. “I’ll listen, always.”

“You can come to me too. Tell me anything and everything,” he mumbled through his tired state.

“Love ya Buck. Sleep well.” I hummed quietly, closing my eyes.

“Love you too Kenz.” he murmured quietly before the room was filled with soft snores from both the soldier and me.

Things might not go back to how they were but they will get better.

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THanks for reading. IF you ever need someone to talk to if you ever have thoughts like these dont be afraid to send me a message! Im alwasy willing to talk through lifes troubles with soemone if it helps them! Also know that there are hotlines that you can call! 

[crimson-wrld]

Caged

Helloo my name on here is Crimson, you can call me that or Z. I found the whump community recently, it's always something I've enjoyed but just recently found the name for on a random check-in to Tumblr lol. I've followed a lot of cool blogs and done my fair share of lurking and reblogging before I decided now is the time to share one of my writings. I have also been thinking about making a new whump story, just for my tumblr here and maybe posting drabbles too.

I write a story over on Wattpad (lol) that is very whumpy and this is a snippet of my most recent chapter. Now here is some context because this is from chapter 38 meaning there are a lot of characters and I felt like it sounded better without changing them to their respective roles, so I hope it's not confusing.

The backstory is that the whumpees are being held in captivity by the whumpers. The whumpers are watching back a video of the narrator whumpee from the night before while making the whumpees serve them. Lucas did not know what happened and gets distracted by a part of the video, which is where this starts.

Whumpers (nicknamed) - Hardhead, Vicious, Baldy, Chip, Sasquatch, Crazy

Whumpees - Talon (narrator, also referred to as Mutt), Lucas (also referred to as Runt)

Caretaker - Sebastian (is a romantic partner to Talon the narrator)

((I've never done this before so I'm not totally sure how to write the CW and tags but I'm trying. Just know that this is heavy writing))

CW: brief implied past noncon, brief noncon mentions, past noncon drugging mention, brief slut-shaming language, captivity, choking, manhandling, hair pulling, claustrophobia, sensory deprivation, multiple whumpers, multiple whumpees, dehumanization, suffocation, stress position, collared, restraints, muzzled/gagged, blood, sleep deprivation, hallucinations, thinking they're going to die (please let me know if I missed anything)

"This is my favourite part!" I hear Hardhead exclaim loudly, then the tv becomes louder, so blaringly loud that it sounds like I have my ear flush against one of those really big box speakers. Lucas continues grabbing a case of beer from the fridge but we both turn our heads toward the tv at the sudden volume change.

It's the part where the drug kicks in and Hardhead has me on his lap facing the tripod camera, hand squeezing the life out of my neck. I can hear myself desperately struggling for air, trying to plead for help, something... for it all to stop- but the drug turns my words into mush. I can see it from another perspective this time, I can see my face losing colour and the sort of foggy memories of it come flooding back.

Then I see his hand trail down my stomach. My arms are weakly flailing out and trying to pull his other hand off of my neck. Then his hands are on my privates and in real life, I look away from the tv. Tears are falling down my face as I hear him verbally teasing me on the video, calling me a whore and laughing at me as I try to breathe. I was so drugged I don't even remember that.

"I bet you like that, dirty whore, don't you?" I hear him say. I start to bring my hands up to cover my ears.

The sound of a gasp and shattering glass fills the room and I jerk my head up to Lucas. He's holding the fridge door open and is staring at the tv, mouth agape and face horrified. It's like a train wreck- he just can't look away. The pack of beer he was holding is on the floor, bottles now in a million pieces scattered around, beer puddling in the tiles and spreading all over the place.

"Shit," I say, staring wide-eyed at the mess on the floor.

"What the fuck was that?!" Vicious yells from the living room.

Lucas snaps out of it then, looking down at the foam bubbles and liquid and glass all culminating together.

"Oh no--- What do I do?!" He whispers, voice cracking in panic. My heart is pounding in my chest harder now. Without much thought, I make a hasty decision.

"Don-don't worry-- I'll take the blame," I say, stepping closer to the broken box so it seems more believable. I hear the couch creaking and steps nearing the kitchen.

I just don't want to see him get hurt.

"Wait don--" Lucas starts to say but falls silent when Hardhead and Vicious walk through the door.

I can hear Hardheads voice echoing in my head, "Rule four; listen. Do what I say. If you don't, I'll punish you- if you make a mistake ill punish you too."

I know I've only known him for about two days, and the situation is deathly far from ideal, but I kind of see him as like a little brother, and I feel the strong obligation to protect him from these terrible terrible fucking people.

"What the hell are you two dogs doing in here?" Hardhead yells, looking down and seeing the mess between our feet. "Which one of you bitches did that?" He yells louder, his face getting angrier.

They take their beer really seriously.

Before Lucas can say anything I look Hardhead in the face and speak in my still semi-croaky voice, "I- I did it. I'm sorry Master." I say bowing my head after.

Lucas looks at me with wide worried eyes speaking, "No! I--"

"Shut the fuck up Runt! Go grab a mop and clean this shit up." Hardhead demands. Lucas brokenly stares between me and Hardhead. I can see the guilt on his face.

Viscous taps his foot, grumbling, "Do it now, Runt."

Lucas looks back at me again, and I give him a nod of encouragement. He frowns and reluctantly leaves to grab the stuff to clean.

"Now Mutt, you sit." Vicious instructs, hooking his finger through the collar loop and pulling me down, letting go when I allow myself to fall to my knees the rest of the way. I feel some of the glass slice into my knees and legs and I hiss, not daring to move though.

"I'm sorry Master's- it just, just slipped," I plead, seeing if I can maybe lessen whatever this punishment is going to be.

Hardhead chuckled evilly, "Oh you're gonna be sorry." He crossed his arms over his chest and takes a single step forward. Lucas gets back into the kitchen now, keeping his eyes trained to the floor as he starts sweeping some of the glass from the floor a little further away.

"Nevermind that for now Runt. Let's have a show. There's something I've been wanting to try for a while now. This is the perfect teaching moment..." he says creeping right up next to me. He grabbed me by my hair tightly and pulled me awkwardly behind him into the living room where the rest of the men are still finishing the rest of the video. Vicious follows closely behind, tugging Lucas by the arm.

I rub my head when he lets go and tosses me to the floor. I hit the ground with a groan, the wounds on my chest bursting with pain, quickly scrambling to get on to my knees though, so I don't get in more trouble. I remember they like me in this position when I got into trouble before.

I whimper when I feel the glass in my knees push in deeper, and I try to pull as much as I can out when they turn away. I manage to get most of it out and I hold my hands over the wounds with pressure to hopefully stop the bleeding.

"Tie him up please," Hardhead says to Vicious, louder than the rest of the conversation. Then he opens the door to the basement and quickly disappears down the stairs.

Vicious smirks, saying, "Don't mind if I do." He opens up a drawer of a dresser on a wall nearby and pulls out a few bundles of rope. They keep that stuff everywhere- because they're sadists.

He stalks toward me until he's behind me, and he shoves me onto my stomach. I reflexively put my arms out in front of me so they don't get crushed and see there's now blood smeared on my hands- more than I expected.

Vicious planted one of his knees on my back to keep me down and the other knee on one side of my body to trap me even more. He grabbed my arms and forced them behind my back. I grit my teeth when he tightly ties new ropes over the deep wounds from yesterday's ones. Then he takes hold of my elbows and jerks them closer together. I gasp and let out a surprised yelp. This would hurt regardless; because elbows are not supposed to bend that way, but it also brings my injured shoulder into an extremely uncomfortable position. I squirm and struggle without even realizing, kicking my feet slightly and raising my head, mouth open in a silent cry of anguish.

All I really notice is Lucas onlooking the scene with a deep frown, twiddling his fingers before a hand tangles in my hair and shoves my face into the rug on the floor.

"Calm it down there, doggy," Crazy laughs, pushing my head down more than should even be possible. The shag rug tickles the side of my face and I squeeze my eyes shut as I feel more rope wrap around my elbows. They pull taught, but not touching, and only because I'm not flexible enough to do that, because if I could, Vicious would have done it. There's no slack though, the rope is so tight that I can't move my arms apart at all, and he tied the space in the middle too, so I couldn't try to move them closer either. It's very uncomfortable, and my shoulder throbs harshly. Involuntary whimpers escape my lips. The men find that funny.

Then the knee on my back disappears, Crazy keeps his hold on my head, and I feel hands reappear on my legs, tying just above the bend of my knees and then my ankles too. I can't stop focusing on how tight the bonds are.

Once Vicious finishes, Crazy lets go of my head, and grasps me from under my arms, lifting me back up and positioning me back on my knees like a kid playing with a Barbie doll. I let out a long breath of resignation. My hair is now a mess on top of my head and hanging in my face, reminding me of the bed head Sebastian says is so cute on me.

Hardhead comes back upstairs with a tote bag in hand. He must've gone down there to gather the stuff for whatever he wanted to try. The fact that it was something he wanted to try out scared me more, because I had no idea what it could possibly be.

He closed the basement door and walked a few steps toward another door about three feet down the wall. He opens it up and reveals something that makes my heart drop.

It's a cage.

A metal wired dog cage, only big enough to fit a medium-sized dog. It's rectangular, and the roof is short, way too cramped for a human.

I start freaking out, tugging against the ropes and jerking my body around, struggling futilely to get away.

"No, wait!" I cry as Hardhead starts walking toward me. I struggle more, tears falling down my face, trying to tilt backward but Vicious and Crazy hold me down in my place.

"This is what happens when you fuck up," Vicious says evilly, and I look around the room desperately, like there's anything I can do. The men are amused, and joking amongst each other, clinking beers and watching the scene unfold. I look to Lucas, and he's crying too; silent tears, pooling from his brown eyes. They're filled with so much guilt.

"I'll do i-" He starts to say, but when I realize what he's doing I cut him off.

"It's fine Lucas!" I shout panicked and wide-eyed. That's one thing I'm not going back on; I don't want him to get hurt.

When I speak Vicious violently backhands me, so hard that my head snaps to the side and I sob out.

"Shut up." He growls, then he tightly grips my jaw and straightens my face out so I'm looking forward at Hardhead instead of at Lucas, holding me there.

Hardhead comes toward us, dumping the contents of the bag onto the floor. It's a random assortment of things and I don't like any of them. Among those things is a muzzle- a fucking muzzle. My heart just pounds harder and harder, the tears just fall faster.

Hardhead crouches in front of me, right up close into my space. He reaches behind my neck and grabs hold of the collar. He unclasps the back piece and I almost feel a breath of relief coming until he pulls it tighter.

"This is an extra punishment for escaping," he says pulling it tighter and fumbling with it until he fastened it closed, "I'd say about two more notches is good, for now."

I feel my breath escape me, it becomes even more of a chore to breathe in-- it's miserable. I hate the feeling of being manhandled like this, having to let them touch me, feeling so helpless... no control.

I just want Sebastian to hold me and tell me it will all be okay.

Hardhead picks up a bag of cotton balls from the pile on the floor and he stuffs a few of them deep into my left ear. I try to pull away but Viscious just tightens his hold and corrects me the way they want me. The sound in the room distorts, everything is muffled on one side. He pushes the cotton in as much as possible, then places some sort of earbud on top that wraps around the base of my ear and fastens it so it won't fall out. My fighting does nothing to stop them mirroring this on my other ear.

I can barely hear anything after that-- only very slight chatter, but I can't make out what any of it means. A hand touches my cheek from behind me, and I don't even hear it coming. I jump and turn to see Crazy laughing. I don't hear that either, which is like a blessing and a curse at the same time. Vicious lets go of me when I turn.

On my way looking around the room Lucas catches my eye again. Chip is next to him this time, pulling him close to his side, like in a hug, but it's obviously not in a comforting way. Lucas is sort of shrunken into himself, but when he notices me looking he puts his fist to his chest and rubs it in a circular motion.

He's signing 'I'm sorry.'

I shake my head at him.

It's not his fault... and it's not mine either.

I look back at the closet. The cage feels like it's looming over me--- it terrifies me.

My vision goes black, and at first, I think I've passed out, but that's obviously not the case because I'm clearly still conscious. Then I realize that I've been blindfolded when I fell the knot tighten at the back of my head, hair pulling into it painfully. I flinch when they touch my face to adjust it.

"No, please..." I start to beg, "I'm sssorry, I'm so-rry-- p-please." My pleading is interrupted by sobs and hiccups. I can hardly even hear myself speaking, I mainly just feel the words rumble and vibrate in my chest as I speak them, and I don't like that feeling by itself.

I gasp for breath, facing wherever I think Hardhead is standing and continue again.

"Please I-" I was cut off by something being pushed into my mouth. I recoiled backwards instinctively, being stopped by someone standing behind me. What I now realize is a bit is shoved further in and I'm forced to bite down as my mouth is enveloped in leather and the leather straps pull taut against my skin so tight I feel like they're cutting in.

The muzzle...

Nothing happens for a few seconds. I feel a slight movement, then hands on my legs, and hands on my sides. One of the fingers hits the burn by my ribs and I let out a muffled whine, feeling the floor disappear from beneath me. I try to struggle again, fighting against them as hard as I can, though it's useless, and I quickly have to give up because the tight collar, the bit in my mouth and the leather residing over it leave me breathless. I suck in air from my uncovered nose desperately, having to focus on it alone because of how hard it is.

I'm not even claustrophobic, but the thought of being stuffed in that cage, in the closet, alone... scares me so much. It's even worse because I'm being deprived of nearly all of my senses.

Then I'm being set down and bent forward, pulled around and shoved until I feel the cold metal of the cage against my legs. They have me sitting on my knees again, bent so that I fit under the short roof. I can feel the wires against the skin on my exposed back and the back of my head as well.

I was thinking it couldn't get any worse when my head gets pulled downward harshly by the collar. I get surprised and jerk up reflexively only for someone to grab me by the hair and push me back down lower. I feel hands fumbling at the front of the collar and occasionally a bit of rope touching against different parts of my neck for a minute before they and the hand in my hair go away. I try to lift my head back up but I can't- it's held in place. They must have tied a rope from the collar loop to the bottom of the cage.

I realize they still aren't finished when my tied wrists are pulled up next. They get tied to the part of the cage where the roof meets the side. My hands are flush against it and some of my fingers are forced to stick out. The same thing happens to the rope on my elbows to the roof of the cage, making my arms nearly form a ninety-degree angle.

I'm left still and locked into the stressful position, then there's a slight vibration, followed by a larger one, then... nothing.

It must've been them closing the doors- shutting me off from everything completely, except for the cold metal beneath me and the throbbing, pulsing, pain. I can't decide if this is better or worse than what was originally planned for me today.

I mean it should be better, right?

There's no warm breath over my shoulder and on the nape of my neck, no hands trailing over my body, no breathy groans in my ears, no chapped lips over my skin and my mouth, no hands pulling my hair, nobody forcing themself onto me...

There's just nothing.

So why is my heart still racing?

Why does it feel like the walls are closing in?

I don't know. I don't know why I want to stay in and leave at the same time- why I can't decide even though the options seem easy.

I feel like it's only been a minute or so when my arms start to ache and my shoulder develops a raw stabbing pain, not unlike the way it felt when it was originally injured. I attempt to shift my position to relieve the ache, which is where I come into even more of a problem.

If I lean forward and bring my head low, which id hoped would allow my arms to move down more, it pulls on my shoulders. The rope securing my arms to the top of the cage makes sure my arms can't move when the rest of my body does, and therefore threatens to pull my shoulders out of their sockets, which especially doesn't bode well on the one that already has been.

When I try to do the opposite and lean my head backward, a similar problem with my arms arises, but to go along with it, they've somehow tied the collar so that it pulls tighter when I pull my head away from the floor, completely cutting off my airway. It feels just like when Hardhead was squeezing his hand around my throat.

If I return to the middle like I originally was, I realize that I have to give my effort to keep my head in the right position, or risk losing my arms... or suffocating.

I decide that I definitely want out.

Seemingly on cue, the pain of everything else seems to slam into me full force, like all the adrenaline of the situation has fully crashed. If I have to hold this position... then I don't know how long I can last... and I don't know how long they're going to keep me in here.

Tears soak through the cloth blindfold and I can't manage to get my sobbing under control, which in turn spirals away the focus I had kept on my breathing. I start to panic, my chest tightening. I'm going to die.

Holy shit. I'm going to die.

I have a hard time doing it, but I scream, as loud as I can through the muzzle. I can't even tell if I made any noticeable noise or not, I can only feel the rumble in my chest, hear my own racing heartbeat. I have to wait a second before I do it again, jerking my body as much as I can -which isn't very much- and squeezing my eyes shut tight. My mouth feels dry because of the bit pushing on my tongue, the pain in my throat comes back full force. My attempts to move make the new cuts on my knees hurt. Everything hurts.

I can't fucking breathe.

Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.

In my moment of total desperation I think about it- Sebastian- think about him, his soothing voice.

"Breathe baby, breathe," I can hear him say, "Just focus on me Cuci, in... and out."

I remember how he helps me through a panic attack, ''I'll do it with you, just copy me,' and I can almost see him in front of me, appearing in the darkness, taking deep breaths in for me to mimic.

And I do.

I suck in a large breath through my nose, following the fake Sebastian that I'm so inclined to think is real. I'm staring into his blue eyes, and he's staring back into mine. He raises his hand, and lightly places it on my cheek, mostly resting over the tight leather, and he whispers to me, but I don't know what he's saying, all I hear is the noise. I want to lean into his touch, but I cant-- I want him to hug me tight, and kiss me, but I can't ask him to either. He looks so real- but he's not... right?

I can't tell, but it doesn't matter, I just match his breaths until they're back under control- the tint bit of control I have over them. He whispers more to me, leans forward and gives me the lightest kiss on the forehead, then disappears, a puff of smoke into the air, like it was blown from Hardheads very own cigarette.

I wanted to laugh, a bitter laugh... it can't have been that long yet, and I'm already losing it. But obviously, I couldn't. I can't do anything.

I don't know how long later it was when my tears had dried up, the hallucinations had been plaguing me for so long. I could feel cold hands on my sides, my hips, feeling over my shivering body, grabbing at the shorts, and I couldn't tell if they were real, but I couldn't even manage to care, because I had to focus on breathing and keeping my head up.

I'm so fucking tired. My throat is dry-- it burns, I can't feel my arms, my legs sting, my wrists and ankles never had time to recover from yesterday, the direction of me trying to move rubs against my burns, everything sore, my feet are numb from sitting on my knees for so long, I'm seeing random shapes and hearing random things. I'm losing my mind.

I just want to lay my head down, close my eyes, relax, sleep.

Please let me sleep.

It gets to a point where my eyes drift closed, and it gets harder and harder to open them back up each time. So hard I eventually resort to leaning forward slightly every time I start to drift asleep so it relights the pain in my shoulders and forces me to stay awake. I just have to remind myself; if I fall asleep ill pull my shoulders out.

I'm exhausted. My brain is fuzzy. I don't know how long I've been in here in this stress position. I don't know how much longer I have to hold it, but I hope it'll be over soon.

If they let me out ill be good, I'll be so good for them. No mistakes...

So good...

[miraculous786]

Miraculous: Chat Blanc (Sequel to Heartstring) > Eighteen

Masterlist

"Marinette, our friendship is everything to me," Viperion spoke softly, standing at a distance to keep her comfortable. "I would never to lie to you."

"B-But you said..."

She turned her head to the side. Dry tears welled up in her eyes. The kwami cuddled up to her neck whizzed up to her freckled cheek.

"I know," he agreed, tone edging at a guilty whisper. "And I regret all of it. I just-"

Luka let out an uncharacteristic sigh. Scaled fingers gripped at dyed blue locks.

"I just couldn't control myself. Everything just came out of my mouth without thought. I...It felt like watching something through a screen. I-I couldn't do anything."

The girl pursed her lips. She shared a sad look to Tikki. "I want to believe you, Luka. I really do, but- how do I know that what I saw before wasn't you?"

He gripped his lyre, whilst poking one of the strings - as if it would give him an epiphany.

She hesitantly turned around, frown settled on her features. Her gaze took in his forlorn expression. His resigned demeanour. Defeated posture. The dull look in his usually-mirthful orbs.

A gasp escaped her parted lips.

Viperion's head snapped up. "What's wrong?" he asked - the worry laced in his voice making her will quiver. "Are you okay?"

"Your...your eyes..." she breathed.

Concern overcame him, just as Tikki came into his vision. After studying what seemed to be his face for a few seconds, the kwami flew back to her owner's side.

"Your eyes are still red," she supplied. "Not as dark as before, but still red."

"T-That means you're telling the truth, and...but- how...?"

He suddenly came forward in a quick movement, encasing her in his arms just as realisation struck her. Marinette's eyes widened, her breathing becoming fast.

"L-Luka!" she choked, hugging him back when he squeezed her tight. "I- oh my gosh, I'm so sorry! I can't believe I trusted-"

"It's okay, my Melody, it's okay," he hushed, stroking her silky locks with care. She soon melted into his embrace. Tears rolled off of his magic-infused costume and mask.

"No, it's not."

He leaned his head atop hers. "It is, Marinette. Trust me, I forgive you."

The sniffles that she let out were muffled by his chest. The tears that she cried were wiped away by him from her cheeks. It was such a gentle gesture that she couldn't help but throw herself onto him again.

They stayed there for a dozen moments more. Cold from the wind was chased away by their shared warmth. Fear of the situation was scared by their heartfelt reunion.

"It's alright, my Melody."

She tilted her head up to meet his gaze. Their pants were blown on each other's faces as they slowly inched closer in sync.

Until a loud shout broke the tender moment.

"W-What was that?"

Viperion squinted to where the source of the noise was, and, sure enough, a white blur was seen to be running about the tip of the Eiffel Tower. It seemed to be sporadic in its movements - panicked. As if it were searching for something.

"It's Chat Blanc. He's looking for you."

Marinette turned to where he was looking. When noticing the akuma, a surge of confidence began to flow through her veins. "We have to save him."

"I don't think it's a good idea for me to fight with you, Melody."

"What? W-Why?"

"He's right, Marinette," Tikki urged. "His eyes being red could mean that Chat Blanc can still control him. It's better to go by yourself."

She sighed. "You're right...but, but what if I'm not strong enough? He's my partner."

Luka placed a hand on her shoulder. "You are strong enough, Marinette. Believe in yourself, just like I believe in you."

After a few seconds, pink dusted her rosy cheeks, as she let out a small giggle. Before he could comprehend what was happening, she came forward, pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips.

He too blushed - watching as she smiled shyly.

"Thank you, Luka. Tikki, Spots On!"

~*~*~

"Chat Noir!"

Said person turned around, only to be met with the sound of a string extending and a hit to the face. Sharp claws held onto the ground, keeping him stable as he took in the person in front of him.

"It's Chat Blanc!" he hissed, standing up and grabbing hold of his baton. "Where did you take Marinette?"

"Somewhere safe!" Ladybug exclaimed. "Chat, I'll ask again. Give me your akumatized object. We don't have to fight."

Blue eyes turned into slits. "Give me my Princess back first!"

"Listen, Chat. Marinette wouldn't want this. You're one of her best friends. One of the people she trusts. Whatever you do now will hurt her."

"Well, not as much as those stupid classmates of hers hurt her!"

Ladybug flinched. However, she didn't have enough time to react as a staff extended into her, sending her careening into the ground below. She snapped her yo-yo back into her hand, then threw it to wrap around a beam.

Her figure perched on the metal, as bluebell eyes scanned about. There was a flash of ivory to her side, and she immediately swung in its direction.

There was a grunt as she kicked Adrien, causing him to land onto the floor harshly. The relief she felt was short-lived, though, when with a quick launch, he was already back in the air again.

"This is not going well..." she mumbled worriedly. "Maybe I should..."

Marinette glanced down at her weapon in consideration.

"What's wrong, Ladybug?" he spat aloud, his voice echoing about the Eiffel Tower. "Too scared to fight your little sidekick?"

His words made something inside her crack. She gained a determined expression, as she gripped the yo-yo in her hand.

"Lucky Charm!"

A flash of pink and ladybugs swirled above, soon manifesting an item into existence. It was a spotted mask - exactly the same as the one she was adorning now.

"What am I supposed to do with this?"

Someone cackled from above. "Oh, I don't know. Cosplay?" They attempted to tackle her to the ground, with a hand laced in destructive energy held out.

The heroine sidestepped out of range. She leaped into suspension again, feeling wind whistle past her ears as she fell. With a graceful roll, she settled onto a building's rooftop, that had a flat surface and no chimney.

Quiet steps followed behind.

"Where is my Princess?" he snarled, fangs bared as he inched closer. "I need to protect her!"

"She doesn't need protection!" Ladybug retorted, spinning her weapon as a shield. "She's strong enough as it is."

"That may be true, but who says that there won't be more in the future who want to break her heart? Break her spirit? Her trust?"

Marinette fought off the warmth blooming from her heart. She instead charged forward, blocking bursts of energy sent her way with her turning yo-yo. The mask at her hip jolted from every movement she made.

The one she was fighting growled in frustration. He held his hands out, roaring, "Cataclysm!"

Her eyes widened. The sheer force of the power shoved her off of the ledge behind, prompting her to groan as she was planted onto a pavement.

Ladybug grit her teeth. She readjusted the red-and-black object at her hip. Her arms supported her weight as she stumbled up.

That was when a small puddle at her foot caught her attention.

She focused on it in confusion, feeling a sense of intrigue take over. Her eyes zeroed in on the reflection of herself - lit up by the lampposts around - and then her face.

Or more specifically where the mask lining her face was.

Marinette sucked in a breath. "Oh no..."

~*~*~

My head huurrrttss :(

@unholykrow​  @northernbluetongue​ @aestheticnpoetic​ @inno-chan​ @uwuteamleader​  @vinebino​ @stina-2245​  @2sunchild2​ @worlds-tiniest-spook-pastry​  @theatreandcomicfreak​ @alissasmith21 @a-fan-fighting-for-equality @maribat-is-lifeblood​   @corabeth11​ @queenmj10​ @smolplantmum​ @hopetookmysoul​ @akalovelymaybe​  @the-navistar-carol​  @miraculouslycool​  @bobothyross  @geminikessa​  @damianette-is-life​  @fandomsarepainful​   @iamacartoon​  @tyagressian​   @soupfilledboots​​  

[notapaladin]

and thank the lord i don’t have my way (1/3)

HELLO FRIENDS IT IS THE ONE YEAR ANNIVERSARY OF ME POSTING THE FIRST OBSBLOOD FIC EVER. So you get not one, not two, but three fics today! Blame @arahir

Acatl has let the boundaries stay open for far too long. Tonight, he closes them. Tizoc attempts to object.

Also on AO3.

-

The Revered Speaker’s chambers are very dark and very cold. Never mind that it’s the rainy season and that the air at sunset was filled with steam rising off the puddles of the day’s deluge; the sun set long ago, and Metztli the moon illuminates nothing away from the path of the windows. The walls are splashed with murals of war and conquest that must surely be blood-bright in the light of day; they are muted and faded now, shadows on shadows.

They aren’t as faded as the man on the Revered Speaker’s sleeping mats. True, Tizoc-tzin, emperor of Tenochtitlan, is approaching his middle age, but his hair is still black and his limbs are still straight. When he smiles—cold and cruel as that smile is—he has all his teeth. He dresses in the finest quetzal feathers, turquoise, jade; even here, alone on his mat covered with jaguar skins, his loincloth is finely embroidered cotton. An emerald rod pierces his nasal septum. He is covered in the riches of his Empire. He should be magnificent, a true symbol of the power of the Mexica.

He should have died six years ago.

Acatl knows this. His bare feet are silent on the tiled stone floor, and his god is silent in his head. Mictlantecuhtli evidently has not deigned to share whatever opinion He has on this with His most faithful servant. Good. Acatl’s long since made up his mind regardless.

Tearing open the boundaries had taken all three High Priests. Closing them, but leaving them that tiny bit ajar, had taken two High Priests, the Guardian of the Duality, and the Revered Speaker of Texcoco. But to slam them shut...well. Acatl is High Priest for the Dead, High Priest of the Lord of the Place of Death, and he can do that with his bare hands.

He stops at the foot of the dais upon which Tizoc’s mat rests. For a long moment, he simply looks at the snoring, twitching man currently rumpling the blankets. He inhales. He holds for a count of three.

He could do it with his bare hands. It would be easy. He’s no trained warrior but he’s strong enough for this, strong enough to put his hands around Tizoc’s neck and squeeze until he turns purple, until his eyes bulge, until he rolls back limp. It’s what Tizoc would have done to him. (What he would have done, and what he probably—gods, he probably would have made Teomitl watch.) Or there’s his knives, lethally sharp, whose wounds always fester and never heal. It would take only the smallest scratch to have Tizoc rotting from his blackened heart outwards, to have him die slow and incoherent as pus oozes forth from every pore, whimpering like an animal, like the clergy of Tlaloc in their pens—

He exhales.

No. He will do this properly. At least this, too, is easy; he dares not chant out loud, but his lips move in the words of a prayer as his magic builds low in his gut. It won’t take much. Tizoc’s life hangs by a thread as it is, and he holds it tightly in his hand.

Tizoc stirs. Snorts. Rolls over.

He nicks his forearm, dabbing a single fingerprint of blood on the dais. And he keeps praying. The edges of the boundaries yawn wide as a mouth, ready to swallow Tizoc whole. The completion of this slow weaving will close them. My Lord, he thinks, I deliver this soul unto Your keeping.

Tizoc wakes, sees him—and screams.

Acatl smiles. He knows what Tizoc must be seeing. A man-shaped figure, his eyes voids, his bones shining like moonlight through the black glass of his skin. It’s a terrifying visage; even Teomitl, who is used to it (Teomitl, who is in awe of it, and that still knocks him flat when he thinks about it too long) flinches when he spots it out of the corner of his eye. Tizoc has always been craven, and now he looks so horrified that for a moment Acatl thinks he might not even get to finish the spell.

As the magic begins to pool together—a feeling like muscles tensing to spring, a beast of shadows preparing to leap—Tizoc finds the breath to yell, “Guards! Guards!”

He takes a breath and lets it out. His skin is an ordinary brown again, bones no longer visible through shadowed muscles, but Mictlan still leaves him feeling like a hollow shell. His voice is the voice of a corpse. “They won’t come.”

Now he supposes he has to give Tizoc credit, because the man tries to lunge for his eyes. Tries and predictably fails; already the spell Acatl’s cast is leaching through his veins, and his limbs will not obey him. Sadly, the same can’t be said for his shrill voice. “What have you done to them?! Traitor!”

He remembers sunlight on the water, and a smile that was even brighter than that. Remembers a murmur of, “Thank you, Acatl.” He lifts his chin, letting pride leak into his voice. “They are following orders tonight.”

Tizoc’s eyes move like rats in a trap, but he’s not a complete idiot. There’s only one man the army would fall into line behind so easily. When he speaks next, he sounds almost resigned. “...My brother,” he spits. “So you have corrupted him.”

Acatl grits his teeth, but there’s no need for him to lose his temper here. “Teomitl is a far better man than you could ever dream of being. You ought to thank me for your years of life; he would have put you down like the dog you are ages ago.” And I should have let him.

“I will have you flayed. I will loop the flower garland around your neck myself, I’ll make those traitorous siblings of yours watch, and then I’ll put them to the sword—”

There’s more, but Acatl isn’t paying attention. He’d once thought that no mortal justice could compete with the need to keep the Fifth World intact; he still thinks that, but by now he’s learned that sometimes pursuing justice and doing his duty are one and the same. It’s taken him long enough. Oh, he’d wavered at first—that first time Teomitl had shared his plans for the future, not even him following it up with a declaration that he was going to wait was enough to stop his heart from sinking. But then Tizoc had come back—no, had slunk back into the city, like a coyote with its ears flat and its belly pressed to the ground—and he’d been nearly stunned with the wrongness of it. That Tizoc could lead an army to its death and then let an entire priesthood to be slaughtered like beasts—it’s not an affront that can be borne. His incompetence will tear the Empire apart if the Tlaxcallans and Tarascans don’t get to them first; each campaign leaves Teomitl a little more tired, a little more snappish and run-down. Soon he won’t be able to carry the army on his back anymore.

The man he loves has new scars. He blames Tizoc for that, but first and worse he blames himself. It was his hand that put Tizoc on the throne, and it will be his hand that removes him from it. There’s only as much justice as he can make, after all.

Mictlan gnaws at his guts again, and he lets it scour him clean. In and out and in again, he breathes. The spell pulses like a living heart. Tizoc must feel it, because he bleats, “What do you think you’re doing?!”

He whispers the rest of his prayer, ignoring Tizoc for the moment. This spell is rarely used, not because of the cost—a few paltry drops of blood—but because of its very specific conditions. It only works on dead souls, not dead bodies, avoiding the attention of the Wind of Knives. It would not do to cheat a comrade of His captive. Rare is the soul that can die without harming the body; how helpful it is, then, that Quenami crafted Tizoc a new one. He must remember to thank him. “Sending your soul to Mictlan where it belongs. None will see any hand in your death but the gods’ wills.”

Tizoc’s breath rattles in his lungs. “Blasphemy. I can’t imagine your precious sister—”

“My sister? The Guardian of the Duality? That sister?” Acatl feels himself smiling. “I am restoring the order of the world. She would hold my cloak for me.” After all, she hates Tizoc too. Not as much as he does—she’s a good woman, she doesn’t nurture her grudges the way her menfolk do—but quite enough to look the other way should his soul be severed from his body by what looks to all the world like a common attack of the heart. Such a tragedy, she’ll say, and meet his eyes, and smile. He kneels to wipe away his bloody fingerprint, the only sign of his presence here tonight.

Tizoc is still trying to defend himself. The fool. “You—you can’t,” he splutters. “What about...” Eyes roll wildly as he casts about for an excuse, and finally alights on one he thinks must work. “Your patron! Surely, surely Lord Death can’t approve—”

“My lord,” Acatl says, with a gentleness he doesn’t feel. “I brought you back into this world after your death, breaking all natural laws in the vain hopes that you could do the one single task you were crowned to do. Lord Death will rejoice that I have now taken you out of it.”

“You’ll never get away with this!” he snaps. “Quenami...Quenami will...”

Ah, yes. Quenami. Acatl snorts. “You imagine he will still be alive to avenge you?”

Tizoc goes, if possible, paler. “You wouldn’t.”

He remembers, with a slow uncoiling of rage, the blade at his throat. The way Quenami had smiled. He’d wanted to carve it off his face. “I might,” he growls, but even as he says it he knows he’ll be lucky if Teomitl doesn’t get there first. “You should be happy. You’ll have company on your journey.”

He’s breathing harder now. Hyperventilating. It’s panic, not magic; he can’t even face death like a warrior. “No—no, you can’t—”

Acatl’s spine stiffens. “Only the gods and Teomitl tell me what I can and cannot do.”

“...Heh,” Tizoc spits. “Is he fucking you?”

He considers this. They’ve been discreet—possibly not discreet enough if Tizoc is asking that question, but then the man has always been paranoid of any influence on his brother, even before he was his Master of the House of Darts. He can certainly imagine Tizoc suspicious of what else Teomitl might have been learning from him, and if he’d only known then what he knew now...well. He is a man, and not a statue. Tizoc might have been right about something for once. But he isn’t, and for a moment Acatl weighs whether he deserves the truth. It’s not something he’s ever had to say out loud; Mihmatini is the only one who knows, and she doesn’t want to hear details. Finally, a bit of uncommon smugness curls his lip. “Actually,” he says coolly, “most of the time I’m fucking him.”

Disappointingly, this does not cause Tizoc to expire immediately. Teomitl will be quite displeased to have lost that bet. “You—you vile—you foul—”

Then he starts coughing, wet and disgusting, and blood gathers at his lips. Acatl lets Mictlan’s power fall away from him like an old cloak. “Rant all you like, my lord. Your time is ending. Teomitl will erase all you’ve done as though it’s never been, and the foundations of our Empire—of our world—will grow stronger for your absence.”

“I’ll kill you,” Tizoc hisses. “I’ll haunt you from beyond death, like those ghosts you’ve been slaying throughout my reign. You’ll never sleep soundly again.”

Interesting. He hadn’t thought Tizoc had been paying attention. He hums noncommittally, shaking his head. There will be no more such hauntings now that the boundaries are properly closed.

Tizoc is panting harshly now, beyond speech. Good. The guards are still nowhere to be seen, which is a further relief; as loyal as they are to Teomitl, he still doesn’t want to put them in a position to lie about whatever they might see.

Not that there is anything to see. Over the next few hours, Tizoc’s soul will unravel from its moorings so slowly, so carefully, that no magic his fellow High Priests could muster will be able to tell it’s anything other than a natural death. (He knows Acamapichtli won’t even look. He still mourns his clergy, and now they’ve been avenged.)

Acatl turns away. He’s done here. By the time the sun rises, Tizoc will be dead.

He has things to do before then.

[ethan-bears]

Home for Christmas (Nolan Patrick x Reader)

You've resigned yourself to spending this Christmas alone. But Nolan has other plans.

Author's note: I started writing this out as a thought to send to @lindylovegang for her soft thought night tonight but I realized it needed to be a small book whole fic instead, so I decided to do this instead of editing my final paper. This is also not edited. I might edit it later. Who knows.

Warnings: light swearing, holidays, slight angst but it gets fluffy real quick, it's my first fic so it's probably not great, I'm on mobile and I can't figure out "keep reading" and I'm very sorry

Word count: absolutely no idea but good luck fam

gif credit to: bretthowden

*****

This was not how you wanted to spend your first Christmas in Philadelphia. Ideally, you wouldn't even be in Philly at all right now. You should be on a plane back home to your family and friends and the warm, familiar streets of your hometown. You should be waking up tomorrow morning in your grandma's house with the smell of warm bread surrounding you like a hug.

But no. You were trapped.

The blizzard had started to roll in earlier this morning, and you thought to yourself that it wouldn't be that bad, right? It was just some flurries. They wouldn't ground any flights, right?

Oh how wrong you wound up being.

After three hours of waiting for news in the airport terminal, followed by another hour and a half desperately trying to reschedule your flight to a time that would still work and getting nothing out of every airline representative in the building, you somehow managed to get an Uber driver crazy enough to come get you in the ocean of snow. Fighting back tears, you tried to console yourself in the backseat. At least your apartment would be warm. And you had a little tree, so it would still feel like Christmas. You'd make some soup and Skype your family, and while it wouldn't be the same as being with them, it would be better than nothing!

"Reckless optimist," you sighed as you flipped the light switch to your apartment only to be met with continued darkness. Alone in a dark, cold, apartment on Christmas Eve, snowed in with nowhere to go in a city that came nowhere close to feeling like home. Merry Christmas. Slumping against the door, you felt your hot tears break free and cascade down your face. You decided to let all the stress and frustration that had been building all day take over your body, sobbing harder than you could ever remember. Each new wave shook your body, sending you to the floor. You didn't care. It couldn't get worse, so why not act like it?

During a pause in the festivities you decided to check your phone to see if you had any messages from your dad, only to find a text you definitely didn't expect from someone who was definitely not your father.

Sir Nolan the Rosy-Faced: hey, just checking in, i know you're probably mid flight rn but just wanted to make sure you land safely when you do. Crazy storm. Text me?

Sniffing, you paused to process the message. Nolan wanted to make sure you were safe? It shouldn't really have surprised you, but the fact that he was concerned enough to text you while he thought you were still midair was...touching.

You fired a short text back explaining that the flight wasn't happening, thinking he'd respond with a simple "okay" or an "oh, sorry to hear that :(". But the next text you got (mere seconds later) surprised you again.

Sir Nolan: oh my god that sucks! Wait.....does that mean you're home alone tonight?

Me: Yeah, and the power's out, so it's suuuper cold, but idk it's fine, I'll just layer up and go to bed early I guess

Sir Nolan: are you okay?

That one hit you like a truck. No, you thought, I'm really, really not.

Me: Yeah, I'll be fine

Sir Nolan: are you sure? Cause I can come over if you want.

Any other night, you would be losing your mind at an offer like that. Ever since you had met Nolan, you'd had the biggest crush on him. All other crushes seemed like weak sauce compared to how you felt about him. But you'd cried all your energy out. The best response your heart could muster was a meek, "Sure, but don't worry if the snow's just too much."

You were met with a resounding, "Already on my way."

You decided that if you were going to be having company you should at least get up off the floor. You shuffled your way into your bedroom, habitually flicking the light switch before you remembered it was pointless. You fumbled in the dark to your desk drawer, trying to find your flashlight, and once you found it you turned it on and started changing into your warmest pajamas. Now that you weren't just a puddle of self-pity, you started to think about Nolan's sudden inviting-over of himself. You first met him during training camp when your work friend brought you along to meet up with Travis, her boyfriend. She figured that since you were new to the city and also a huge hockey fan that it couldn't hurt to introduce you to some guys on the team and help you make some friends. You weren't sure what to make of Nolan at first. He seemed so quiet and awkward that you thought your own quietness and awkwardness would make conversation impossible with such a knockout of a man. You wound up being horribly wrong, once again, but that time it was in a good way. Neither of you were really the super-outgoing party type, so whenever one or both of you started getting exhausted with the atmosphere you'd usually drift off into your own conversation in a quieter part of the room. As a result, he became a good friend incredibly fast. It seemed there was nothing you couldn't talk about with him, even though you still got nervous about certain things. Like your personal feelings for him. But that had never come up before, so you were safe. For now.

You knew he knew all about how hard the transition to Philly has been for you. How homesick you get, how you can't help but wonder if you made a mistake taking the job offer that brought you here (even though it was your dream job), and how you felt like it was hard to click with so many new people. Which was probably why he seemed so worried about you being alone tonight. He knew you felt alone most of the time anyway.

An hour and a half had gone by and you were starting to get worried about him. He only lived 20 minutes away, and even with the snow, it shouldn't take him that long unless he was stuck and just too proud to call you. It had given you time to call your mom, which you were grateful for and made you feel a lot better, but you couldn't ignore the knot in your stomach anymore. You were just about to hit "call" when you heard a knock at the door. Or more like a thump at the door.

You practically sprinted over to open it for the man-sized popsicle with his arms full of grocery bags standing on your doorstep. You paused for a second with your mouth hanging open, both amazed by the fact that he actually came over and by...him. The cold made his already pink cheeks bright red, and the snowflakes were sticking to his long eyelashes and the free locks of hair that didn't fit under his beanie. You had never seen anything more beautiful in your life.

"Can...can I come in?" Nolan's teeth chattered, snapping you back to reality.

"Oh, yeah, sorry! God, Nol, you're shivering!" you remark, ushering him through the door. Not that inside was that much warmer, but anything was better than being out there.

"It's cold," he laughs.

"Wow, AND he's meteorologist!" you quip back. "What can Nolan Patrick not do?"

Shaking his head, he made a beeline for your kitchen, looking for a place to set his bags down.

"Took me forever to find a place that was still open tonight," he muttered, pulling what looked in the dark like to-go boxes out of one of the bags. You shined your flashlight up to the ceiling to make it light the whole room as Nolan continued to pull items from his three bags. You just stood there, still dumbfounded by him.

"Pat... what's all this?" you manage to squeak out.

"This," he said, pointing to the to-go tubs, "is soup. I'm not completely sure what kind, but I figured soup would be the best thing no matter what. I didn't know if you had any crackers, so I brought some saltines. And some oranges because I knew you'd want something fruity and healthy and oranges are festive. And this," he pulled a thermos out of the second bag, "is hot chocolate. Made it myself." He grinned, sliding it towards you, obviously proud of himself. You could barely contain your own grin, feeling yourself blush. You were proud of him too.

"I saved the best for last," he continued once you took a sip of the cocoa. You frowned.

"What else could you possibly have brought?" you asked, genuinely astonished.

He looked you in the eyes and gave you a smirk. Holy hell. You were glad he probably couldn't see how pink your own cheeks were getting. The things he did to you and he didn't even know.

He carefully pulled a basket out of the last bag, and you could see it was full of a bunch of other things. You couldn't believe it.

"Nolan..." You trailed off, feeling the tears starting to well up again. Inside the basket were a bunch of little gifts with a note that read "For: y/n, From: Us". It had some of your favorite candies, one of those cheesy home-state-scented candles, a scarf with your home team's name and logo on it, and a tin of your favorite tea from a tiny local tea shop in your home town. You tried your best to fight the tears, but you weren't strong enough, rendered useless from your earlier fit.

"Nol-" You couldn't even finish your question before your own sob choked you. You set your thermos and flashlight down to bury your face in your hands.

"Hey, hey," Nolan whispered, pulling you into a hug. You wasted no time in hugging him back, squeezing him as you sobbed into his chest. "Shhhh, it's okay," he muttered to the top of your head. He slowly ran a hand up and down your back, rocking you back and forth. It only made you more emotional. He had never hugged you before, and you hadn't been hugged like this in what felt like years. You just wanted to stay there in his arms forever and ignore the world around you.

"It was a team effort," he continued. "Some of us thought you could use some things that remind you of home."

"Who...who found the tea?" you said into his chest, muffled by his sweater.

"What?" He smiled, pulling out of the hug a bit to let you speak up.

You wiped your face and took a breath. "Who found the tea?"

He pulled the rest of the way out of the hug, much to your disappointment. He leaned his head down, staring at the floor.

"That was me," he mumbled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear. "I remembered you mentioning it, and it was hard to work out, but they agreed to send me some." Somehow, his voice kept getting lower and lower.

You could hardly believe your ears. He remembered that? You swore you had only mentioned it once in passing after you got a really disappointing chai from a coffee place down the street. You had no idea he had been paying attention. And he went to all the trouble of getting a store with a locals-only business model to ship a product long-distance. You started to wonder if.... No, you thought, don't get your hopes up again tonight.

You stared at him for another moment, trying to soak in the situation. He seemed surprised when you went back in for another hug.

"Thank you so much!" you whisper, knowing that if you said it any louder you'd start crying again. You could feel him relax into the hug and gave him a little squeeze before you ended it.

"Soup time?"

"Soup time." Nolan nodded, practically beaming.

You sat on the couch, eating as carefully as you could in the dark, though your eyes were getting pretty adjusted. From then on, it was conversation as usual. It came so naturally with him that even when you weren't saying anything, you were still happy. You exchanged stories about your favorite Christmases, what you thought the best cookies are, and weird things your families do during the holidays for hours, barely even noticing the time or the cold.  At some point Nolan had pulled the blankets off the back of the couch and tossed them over both your laps. You didn't notice that you'd been getting closer and closer to him with every story until you laughed so hard you fell on his shoulder.

"Stop laughing!" He pouted, audibly trying to stifle his own laugh. "I almost got hypothermia. I could've died!"

"I can't...I can't!" you breathe between laughs. "You fell through the ice...but just one leg?!"

"Yeah, and I was stuck there on my side almost doing the splits between the ice and the water and my sister just stood there laughing. Just like you!" He nudged you, pretending to be annoyed. "But eventually she pulled me out and carried me back home. Couldn't move my leg for hours, it was just sticking straight out like..." He stuck his leg in the air, demonstrating, and only making you laugh harder. You could hardly breathe. You knew it probably felt funnier because of how exhausted you were, but you didn't care. Nolan had put a smile back on your face and back in your heart.

"Hey, Nolan?"

"Yeah?"

You swallowed. "I just... I'm not complaining that you're here, obviously, but... weren't you planning on spending tonight with Kevin and his family?"

"I was, but they've got each other, and someone else who's super special to me was sad and alone, which made me really sad to think about. You deserve to be happy and I wanted to help. Easiest decision I've ever made."

You really did not have it in you for another cry, so you settled for teasing him instead.

"That's really cheesy of you, softie."

"Take it while you can," he laughed.

"I know," you smiled.

Your eyes were starting to feel heavy and you let out a jaw-cracking yawn.

"Damn," Nolan remarked. You grunted in response, earning another laugh from him. "Wanna lay down?"

You nodded, leaning into his shoulder.

"You're warm," you sleepily drawl. You wanted to lay down, but you didn't want to get up to go to your bed. You wanted more snuggles, and right now you didn't care if he read into it or not.

He seemed to get the message, moving to lay down and taking you with him. He wrapped his arms around you after making sure the blankets covered you both as much as possible. You smiled contentedly, settling into your position and closing your eyes. You barely had time to contemplate how touchy he was being tonight compared to his normal reservations about hugs and touching before you were completely gone.

*****

Nolan woke up first the next morning. He was careful to move as little as possible to avoid waking you up. You looked so peaceful, curled up with your head on his chest. He felt his heart swell as you shifted to wrap your arms around his torso and fell back asleep within seconds. He smiled down at you, noticing how beautiful you were, even with your messy bedhead and your cheek squished against his chest. He wanted to stay in this moment forever. Just the two of you.

The power had come back on at some point during the night, so it was no longer freezing in the apartment, and the lights on your tiny tree had come on as well. He glanced back over to the kitchen to the basket on the counter. It had been embarrassing enough to admit to being the one who hunted down the tea like a police dog, so he left out the part about the whole gift basket being his idea in the first place. He would've bought you everything himself, but he wanted you to know that you had other friends, too, and that they wanted to show you that they were thinking of you. The scarf was Carter's idea, the candy TK's. Claude had suggested the candle, and being the local expert on how to be good to the woman he loved, Nolan took the advice and bought the candle as well. It did make him strangely jealous of your hometown in a way he couldn't quite explain. He was worried that you would be looking for any excuse to move back home, which he really didn't want. If it made you happy, then of course he'd support you, but he'd never felt for anyone the way he felt about you. The way you laugh, how passionate you get when you talk about something you care about, whether that's a person, a subject, a place, or what the best pizza topping is. He loved everything down to the way you word your sentences. He loved how much you loved.

He was awoken from his thoughts by you stirring and opening your eyes to look at him.

"Merry Christmas," you mumbled.

"Merry Christmas," he mumbled back.

You laid your head back down, enjoying the comforting rise and fall of his chest.

"You hungry? I can try and make you some breakfast. Emphasis on try," Nolan offered.

You laughed at the thought. "That'd be nice. But I don't wanna get up."

"Me neither," he sighed, tracing his thumb along your arm. He was not ready for when you suddenly shot off the couch, eyes manic and wide.

"Oh my god!" you shouted. "I didn't get you anything for Christmas! And you did all that last night!" You waved your hand at the kitchen. Nolan sat up, confused and cold, missing the weight of you on him.

"It's okay, y/n! I wasn't expecting anything."

"No, okay, I'm making you breakfast, and it's gonna be the best damn breakfast I've ever made. Lay back down," you insisted, marching off to the kitchen, wincing at the still-cold floor.

As nice as it sounded to stay under the warm blankets, Nolan didn't want to just sit there doing nothing. Suddenly he had an idea, even though it was a risky one. He decided it was a risk he needed to take eventually.

"Get out!" you playfully threatened, brandishing a spatula at him as he stepped into the kitchen. He put his hands up in mock surrender.

"I won't touch!"

"Good," you smirk, turning back to your pan.

Nolan shuffled around nervously, working up the courage to say what he wanted to. He swallowed and took a deep breath.

"I, uh...I have an idea for what you can give me. If you, uh, still want to give me something. Besides breakfast, I mean." Smooth, Patrick, he thought.

"What's that?" You met his gaze, making his stomach flip. The things you do to him and you have no idea.

"Maybe we can go out sometime? Like, just us. On purpose. To dinner or something?"

You looked like a deer caught in the headlights, making Nolan immediately second-guess himself. He bashfully broke your eye contact, focusing on the floor again. He felt the blush on his cheeks worsening.

"Are you... serious?" you ask, voice full of wonder.

"Of course I am!" he mumbled insistently. "Wouldn't ask if I wasn't."

You almost knocked him over with the force of your hug, a truly impressive feat.

"Yes, yes, a thousand times, yes!!!" you laughed, not even bothering to play it cool. Nolan smiled so much it started to hurt, but he didn't care. He felt like he could take off and fly, he was so relieved. The weight of the world was replaced by the weight of you clinging to his shoulders. And he couldn't imagine a better way to spend his Christmas. Maybe, just maybe, he thought, Christmas would be like this forever from now on.

*****

You relaxed into Nolan's arms as he followed you back to the stove, hugging you from behind and resting his chin on your shoulder. Suddenly, you felt something more than the giddy high of getting asked out by your crush. You felt a sort of peace you hadn't felt since before you moved.

You were home for Christmas.

[space-blue]

Carnonos

Seventh competition win! This follows a Carnute woman. Carnutes were a people of Gaul that lived between the Loire and Seine, west of Paris. The Parisii are the Gauls who lived in nowadays Paris. Think Asterix and Obelix era.

You want to know how the Romans were sent packing? How I helped tip the scales of Fate? Well, I supposed it started with ill luck, no matter who you ask. Romans can tell one tree from another, but that's to better fell them. They don't respect the sanctity of sacred groves. I believe it all began in a battle pushed too far and a stroke given to the wrong man, but for me it was with the skinning of a doe.

The spring had been dragging, never truly leaving the embrace of winter, and the poor thing was lean and without a fawn. I was quartering her when a messenger appeared, bedraggled and hard-pressed. He'd run from the small grove south of Cenabum, where a gathering of druids and Mothers had sent for me by name. There was a fuss, he told me, with a druid of the Parisii come so far south, and already a white cow had been sacrificed. What a Parisii druid wanted of me, I didn't know, but I didn't question it. Druids all seem to know everything, after a while one stops wondering.

I made my way North, slinking past the Roman patrolled roads, stopping only to ask shelter in an isolated farmstead, and before two days had gone, I entered the grove where I was expected. I recognised several of the Mothers, and two of the druids, but the messenger hadn't lied, this was a large and busy gathering.

My bow and knives were taken from me, and I was led to kneel at the feet of the great Oak tree at the heart of the grove, its ancient branches rustling with the bones of cranes and holly tied in wheels. The Parisii druid sat on a thick root, his cloak lined with wolf fur and pinned by a Taranis wheel. The torc around his neck looked a lot like mine, but slimmer, and made of gold. I bowed and waited.

"Eskenga Kouadrounia, you are an initiated Daughter."

"Yes," I said, raising my head to meet the eyes of the Parisii man. His name was Martialis, and he had ridden from Lutecia.

"The war is not going well, Eskenga."

Like I wouldn't know.

My village chief had gone with every able warriors, most never to return, and my father – once crippled in a raid, but still a respected hunter – had resigned himself and taught me the craft, to use bow and arrow as my mother had taught me to card and spin, to dye and weave stripes and herringbone. Then the fighting had turned so bitter that even my one-armed father had gone to die at the tip of a Roman spear, and I'd been left not just the only initiate Daughter for leagues, but also one of the last hunters who could spear boar and buck. For two springs I'd been given youths to teach. I showed them how to walk in the forest, how to craft sigils of silence out of yew and hazel, how to ensnare small game and ward off wolves. I was reluctant to teach them more. It was not done – not among the Carnutes and nor, I knew, among the Parisii – for a young man to learn the spear at the knee of a maiden.

"It is rare for a Daughter to be well versed in the ways of the forest." The druid smiled, as if reading my mind. "I think this is why you were chosen."

"Chosen?"

"You have felt something, at the turn of the moon?"

"Yes, I reported this," I said, nodding to the Mothers standing among the trees around us, "like a kick in the very fabric of spring."

All the druids nodded, some with a tremor in their beard.

"It was the All-Father," Martialis explained. There had been a large battle, up North, that had trespassed on sacred grounds. Every holy man had felt that kick, and known it to mean the death of The Woodman, All-Father, who brought spring with him. I gaped. The Parisii accent made the name sound like Cernunos, but there was no mistaking his claim that the namesake God of my people had been slain.

"Isn't Carnonos immortal? Isn't he the God of Life and Death?"

"He is. But his earthly body is as subject to death as ours."

"Why tell me this?" I asked, bemused.

"Because of what you told the Mothers of your circle."

"How I felt anger?" How I'd been fidgety ever since, fighting an urge to abandon my clan and go North?

"It is the God speaking to you. You must go, listen to him, do his will, you are his favoured child, Eskenga."

They trimmed my hair, gave me a charm-sewn cloak, a checkered blouse loose enough to hide my figure, and a pack ready for the march ahead. Martialis explained where to go, what to do, and how someone would wait for me West of Lutecia.

So I went. There is nothing to say of my travels, except that I soon tied cloth around my neck to hide the heavy silver torc there, and took to carrying game at my belt. It was better, I learnt, to approach Roman soldiers waving my "wares" expectantly, than to wait for them to notice me.

When I reached my destination, there was no mistaking it. There were many bodies still spread on the thawing forest floor, though mostly Carnutes. I didn't need to look at all the brave fallen, the pulse in my throat seemed to guide my every step, till I fell by the body of Carnonos. He was untouched by decay, a youth too perfect to be on any battlefield, with the first hints of a golden beard that would never grow around a beautiful mouth parted by the surprise of death. The cut was in his neck, an angry wedge that had bled into the soil in a small, wine-dark puddle.

'All-Father,' I moaned, 'don't abandon us!'

I dug with my bare hands, each cold handful of bloodstained earth tucked in a bag druid Martialis had provided. Carnonos had bled to the centre of the world, it seemed, but the bag was full, so I pulled its leather strings, kissed the young man's icy brow, and left.

The walk to Lutecia now, that was another story. The bag of earth smelled in turn of the rot of Autumn and the heart-blood of a dying stag, of a hot knife through a comb of honey and the tang of fir sap. Animals started to follow me through the woods, and people abandoned the tasks in their fields to look in my direction, no matter how well hidden I was in the shadows of the brush. Never was I more scared than when a whole host of Roman soldiers passed me by, and as I lay frozen under a bush, I watched all of its branches slowly come into bloom. But the men marched on, and so did I, harried but undetected, until I reached the valley West of Lutecia. There, an old man leaning against a way stone waved at me. Before I could speak, he'd turned around and started down a deer trail, leading me to a clearing. In its centre was a young oak tree, and tied to it a naked man. Broad-shouldered and tan, he had the build of a soldier in his prime. A buck had been bled over his bare legs, its antlered head laid to rest against his groin.

"What–"

"A Roman soldier", the old man said, clearly making an effort not to spit at the words.

The soldier's eyes were rolling white like a spooked horse, and I felt sorry for him, and a little for myself: I'd never killed a man.

"Me paenitet," I whispered, as I knelt in the deer's blood, "te adiuvare non possum."

The soldier begged and cursed, but didn't shirk from the kiss of my blade. His blood flowed, dark and oily, an endless tide over my fingers fumbling on the strings of the purse. Two handfuls of dirt I pressed in his mouth before death cramped it shut, and the rest to fill the cut in his throat.

“Carnonos,” I cried, “come back to us!”

The old man, having cut the soldier’s bonds, prostrated himself next to me, joining in my pleas.

The gapping flesh knitted itself shut, and the eyes of the dead man opened, now green and flecked with gold. Hair flowed from his scalp, white as moon-glow and parting over budding antlers that grew and ramified, forming a living crown veined with gold. Carnonos breathed in sickly Spring and exhaled promises of Summer. His thumb brushed my cheek where dirt blended with tears and blood.

“I will fight with you, my Children,” he said, and kissed my brow.

That, is how we won the war. With Carnonos leading us in battle, bleeding in the same earth we did.

May 2019 – Theme : Earth

[rustbeltjessie]

Diary of an Emotional Masochist, Chapter One: Dignity and Shame

I am an emotional masochist. I’m the kind of person, who, when I’m already going through a bout of nostalgic melancholy, will decide to read old journal entries or look through old photographs. The kind of person who, when it’s three a.m. and I can’t sleep because I’m thinking about what loves have come and gone (to borrow a phrase from Edna St. Vincent Millay), will get up and Google search those loves. I am the kind of woman who, when I’m already sad, will listen to an album that devastates me. I have a long list of albums that it’s almost too painful to listen to, albums that remind me of such specific times in my life that listening to them takes me right back to where I was then. A different person would purge their record collection and iTunes library of such albums, but, like I said – I am an emotional masochist. On lonesome evenings, after a couple glasses of whiskey, nothing sounds better to me than spinning one of those records (or queueing up one of those playlists). This is one of those lonesome-whiskey evenings, so won’t you join me in indulging? We’re listening to Crooked Fingers’ Dignity and Shame.

From the first sparse, haunting notes of “Islero,” I am transported back in time to the summer of 2005. God, that summer. That terrible, wonderful summer. I’d fucked up my life the year before, and I thought that would be the summer I’d fix it, except all I did was fuck it up even more. God, that summer. That March, I moved away from Chicago after living there for five years. I planned on moving to Milwaukee come autumn, to start fresh in a fresh town. In the meantime, I moved back in with my parents. I wasn’t home, much. Nights, after work, I went to one of the two bars in Kenosha where all my sad drunk hoodlum friends hung out. On days off, I walked in the woods – the heat was relentless, and the canopy of trees offered cool green comfort. Or I drove to Chicago to see shows and drink with my friends and try to remember why I’d left; drove to Milwaukee to scope out neighborhoods, sit for hours at the Hi-Fi Cafe, go record and dress shopping. On one of my record shopping expeditions, I bought Dignity and Shame. It was on the Staff Recommendations shelf, and I liked the cover art, so I took it home with me – and it was serendipity, it was exactly the album I needed at the time.

As soon as I got home, I set it spinning on my turntable, and the first track – “Islero” – gave me goosebumps. The second track – “Weary Arms” – made me cry. It had sad cellos and a lonesome cowboy guitar, and Eric Bachmann’s voice was a raspy baritone: Beware of strangers knocking at your door. Old lovers, too. Don’t think for one second they’ve forgotten you. Oh, oh, oh. By the time the final, hidden track played, I’d melted into a puddle of tears and goosebumps on my bedroom floor. The album destroyed me, and it spooked me because so many of the stories sounded like things right out of my life, both from that year and six or so years before it. It was like Eric Bachmann had read my diary and set it to music. I wanted to write him a letter and say: “Get out of my head, god damn it! Get out of my aching heart.” It’s impossible for me to write about Dignity and Shame, or about the summer of 2005, without descending into hyperbole, sentimental poetry, and melodrama. My God, that summer was hyperbole, sentimental poetry, and melodrama. I was still young enough that it was acceptable to feel things that intensely, acceptable to talk about a sunrise over Lake Michigan by saying things like: “When the light shot through the horizon in streaks of peach and gold, it was the most god damn beautiful thing I’d ever seen.” Dear diary, listen to me.

My “Weary Arms” wrapped tight around so many lovers, that summer – four of them, plus a handful of brief flings. Later that year, I lamented that I hadn’t had as many wild love affairs as I’d had in years past, which, yes, says something unflattering about me. And Eric Bachmann sang: You have many enemies, for reasons no one’s certain of.

One night, while I sat at one of the bars and waited for my friends to arrive, a girl approached me. I didn’t know her, but she knew me. She sat down across from me and lambasted me for sleeping with a guy she’d been dating at the time…two years before. She called me a slut, and some worse things. I wanted to buy her a drink, to appease her. I couldn’t understand why she hated me so much. When I slept with that guy, I had no idea he had a girlfriend. So many enemies, so many lovers, but could a jaded girl like me heed an uptempo “Call To Love?” In that song, Eric took the role of a particular one of my lovers, and said: Won’t you hear my heart? I’m transmitting a call to love. On a night when the moon was orange-red and luminous, that lover said: “The moon is the color of your hair.” Another night: “You were born in the wrong era, Jess.” And, though I was a sucker for sentimental poetry, my guard was up. Lara Meyerratken answered for me: Don’t need my heart kicked ‘round the block no more. You may be smooth-talking, daddy, but I’ve heard it all before. I traded gossip with the “Twilight Creeps.” In this sweet-sad song with the bright piano and the shimmering backup vocals, I was both the singer and the sung about. I could have sung it to one of my lovers, should have said to her: Flower, don’t dig so deep so you don’t go anywhere. But the words were also about me: You say someday you’re gonna float away. Take yourself some kind of holiday. I often told my sad drunk hoodlum friends, the twilight creeps, that I needed to get the hell out of town. “If I could just get gone for more than a few days, go somewhere more than a few hours away…there ain’t no use in trying to make me stay.”

My lovers all wanted to make me stay. The flower-girl, I’ll call her Valerie. The one who spoke poetic words to me, I’ll call him Jack. And there was Lon, and Carmine. In different ways, for different reasons, they each wanted me to choose them over all the rest. Even a few of the week-long flings and one-night stands, older punk guys or younger hippie girls, said things to me like: “How did I get so lucky as to meet a girl like you?” Or: “So, are you my girlfriend now?” And when I said no, they called me a heartbreaker. A “Destroyer.” It’s a woebegone cowboy of a tune. Doleful drums, piano that tinkles like ice cubes in a bar glass, and a lap steel guitar – which, as far as I’m concerned, is the aural equivalent of an anti-hero walking off into the sunset. The song is all about how the singer is going to make someone his, and then he’s going to leave them behind. When they called me heartbreaker, I wanted to sing it: Lay down, just let it come, and resign your heart, today, to get blown away. “Valerie,” well, that’s why I’m referring to that lover as Valerie. Much like me, she was a punk rock girl turned heroine of a Tom Waits song (heroine of a Crooked Fingers song). She had thriftstore dresses and jailhouse tattoos and self-inflicted scars. “Valerie,” the song, has a sanguine strut, is a besotted love song, and I thought of Valerie, the girl: Red roses, silk, you in your sleek summer dress. You were light, revelation, oh, I love you the best. But she and I kept our love unspoken. We both had other romantic complications, and only touched each other on long hot nights after too many bottles of wine and too many pills. “Sleep All Summer” was my song for Jack, the young ex-goth whose mouth was pink and pouty like he’d been sucking on a strawberry popsicle. Our love was either all the good songs and kissing ’til our lips were raw, or it was screaming matches and hangover headaches. What bliss is this, and then he’d get attention-starved and whiny, and I’d burn hot and cold and say nasty things, and we’d say: “This is it, we’re through.” But – There ain’t no way we’re gonna find another, the way we sleep all summer. Why won’t you fall back in love with me? And we’d run into each other at the bar, and faster than our friends could say I told you so we’d be tangled up in the backseat of his car or rolling around by the lake, and the whole thing would start all over again. He’d play the martyr, and I’d say: I would change for you, but babe, that doesn’t mean I’m gonna be a better man.

And “Coldways” kill cool lovers. Lon was a folk singer from the north woods. He’d been one of my best friends for years already, and when we started dating I was so tired of complicated, fiery relationships that I mistook comfort for True Love. My heart still hurts when I think of how I hurt him. He wanted me to marry him and I just wanted to be drunk and in love, to listen to “Coldways”’s thrumming, swelling sound. To sing along: Come out, come on, tonight the city’s alive. “Wrecking Ball” has a jaunty, punchdrunk piano, and the piano had been drinking, but so had I. God, I drank so much that summer. On the rare night I spent at home, I holed up in my room, wrote long, sad, tales of people in the legend of my life, and drank blackberry brandy mixed with Sprite. Something like that would taste over-sweet to me now, make me shudder, but maybe the same part of me that craved sentimental poetry also thirsted for sugary drinks. And most nights, I wasn’t at home. Most nights, I changed clothes in my car after work. I swapped my reeking-of-pizza button down shirt and black slacks for one of my vintage dresses. A mint green confection, or a pink and white sundress. Something from the ‘50s, blue with red and white polka dots, or a slinky black number that a ‘30s jazz singer would have worn. And I sat at one of two bars, drank whiskey and Coke, or brandy old-fashioneds, or gin and tonics all night long. I waited for my friends to arrive, and I drank and smoked and entertained myself with one of the items I always had in my bag – a book of poetry by Dorothy Parker or Edna St. Vincent Millay, a deck of Alice In Wonderland tarot cards. And sometimes, someone would find me intriguing. I swear, I wasn’t a Manic Pixie Dream Girl, but… I was a redhead in a retro dress (usually with a strand of fake pearls, too) sitting in a dive bar, smoking pastel-colored cigarettes, reading sonnets and tarot cards. Christ. Often, someone found me intriguing, chatted me up, and I wound up with yet another lover. I was a destroyer, destroying myself with booze and love. I was a wrecking ball. Eric Bachmann, accompanied by that barroom piano, sang: And you laughed and you danced, and it let you feel fine for a while. Hanging out with the kids who you knew soon would fall out of style.

I’ve left two songs out, dear diary. I did it on purpose, because they are the two that hurt the most. They are also the two that heal the most. The kind of songs that make me weep, then tell me to dry my tears. “You Must Build A Fire,” oh, it is one of the saddest songs. It begins with only two guitars (a finger-picked lead and that god damn lap steel again), and Eric’s voice is so plaintive, sounds like it’s about to crack, and he sings: Oh, gracious love, you were so kind to me. You only broke my heart, let my arms and legs stay strong. So I could swim upon the open sea, searching for another love. Floating along aimlessly. I haven’t told you about Carmine, yet. Carmine was a musician who looked like a magician from an old-time carnival. The year before, he’d ruined me in a worse way than any other lover ever had. (As a friend put it, he was one of the ones who fucked me up so bad I was pretty much ruined for anyone else.) He ruined me, but I let him back into my life. That summer, we got together. It was supposed to be closure, but of course it just opened everything up again. He said: “I want to be with you. I want to try again.” I said: “Okay, yes, let’s start over. I want to be with you.” He said: “Only if you break things off with all your other lovers. I want to be your only.” The nerve, giving me an ultimatum like that when he was even more of a notorious libertine than I was. And the song sang: I had someone, a love I thought was true. But sometimes you just get tired, and you must try not to die. And give your love, though no one may receive. You must build a giant fire, for the whole wide world to see. It sounded like that whole heartbroken, hot summer. Oh, where are you, love?

The title track, “Dignity and Shame,” is a piano ballad that told me: To be sure, there ain’t no cure. There could be no one to save you. It is the track I return to over and over, more than any other track on the album. Though my life has calmed down a lot in the decade since that summer, sometimes – that feeling comes, you’ve been here once before. That wicked feeling you don’t want to feel no more. And then, Eric Bachmann (get out my head, god damn it!) sings: You’re not the same as the day that you came. You can choose dignity, or shame.

I choose dignity. I carry my broken heart like a torch in the night. Little keeper of light, burning deep, burning bright in the dark.

[originally appeared in Witchsong in October 2015]

[whump-me]

"Forced to watch" (an demon getting punished for falling in love with an angel, so they hurt the angel?)

My first @badthingshappenbingo fill! This one is also for @justplainwhump, who requested “forced to watch” with characters who are more than friends.

Feel free to send in requests! I’m don’t write other people’s characters, but can write whatever type of character you like. Red checks have been filled, yellow lightbulbs have requests waiting.

This one got away from me a little bit - I definitely didn’t intend it to come out as long as it did…

—

The demon stretched lazily as a noise from the kitchen woke them. Amazing, how they still found themselves waking up with a smile every day. They had thought they would have grown bored with playing human long before now. But how could they get bored when the universe, in its generous irony, had sent them such an endlessly interesting companion?

“How about breakfast in bed?” they called. “Food is, as always, optional.”

No answer.

They frowned. That was an invitation that wasn’t often turned down. “Hey, you okay out there?”

Still no answer. Frowning, they freed themselves from the covers and opened the bedroom door.

The first thing they saw was the angel facedown on the floor, wrists and ankles bound not with rope but with chains of hellfire that had already begun to blacken the skin underneath. The angel wasn’t visibly gagged, but seemed unable to open their mouth to speak—or to scream, even as they contorted in visible agony.

Through other eyes, the man standing above the angel might have looked like no one. Just another smarmy asshole in a suit. But the demon didn’t need their eyes to feel the power radiating off him, as hot and deadly as a nuclear explosion. And if that hadn’t been enough, they couldn’t ignore the way their own body seemed to twist and warp under the skin as their entire being called out to the one who owned them.

Satan was standing in their apartment.

The demon lowered their eyes to the ground. “I’ll return to my post immediately.” They didn’t let themselves feel anger, or sorrow, or bitterness at the thought of a lifetime in Hell remembering these few brief years of happiness. They allowed themselves only resignation. They had always known, deep down, that it couldn’t last forever, as much as they had tried to convince themselves otherwise.

Satan’s laughter cut through them like a volley of knives. “Did you think it would be that easy? After you let this into your bed?” He kicked the angel hard in the side, sending them into the wall with a sickening thud. “After you turned your heart to something beyond my service? You will return—but not yet.”

He regarded the angel thoughtfully before turning back to the demon.

“You,” he said, cradling the demon’s chin in his hands, “are a child of Hell, created to my specifications like so many of your kind. You never lost Heaven, and if you were ever allowed to cross its threshold, you would turn away by choice. You don’t belong in that world. In their world.”

He bent down to slowly stroke the angel’s wing. Trapped between him and the wall, the angel shuddered, but couldn’t so much as try to squirm away.

“I, on the other hand… I still remember how it felt to fall. I chose that fate for myself, and even so, thousands of years later, the pain is still my most vivid memory.” His hand tightened around the delicate wing.

A moment ago, the demon had been resigned to their fate. Now they couldn’t breathe. “You have no reason to punish them. I’m the one who disobeyed.”

“I have no intention of punishing this creature,” Satan assured them. “They mean nothing to me.” He yanked out a handful of feathers and let them float to the floor. “Everything I do to them will be solely to punish you for your disobedience.”

They had never been one to beg. They were willing to start now. “Please. I’ll do anything you want. I—”

Satan made a small gesture, and the angel’s mouth unsealed. Their scream cut off the rest of the demon’s plea.

The angel met the demon’s eyes. “It’s all right,” they said raggedly, even though every word clearly cost them something. “I’ll be fine.”

No. No, it was most certainly not all right. There had to be something the demon could do—some way to stop what they knew was coming—

“Do you like their wings? Does it make you jealous to see what you can never have?” Satan ran a finger along the base of a wing, his expression wistful. “Or do you simply take pleasure in seeing them nobly soaring through the sky like the proud creature they are?”

He grabbed the wing roughly at its base. The angel tried to hide their flinch, but didn’t manage it quite well enough. At least not for someone who knew them so well.

“What will they be without their wings, I wonder?” Satan mused. “Bound to the earth, broken and useless. Forever remembering their former glory. They will never be whole again, after this. Never again the creature you loved.”

The angel swallowed. They set their jaw, trying to be brave, biting back a scream or a protest. But they couldn’t hide the raw panic in their eyes.

“But I don’t think we’re quite ready for that yet.” The hand grasping the wing made a small motion. The snap of bone seemed much louder than it should have been, almost louder than the scream that followed.

With his other hand, Satan yanked the angel’s head up to look into their eyes. “Have you ever even felt real pain before? Or have you lived the same coddled life as the rest of your kind?”

Pleas spilled from the demon’s mouth. “I’ll take all the pain for them, and more. Torture me for a thousand years, imprison me until the end of time, just let them go.”

“Don’t worry about me.” The demon could see the force of will it had taken for the angel to stop screaming, let alone to force out those few words. “I can take it.”

“Can you? Let’s test that theory.” Satan snapped another bone, drawing another scream from the angel’s lips.

Through the sound of their love’s agony, the demon could barely think straight enough to keep their words coherent. “Whatever you want—I’ll do whatever you want—just stop this, please stop—”

“You disgust me. I expected more from one of my servants.” Satan regarded the demon with a look of deepest contempt before turning to the angel. “You mean to tell me you actually love this useless, snivelling creature?”

Even now, even here, the angel managed a soft smile. “More than my own life.”

If the screams hadn’t already broken the demon’s heart, that would have done it. Because if not for that love, the angel would still be flying free and proud, somewhere far from this place.

“Ah.” An answering smile, this one cold and cruel, played at the edges of Satan’s lips. “But do you love them more than you love your god?”

And the angel hesitated.

“Answer me.” Satan shot a burst of hellfire at the angel, letting it singe their ear. Instinctively, the angel tried to flap away, crying out as the movement sent a fresh burst of pain through the broken wing bones. Satan didn’t give them a chance to recover; he kicked the angel onto their side, then stepped on one of the wings to hold it in place while he began to burn the other.

He cut off the angel’s howl of pain with a slap to the face. “I don’t want your pathetic shrieking. I want an answer.” The smell of smoke and burned feathers filled the room. “Answer me.”

“No.” The quiet whimper felt louder than all the screams that had come before. “No… not… more.”

Oh.

The demon had known, of course. Even if they had never thought about it, even if they had never let themselves think about it, they had always known. Angels were what they were, and theirs was no exception. And an angel’s devotion to their god would always come before any mere love affair.

But the words still slid into their heart like a knife.

Satan’s full attention was on the demon now as he drank in their reaction. “It hurts to hear what you really mean to them, doesn’t it?” he said softly. “Would you still make all those grand sacrifices for them, knowing the place you hold in their heart?”

But Satan had chosen the wrong question, because the answer came easily. “Of course,” they said, meeting the angel’s eyes. They felt the truth of their words as they spoke them. “They have a bigger heart than anyone I’ve ever known. That heart has room for more than one love, and more than one loyalty. Even if they only gave me the smallest fraction of their heart, it would be more than what something like me is capable of.”

“Then how unfortunate that someone so much worthier than you is forced to suffer for your mistakes.” Satan removed his foot from the angel’s wing. “As a reward for your honesty, creature of God, I won’t drag this out any longer.”

Before the demon could begin to process what was happening, Satan grabbed the base of the burned wing with both hands and tore.

The wing ripped free of the flesh as easily as if he were a human child tearing a wing off a butterfly. The angel’s screams were like nothing the demon had heard before, in Hell or on earth. If the pure essence of pain had been transformed into sound, it would have sounded exactly like that. When the screaming stopped, the demon thought—hoped—the angel had lost consciousness. But the angel’s eyes were still open, wild and unfocused but still cruelly present.

Satan let the wing fall to the floor, where it lay in the growing puddle of blood. He bent to run a bloodstained hand through the angel’s hair and down the one remaining wing. “These aren’t just for flying, you know. Your wings are what bind you to Heaven. Without them, you’re cut off from everything that gives your life meaning.” He turned to the demon. “One more to go. Would you like to do the honors? Ensure that this one no longer has any rivals for their affection?”

The demon almost gagged at the thought.

“Very well. Then I’ll do it—my way.” This time he didn’t tear the wing away all at once. Instead he ripped it from the angel’s back little by little, staring into the demon’s eyes the whole time. The angel was beyond screaming now—their mouth opened as they thrashed helplessly, but no sound came out except a series of strangled gasps.

“Just a little more, and they’ll lose the thing they love above all else,” said Satan, tugging at the wing slowly, almost lazily. “Were those few years worth it, to do this to the one you love?”

“I’m sorry,” the demon whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

The angel’s mouth opened and closed as they tried to answer. But they were too far gone to speak. The demon wasn’t even sure how much they understood anymore.

And then it was done. The wings lay on the floor, useless now, obscene. Satan gestured, and the angel’s bonds disappeared, although they didn’t seem to notice. He kicked the angel aside like they were a crumpled fast food wrapper lying on the sidewalk.

The demon rushed to the angel, stroking their hair, murmuring meaningless reassurances. The angel trembled, making soft desperate mewling sounds, staring at nothing. Did they even know the demon was there? The demon doubted it.

“I’m sorry,” the demon whispered again. “Forgive me.” Then they stood and held out their hands to Satan, preparing to be dragged back to Hell. It would almost be a relief—no torture that awaited them there could be worse than this.

But Satan shook his head. “Stay. Patch them up, as best you can. Try and make them whole again, knowing that you will always fail.” He smiled his cruel smile. “Watch them try to pretend that you’re enough.”

He disappeared, leaving the angel and the demon alone together.

[mandilion76]

A Dear John Letter (AKA The Little Red Dress)

Title: A Dear John Letter (aka The Little Red Dress)

Pairing: John x Reader

Warnings: None really, just some angst

Word Count: 1025

Summary: After a lengthy absence, John is in no way surprised to find the reader gone

Author’s Note: This is based on the song “Not Giving My Heart Away” by The Station Breaks.  It is for @mrswhozeewhatsis Louden Swain FanFic FanArt Project and Jason Manns FanFic FanArt Project.  The letter is in italics within the story..  Thanks to @wi-deangirl77​ for always being my cheerleader when it comes to my writing!

John eagerly honked the horn as he pulled into Y/N’s driveway, a bouquet of daisies and a bottle of her favorite wine in the passenger seat next to him. He had been gone for over four months this time, much longer than he had wanted to be, but he’d been given no other choice.  It was the life of a hunter, plain and simple. He knew he had a lot of making up to do, especially with how things had ended their last night together.

He remembered it had been raining that night.  Y/N snuggled at his side, a sheet casually draped over their slick, heated bodies.  Sex with Y/N had always been unbelievable, but there was something about that night that really took it to another level.  He held her in his arms, both of them deep in thought.  Seemingly out of the blue, Y/N confessed she had fallen in love with him.  Taken completely off guard, he stuttered some asinine reply.  The look on her face had said it all.  Y/N turned her back to him, the tension in her back palatable.  John spooned her from behind, explaining that he cared deeply for her, he truly did. Y/N responded with a barely audible “I know you do, John.”

To this day, the silence that followed weighed heavily on him. He wished he could take it back, but he really had no choice.  When did a guy like him have any say in having a happily ever after?  John grunted. “Been there, done that, watched it all go up in smoke.”   He ended up on the couch, unable to sleep. Early that morning, he’d gotten a call from a fellow hunter who had a lead on a case in Missouri and needed his help.  He had almost said no, but thought better of it.  Wishing things with Y/N could be different, he left an hour later.  He left a quickly scribbled note letting Y/N know he’d be back as soon as possible and that he would call her when he could.  

John forced down the apprehension brewing deep in his belly.  Usually, Y/N was quick to greet him even before he had a chance to put the truck in park. Looking in the rear view mirror, he noticed the screen door swinging in the breeze. His immediate reaction was to pull out his gun, so honed were his hunting instincts.  He quickly made his way to the back door, gun cocked in front of him. He pushed on the door, sending it crashing against the wall, the thud echoing in the small kitchen. Tense and ill at ease, John took stock of the kitchen.  Usually bright and filled with Y/N’s female touch, it now stood barren and lifeless.  

John slid the gun back inside his jacket.  His gaze gravitated to a pool of red on the kitchen counter. Immediately and without warning, he was back at that bar, the one where he’d first met Y/N.  His fingers slid across the cool silk, a stark contrast to the heat created by the memories of seeing Y/N in the middle of the dance floor, her hips swaying provocatively to the beat of some Wilco song blaring from the jukebox.  Her favorite, she had told him.  

John clenched the silk in his hands, breathing in the scent of Y/N’s perfume still lingering on the fabric. John regretted all the times he’d left Y/N without much of an explanation.  But how could he tell her what it was that kept him away for days, sometimes weeks at a time? It was mostly to protect her, but to be honest, it was also to protect himself.  He was hell bent on destroying Yellow Eyes.  Not only that, but he knew he couldn’t afford to give his heart away a second time, not when there was so much to lose.  He had to resign himself to the life he lived.  There was no room for love, not really John reasoned He glanced down at a slip of paper that had been partially hidden under the dress.

Still holding the dress in one hand, he brought the note to the table.  John rubbed his face, took a deep breath and began reading, Y/N’s distinct handwriting bold and red.

Dear John,

By the time you read this, I will be gone.   There is something (or is it someone?) that stands in the way of you loving me.  You’ve kept your heart from me, John, and that’s what hurts the most.  In the beginning, a night here, a night there was enough; I wasn’t ready for anything more myself.  Yet, one night became two nights, two nights became a week, and before I knew it, I was head over heels in love with you. Never once did you tell me you loved me, but I figured I loved you enough for the both of us. I think deep down, I knew you could never love me, not in the way I needed, but I took a chance anyway. I figured that if I gave enough of myself in body and in soul, you would eventually open up to me and let me in.   I was wrong. Whatever it is that stands between us has a tight hold on you and I’ll never be enough, will I? I want to hate you John, but I can’t. A part of me will always be with you. I wish you nothing but the best.  Love always, Y/N

John knew he deserved this, that he hadn’t left Y/N a choice, but damn if it didn’t hurt. He held onto the note, willing the words away if he stared at them long enough.  Crimson faded to pink, a sudden onset of tears staining the now crumpled sheet.  Deciding there wasn’t any reason to stay, John shoved the note in his pocket.  Debating what to do with the dress, he let it slide through his fingers, watching it pool on the floor like a puddle of blood.  John thought it was somehow poetic.  He closed the door behind him, ending yet another chapter in the life of a hunter.

[eliniei]

Not As It Seems Part VIII - Emet-Selch/WoL

Summary:   After calling it an early night, the Warrior of Light heads back to her room to relax but is unexpectedly transported to another world to escort Emet-Selch to a ball.

Word Count: 2089

Masterlist: here Ao3: here

Part I: here Part II: here Part III: here Part IV: here Part V: here Part VI: here Part VII: here

As always, if you have any requests you’d like to see show up in this series or any other Emet/WoL one-shot you’d like to see me write, please let me know!

----

When I got back to my room after calling in an early evening, I figured I still had quite a bit of time before Emet-Selch showed up, so I decided to take a moment and finally relax and revel in the quiet. I enjoyed his company, of course, but sometimes being alone was a need instead of a want. 

And I must say, the hot water of my bath felt amazing on my aching muscles. 

I had just stepped out of my bathtub, though, when the Ascian burst into the room with the force of a tidal wave. I nearly jumped out of my skin, his sudden entrance almost making me slip on the slick tile floor. I grabbed on to the side of the wooden tub to steady myself.

“What the hells-!”

He paused for a moment, realizing that I was not clothed, a puddle of water slowly forming under my feet. Immediately, he averted his eyes as I quickly reached for a towel to cover my body, my face growing hot. I was surprised he bothered.

“Have you finished, yet, hero? I feel like I have been waiting an eternity.” 

Ah, there it was. The drama, the attitude.

“You could’ve knocked on the door, you know. You do know how to knock, don’t you?” I put my hands on my hips. 

“Of course I know how to knock. I simply did not feel like it.”

“Yes, that seems to be a pattern, doesn’t it? You can look again, I’m covered.”

He turned back to me, visibly relieved. I raised an eyebrow and opened my mouth, but it was as if he had read the question on my lips.

“Think what you will, but I am still a gentleman.” He shrugged, then moved towards me. “We’re going out.”

“What? But-”

Before I could spit out my words, he lifted his hand and snapped. My towel was replaced with a long, glittering, purple gown that hugged my waist tightly, laced up in the back with a ribbon, my shoulders bare and sparkled with a shimmering dust. White, flimsy gloves made of silk slid over my arms, stopping above my elbows, and a pair of absolutely ridiculous heeled shoes on my feet. My dripping hair was instantly dry, swept up and pinned to my head.

I blinked, in total shock, frozen in place for a moment. 

“Much better,” he said, his amber gaze looking me up and down.

“What-”

Another snap of his fingers and his usual robes changed, as well- a black suit with a purple vest that matched the color of the dress he’d just thrown me into. His jacket hugged his waist, snugly and the tails hung long behind him. My eyes widened even further, seeing him in these strange clothes. Loathe as I was to admit, they fit him extremely well. He smirked when he saw my face.

“Like what you see, my dear hero?” I stuttered a few words, unsure how to respond, before I regained control of my mind.

“Will you please tell me-”

He held up his finger, halting me again, then flattened his hand, palm up. A mask materialized, and he pushed it towards me. 

“Put this on,” he ordered. When I didn’t react, he finally paused and watched me for a few moments as I stared at it. “Well?”

“Where are we going?” I asked, finally able to get a word in. I gently lifting the mask from his hand and examined it closer, resigning myself to his whims. “This is beautiful.” 

“We’re going to a celebration,” he told me, ignoring my other remark. “I believe the inhabitants of this particular shard call it a Masquerade.”

“Shard?” I asked, looking up at him, quickly. He wrapped his arm around my waist and I heard the hum of his portal opening. “Wait-!” Before I could protest anymore, he shoved me through.

When I fell through the other side, tripping on the carpet, he gripped my arm to steady me. I could hear music and chatter in the room beyond where we landed, but at the present, we were alone in a hallway.

“Be a bit more careful, won’t you, hero?” He let go of my arm in favor of straightening his jacket, the snapped again. His own mask- his Ascian mask- appeared in his hand. He bent down close to me and I found myself pressed against the wall, his face close enough I could feel the warmth of his breath. When he spoke, his voice was low, intimate. “This Shard is without magic, so do try not to draw attention to yourself.” He lifted his mask to his face and nodded for me to do the same, then held his hand out to me.

“Without magic?” I asked, confused, and slid my gloved fingers into his. He gripped them gently, but firmly. “That’s-but-how do they do anything?” He stated leading me towards the main hall- where I assumed this masquerade was taking place. 

“Just like you cook with your hands, so too do these people, although they make everything from scratch.”

The thought struck me as incredibly odd, but I suppose when you’d grown up in a world filled with all sorts of magic, it was hard to imagine life without it. 

We stopped outside a tall double door, where two attendants waited at either side. They leaned forward and opened each side for us in unison. 

The music filtered in- quick and bright, mostly comprised of some sort of string instrument. My eyes widened at the size of the room, the volume of people dancing about and the colors they were clad in. High above in the vaulted ceiling hung a large, crystal chandelier, sparkling, reflecting everything in the room. The breath left me. 

“At a loss for words?” Emet-Selch inquired beside me. He tucked my hand into his arm and led me inside. As a waiter passed us, he dropped my arm and smoothly picked up two thin glasses. He held on out to me, but I looked at it, mildly suspicious.

“What is it?”

“Champagne. Alcohol.”

I pursed my lips, but lifted it from his hand. Once we had both taken a drink, he set his flute down on a nearby table and held his hand out to me again. 

“Dance with me.” I bristled a little at his demand.

“I don’t-I don’t know how.” He huffed a laugh and forcibly reached for my hand. 

“Hydaelyn’s great champion can’t dance. Unbelievable.” As he tugged me out on to the floor, amidst other couples, he snapped the fingers of his free hand. I felt a prickle in my skin, as if my limbs were threatening to fall asleep, but it was gone as soon as it had started.

“What did you just do?” I asked in a loud whisper. “You just warned me about using magic, you insufferable hypocrite.”

He positioned me in front of him and put one of my hands on the curve of his shoulder, then moved his down to my waist. The other he kept ahold of, holding them both out to the side.

“Lighten up, my dear hero. I just taught you how to dance. Let go for once in your miserably short existence and enjoy it.” With that, a new song started and so did we, the tingling of his magic tugging at me as we danced, showing me the steps.

Everything in me wanted to be stubborn. He’d forced me away from a night of calm relaxation- something I desperately needed. 

But as I let him twirl me around the floor, feeling the skirt of my dress move about my body, flowing in the rhythm of our movement, I determined he was right. Maybe I didn’t need to relax. Maybe I just needed to live. So, I did as I was bid, leaning into him and letting his magic take control of me. 

The Ascian tensed for a few moments, but I saw a hint of a smile on his lips. 

We continued on, but when we were both out of breath, he led me outside on to an unoccupied balcony. I sat down on a wooden bench that sat against a delicate metal railing that overlooked a large landscape with a manicured lawn and well-curated flowers. I slid the mask off of my face and marveled at the beauty before me as Emet-Selch went to get us something to drink. 

In that moment, it felt as if a rock dropped into my stomach. This was another shard. They had no magic, no defenses. They were clueless. And he...

“Just water, this time, I’m afraid,” he said when he’d returned, holding a glass of clear liquid to me. I set the mask in my lap and accepted it, letting the cold liquid slide down my throat and refreshing my body. He leaned against the rail next to my seat. I looked down at the mask, the smile I’d had for most of the night drooping. 

“What is it now?” he sighed, annoyance tinging the edges of his voice. 

“This world will be rejoined if your plan comes to fruition.” 

“Yes,” he said, simply. 

“How could you give up…” I lost my words, trying not to tear up. I’d spent many nights with him, in his arms and the weight of his actions-what he wanted to do- had been pressing in on me ever since, threatening to suffocate me. Some nights it was easier to hold back the sobs, the anger at how unfair everything had turned out to be. But on nights like this...

“It isn’t about giving up, hero,” he said, turning and leaning on the railing with his arms. “The beauty of our world, our true world, was nothing compared to this. It isn’t about giving up. It’s about making things better again. If something was broken, wouldn’t you fix it?”

I was silent as I looked up at him. He took a deep breath. I would have given anything, in that moment, to not think the thoughts pounding on my skull. He looked down at the mask that still sat in my lap. 

“That mask,” he started. I gently picked it up again. “Back when the world was whole, it belonged to a very dear friend of mine.”

“Why did you give it to me?”

“That is the question, isn’t it?” He looked back out towards the lawn, the smile on his face sad. Before long, he pushed himself off the railing and motioned to me, his defensive demeanor changing. “Come.” 

I hesitated for a moment, but set the mask down on the bench and stood up. He grabbed me by the waist and lifted me, only to set my backside down on to the cold metal, then wedged himself between my legs. 

“Let us put this morose topic to rest for now.”

I pushed the thoughts to the back of my mind as I wrapped my arms loosely around him, telling myself that I’d absolutely be able to contain the light and things would be alright. He pressed his forehead against mine for a moment, then tilted his chin up so his mouth gently captured my pouting lips and breathed in my scent. I relaxed into him, desperately wanting to do nothing more. 

Eventually, we went back to the dance floor.

When the party had started to die down, I sat in a chair at one of the many tables in the ballroom. I kicked off my shoes and slouched heavily against the back of the chair, the sparkling fabric of my gown crinkling as I did. I was exhausted- and once I’d been able to quell my thoughts, I’d done just as the Ascian had suggested and let loose. 

He came over to me, kneeling next to my chair. “Are you ready to go?”

“No,” I said with a sigh. “I don’t want to go back.” 

His eyes softened as he took me in. “I don’t, either.” 

In one quick motion, he lifted me to his chest and disappeared. When we appeared again, we were on the roof. He set me down on the tiles, and sat beside me, wrapping his arms around my shoulders. I leaned into him, letting my head drop on to his collarbone, and looked up. 

Thousands of stars were out. 

He rested his chin on the top of my head.

“How about we just stay out here tonight?”

“Mm,” I hummed, eyes sweeping over the sky, taking everything in. “That sounds nice.”

[datura-foxglove]

(Dazatsu Week Day 4) Proof of Survival

Prompt : Kintsugi

Rating : T Warnings : mentions of self-harm and child abuse, non-sexual intimacy.

Summary : Dazai and Atsushi shared their scars - their history - and accepted them, grateful that both had struggled for their survival.

Honestly, it was more of an accident than something they had planned.

Both Atsushi and Dazai never talked about their past. It was more obvious with how much skin hidden under Dazai’s bandages and how Atsushi never forgot to wear his cat hoodie when they went to a beach, swimming with it despite how much of a pain to wash the salt of the hoodie afterwards.

It had rained really heavily that day. Despite sharing an umbrella, they still got drenched from head to toes. Since Kyouka had went to the Tanizakis for a sleepover, the two of them quickly climbed the stairs and entered Atsushi’s dorm. Atsushi winced at how puddles of water started to form under them and he had to dash inside and grabbed towels for both of them. Dazai left behind his drenched coat near the door, helping Atsushi mopped up the puddles as best as he could while Atsushi prepared bath for both of them. Dazai forced him to take a bath first and Atsushi stayed in the bath tub just long enough for his body to warm up. With dry clothes and body no longer freezing cold, he got out of the bathroom and pushed Dazai to the bathroom.

While he waited, Atsushi gathered the wet clothes and put them on the basket to wash later. He heard the door to the bathroom opened gently and respectfully didn’t turn around. “The new bandages are on the table.” I won’t look wasn’t spoken, but he knew Dazai knew anyway. The sounds of rustling cloth from bandages and wet mop were the only sounds filling the silence.

Atsushi’s humble dorm didn’t have a door that separated the kitchen from the bedroom. So Atsushi made sure to keep his back to Dazai, respecting his privacy. He kept himself busy moping the trail of water left behind, but in his focus to keep his curiosity out of his mind, he didn’t pay attention to where he was walking.

When he felt his feet slipped due to the wet floor, Atsushi yelped. He braced himself for the fall, but instead of the cold and hard floor, his body fell into something sturdy and warm instead.

Atsushi blinked, his senses still disoriented that it took him a few moments to realize that Dazai had caught him. His face flushed, apologies ready on his lips as Atsushi tried to stand up straight again. However, when his hands gripped Dazai’s arm to steady himself, his eyes widened when instead of the familiar soft fabric of Dazai’s bandages, his hands touched skin instead.

Shocked, he couldn’t stop his eyes from looking to his hands. Even with Atsushi’s hand covering part of Dazai’s arm, Atsushi could still see countless scars littering the skin of the man he loved. He sucked in a sharp breath. In his haste to catch Atsushi, Dazai hadn’t finished wrapping his bandages. A roll of bandages was ditched on the floor, some of it already wrapped on Dazai’s upper arm.

With how close their bodies were, Atsushi could feel Dazai tensed when he realized where Atsushi was looking. The two of them froze in the middle of the kitchen, unable to muster the courage to speak. It would be easier to stand up and pretend he didn’t see anything. Their relationship was too new, too fragile for Atsushi to risk it by acknowledging Dazai’s scars.

Yet when Atsushi slowly raise his head to look at Dazai’s face, Atsushi found himself unable to do it. There was dread and the man looked like he was trying really hard to smile and joke like usual, but the smile wasn’t quite right. It was usually hard and almost impossible to see past Dazai’s masks, but for once the emotions hidden in the depth of Dazai’s chocolate eyes was an emotion that Atsushi knew very well.

Loneliness.

Atsushi took a shaky breath in, his nerves going wild in his stomach. But he couldn’t ignore Dazai’s loneliness, not when he knew how his heart ache on the days when his own scars ached and no one was there to comfort him. His scars were ugly and he didn’t want anyone to see that part of him… but at the same time he wanted someone to understand, to look at his scars yet loved him anyway.

So instead of taking his hand away from Dazai’s arm, Atsushi slowly caressed his thumb on the scars there. Dazai flinched, the emotions on his eyes going wild and he looked so unsure that Atsushi wanted to do nothing but hug him close. But right now Dazai was already overwhelmed enough, so he just kept his touch light and the grip on his arm gentle. The older man could snatch his arm away from Atsushi anytime and Atsushi wouldn’t push, but Dazai stayed still. It was more because Dazai didn’t know what to do rather than acceptance though, so Atsushi didn’t say anything and just keep caressing Dazai’s scars one by one. He followed the trails of scars, some so deep that his fingers trembled a bit as he caressed them.

It took a while before Dazai’s tension slowly melted away to resignation. He just stood there, letting Atsushi gently mapped the scars on his arm. His fingers trailed up until he met bandages. His eyes sought Dazai’s for permission, waiting patiently as Dazai stared at him back. It was faint, Dazai’s head barely moving for a nod. Gently and slowly, Atsushi’s hands unraveled the bandages, stopping whenever Dazai’s breath picked up and waiting for him to calm down before continuing.

It was a tremendously slow process, but Atsushi didn’t mind. Dazai’s trust was so precious and a gift that Atsushi didn’t deserve, so it wasn’t a test to his patience at all. Atsushi treat each and every uncovered scars reverently, like how one would treat a map of treasure.

Atsushi didn’t really know how it happened and when, but he found himself dragged (or was it him that dragged Dazai?) to the futon. The bandages on both of Dazai’s arms had completely unraveled, his shirt dropped beside them on the futon as Atsushi slowly worked his way to the bandages covering Dazai’s neck. Dazai was still silent, but he didn’t look so much like a frightened animal anymore. Dazai’s eyes were watching him closely, as if he was expecting disgust or repulsion from Atsushi. But even as he uncovered more and more scars hidden beneath Dazai’s bandages, Atsushi felt neither of those feelings. It was like seeing a new side or facts about the man who had saved his life. The man who had given him a home. The man who Atsushi loved more than anything in this world. Atsushi treated each scars like little facts about Dazai he had stored in his mind from observing him, like how he drank his coffee with one spoon of sugar but his tea with three spoon of sugar. How the man would sing those absurd suicide songs when he was waiting for something. How the man couldn’t keep his hands still for long.

To Atsushi’s surprise, he knew the reason for some of Dazai’s scars. The bullet wound on his chest from when he faced Dostoyevsky alone. The stab wound on his back from that time Dazai almost died. Some less deadly scars from the missions they went through together. Atsushi caressed those scars lovingly, the relief must be showing on his face because Dazai tilted his head and finally spoke.

“You aren’t disgusted.” Dazai chuckled bitterly, his laugh sounded like broken glass that hurt Atsushi more than any physical wound.

“I’m not.” He agreed, voice serious but he also let his love bled through his words. “These scars… are the proof of your survival, Dazai-san. How could I hate them?”

“Even scars that I inflict on myself?” Dazai asked, his voice barren of any emotion and his eyes looked so numb and empty.

Atsushi touched Dazai’s arms, which he guessed were the ones he had inflicted to himself. “Even these.” He smiled slightly, looking at Dazai’s empty eyes with his own filled with devotion. “This may sound arrogant, but I love them because even when you wanted to kill yourself, you still survive. That you live long enough to meet me at that river. That you live long enough for me to get to know you and love you.”

He felt Dazai’s thumb caressed his cheeks and blinked when he realized that he was crying. Atsushi laughed, even when he didn’t know why. “I’m sorry, it is arrogant of me to say that you live just for me.” Atsushi wiped away his tears. “But even if that isn’t true, you are still alive until now and your scars are proof of that, Dazai-san.”

Dazai smiled, small and almost unnoticeable, yet still there. “If only I live just to be with you. It will be easier, I think.”

Atsushi nodded, fingers returned to caress Dazai’s scars. “But because you are alive, we can meet each other. For me, it’s enough to be grateful. I’m happy with my life now because of that day we met, Dazai-san. You gave me a home, an opportunity, to became something more than just an orphan that was kicked out to the streets.”

“You are the one who picked yourself up and shaped your own future, Atsushi-kun.”

“Only because you are there by my side to offer me a hand whenever I fell.” Atsushi leaned his forehead to Dazai. They were close enough to kiss, but Atsushi felt content with their closeness as it was. “Thank you for being alive, Dazai-san.”

Dazai tensed, his eyes widened as he stared at Atsushi in silence for a long time. Atsushi watched as a smile curled on Dazai’s lips, weak but painfully genuine.

They stayed like that for a long time, sharing breath between them as they held each other wrists, their pulses beating together in harmony. Atsushi suddenly felt a weak tug at the bottom of his t-shirt, looking down to see Dazai had let go of his hand to cling at Atsushi’s shirt.

“May I?” Dazai whispered softly, eyes watching Atsushi’s reaction.

Atsushi’s body tensed a little, his heart hammering in his ribcage. His mouth felt dry and he knew now why Dazai was so silent and still when he unraveled those bandages. Atsushi nodded, although he couldn’t bring himself to lift his shirt. It had been so easy to reveal his scar to Lucy, because Lucy had known similar pain of being unwanted. It was harder to show it to Dazai, because he had longed for the man to love him. Even if he knew that Dazai would treat his scar like how Atsushi treated his, that stubborn fear and anxiety in the back of his mind froze his hands.

Just like how Atsushi caressed his scars, Dazai slipped his hands beneath Atsushi’s shirt. Atsushi wondered if Dazai could feel how hard his heart was beating, but Dazai didn’t comment on it. Inch by inch his skin was revealed. He didn’t have many scars, Byakko’s regeneration healed his wounds even when he didn’t know about the tiger inside him. But some scars never disappear, which Yosano had theorized linked with the trauma in his mind. The greater the trauma, the longer the scars stayed. The ugliest of Atsushi’s scars were the burn scar on the side of his chest and the scar from when his feet was punctured by nail.

Atsushi’s body jerked when Dazai’s fingers touched the burn scar. His hands gripped weakly at Dazai’s shoulders due to shaking. The fingers on his scar stilled, but never left. His lover waited until Atsushi’s labored breath slowed down and the trembling of his hands ceased. Atsushi almost wanted to laugh at how different the two of them had acted when the other inspected their scars.

“I-I’m okay.” Atsushi breathed, biting his lips as he tried his hardest to keep the memory of hot poker searing his skin out of his mind.

Dazai lifted Atsushi’s clothes further so he could see Atsushi’s scar clearly. His expression softened and his eyes followed the movement of his fingers as he caressed the scar just as gently as how Atsushi had been to his own scar.

Atsushi blinked. It… felt nice. After the initial dread and panic settled, it felt nice to feel Dazai’s fingers on his scar. At seeing the understanding in Dazai’s eyes and no disgust in them. To his confusion, Dazai leaned his head down and Atsushi squeaked in surprise when he felt Dazai’s lips on the reddened and rough skin. “Dazai-san!”

Dazai wrapped his arms around Atsushi’s waist and leaned his head on his shoulder. His boyfriend whispered so softly that it was mostly thanks to the silent room that Atsushi could hear them. “Thank you for being alive too, Atsushi-kun.”

Atsushi felt his scar warmed by the touch of Dazai’s fingertips, the tension on his body melted away. He gently guided Dazai’s hand up and kissed one of the larger and deeper scar there softly.

The rain continued on pouring heavily, but the two of them were oblivious to the gloomy weather. Something warm and bright trickled inside the cracks in their mind, body, and soul and filled them up. Outlining each scars with the beautiful memory of that moment, as both of their histories were shown and accepted.

[castawxayaway]

half hearted: part six

one part left after this, wow. (when i’m more with it I might add to this like I normally do but rn im tired and i’m a mess basically)

one / two /three / four / five  / six / seven (last)

collection of writing

I wrapped my arms tightly around his neck, closing my eyes tightly I tried to picture us back in bed this morning or any morning. Turning to face him my breathing became rapid, I could feel my chest rising and falling as I tried to hold back the tears that brimmed my eyes. “I didn’t think it would come so soon.” I released a watery laugh, unsure how else to cope. My eyes darted around to find a distraction rather than focus on his sad expression. Pushing the brown that hangs in his forehead, slanted as he rests his head against the pillow I brush it aside, not wanting to miss a single detail about him. His face seemed softer now, his arm relaxed around my waist, but could easily tense as if he didn’t want to let go- I don’t want to let him go. 

Our week had come and gone too quickly, today was our final hours together, yet a status was still unknown to us. Things had happened, we joked about Myla being out of the apartment thankfully when we came home, that she didn’t have to hear us or put earbuds in. I didn’t feel insecure about myself with him, he liked the way I am shaped, my figure, the cellulite and the small details that go unnoticed. Being intertwined with him didn’t feel uncomfortable, neither of us wanting to be the first to let go, but today we have no choice. 

Licking my lips I whisper his name into his face, kissing his cheek lightly as my fingertip brushes from his cheek, down past his jawline and to his chest, drawing small nonsensical shapes as he began to arise. His arm parted from my waist as he lifted it above the covers, stretching out and groaning quietly. As he relaxed he turned back to face me, a small proximity between us, just how we liked it to be. “Sleep well?” I mumble as the comfort of my bedding, the company, the warmth is too irresistible, the temptation to fall asleep for another day is too inviting on many occasions. 

“Anything is better than that crappy mattress.” He remarked, a smile creeping onto his face as he says it. I glance down at the now bare spot on my floor, the space that has now been available for a few days. 

Instead that space became where we fell after a night of drinks. He told me about the time he skateboarded into a plant, and I told him how my friends thought I was praying the drunkenness out of me as I sat in front of a church, trying not to vomit. It was the spot where my shoes resigned themselves as we climbed into bed, where our clothes were casted off. 

We both sit in a silence, neither wanting to be the first to state it, bring up the apparent elephant in the room. I sit up first, no longer clinging to my bedding to cover myself from him as the insecurities faded, I can be myself with him. Attempting to climb over him he grabs my hips, refusing to let go as I laugh at the sensation of his hands jabbing into me. Dimples, deeply embedded in his cheeks appeared, making their final appearance for who knows how long. 

Both of us got changed into something comfortable as I hovered by the balcony door, the two plastic chairs he purchased still there, one soon to be vacant of a partner. I glanced over my shoulder to see him fumbling for his joggers, hopping as he slipped them on and accepted my hand that was extended, waiting for him. For the last time with him by my side I slide the door open, no more was the warmth that was enticing and called my name. Instead I let the crispness of the 5am dawn wake me up, to rise through my clothes, play in my hair and whisper how it’ll all work out fine into my ear. 

Stepping past the metal bar that threw ice into each particle of my skin a single shiver shot through me as goosebumps exploded over my arms and legs, each hair standing on end and refusing to calm down. We take our assigned seats, sitting in the same silence, but this time we have more of a view to admire. It feels weird to think about waking up to this without him, knowing he’ll never wake up with the same view, it’ll be forever changing. 

“So,” I speak up first, the elephant having followed us out here as it presses against my chest, causing my breathing to be shaky, constricted. “where are you off to next?” It pained me to ask, to know how long he could be gone, when I could even think about seeing him again. 

His eyes locked with the view as purple surrounded us, hints of blue painted in watercolours as they spread in any direction. Everyone is asleep, sometimes I would see others on their balconies, smoking a joint, rocking themselves back and forth. Never have I seen anyone so quiet, so silent as we are now. I wonder if anyone looks at us and wonders what we’re up to, why or how we are just content sitting out here as we watch the sunrise. “Did I ever tell you why I love your balcony so much?” He speaks up, dodging my question entirely.

Looking over to him he kept his head down, he wasn’t admiring the view anymore, he was too focused on the floorboards, too focused. Despite dawn only just approaching the outline of his face remained as prominent as ever, the way his jaw was so sharp yet soft, the way his nose curved and stuck out slightly. “Why?” I struggle to hide the irritation that rises in my tone, but I don’t want to fight now, not today. 

“You can be seperate from it all, even for a short amount of time.” Turning my head I focus on him as he talks, the way he starts to use his hands to explain it all, the feelings he experiences out here. “Here you are able to zone out, not worry about anything else and live in the moment. You can see the sunrise and set, you see others live their lives whilst you are in a bubble, preserved behind glass.” As he finished a smile formed as his head turned to face mine. 

“I don’t want to be preserved, Dan.” I sigh, louder than I had intended to. “Not forever.” Standing up I begin to walk past him, but his hand tries to reach for mine, yet I can’t give him the satisfaction. 

Walking back into my room I didn’t want to sit in the bubble, be a bystander watching it all happen. Instead I want to live in the last day we have together, I want to enjoy it and add to the list of memories we’ve created in seven days. The hours we’ve spent watching films, curling up together until we fall asleep, the music he has introduced to me and played, learning about the band, the origins and life before all of it. I’ve opened up about my past relationship as guilt began to eat away at my stomach like meat to piranhas.  

Some evenings we spent outside, talking about what the future might hold, what it could bring in terms of us, ourselves. Others we kept warm in blankets, or went for a romantic meal, something I had never experienced, but with him it didn’t feel weird, it felt weirdly perfect. 

As I slide my door shut he lowers his head into his hands, the sun now breaking through the apartment blocks in the distance. Turning around I walk out of my room, out of the space where our things lie crumbled together in piles, where I don’t have to be reminded of him or the things we’ve been doing. Out here, out in my hallway he hasn’t tainted it, it hasn’t been affected by him unlike my room, unlike my delicate heart. 

I walk through to the kitchen, the window miniscule compared to the one in my room as light barely covers the right hand wall. Moving past the counter I pour myself a drink, watching the water fill it and overflow, how it dances on the surface of the glass and pours down the sides, spilling into the sink and back down the drain. Zoning out I feel a hand on my shoulder, causing me to knock the glass down and it shatters next to me, water splashing up my legs. 

“Stay still.” He says with caution as I rest my hands on the counter as he picks up shards of glass, the puddle growing around me. “You alright?” I can hear how much he cares, how much he wants things to be okay, but he knows, I know. 

All I can do is shake my head as my lips quiver, my arms shaking against the counter as tears begin to spill like the water was in the glass. His hands turn me around to face him, yet I turn away, not wanting him to see. Gently he moves my chin, pain buried deep in his gaze rather than the lighthearted joy of last night. “It’s not going to be the same.” I mutter between shaky breaths as my shoulders twitch, the occasional hitch in my voice. 

“I know,” He brings me into a hug, resting his hand on my hair as he strokes it. “I know.” 

*

Hand in hand we stroll on by the shops, I point out the creepy dolls that remind me of something you’d only witness in a horror film. We drooled over the pastries that we ate the other day, wishing to relive that, secretly wishing to relive this entire week together. 

As we walk neither of us speak up, only wisps of our own breath explain how we feel. Out of the corner of my eye I see heavier wisps, heavy sighs as we get closer, closer to our little spot that is forever changing. For me I keep them contained, I keep quiet about it as I know if I try to realise this is it, I won’t survive this goodbye. 

Dan slips his hand out of mine, the warmth slowly moving out of my grip as the cold air attacks it, the vulnerability rising in my skin. He pushes the gate open, hearing it creak with age as I pick up speed, rushing over to him as my hand fits back into his. “Just six days ago,” I shake my head as we start the walk around the space. The sandy dust still coats the ground lining the dying grass as the tips start to freeze up, leaving a crisp sound beneath my feet. “right there.” Pointing ahead I see the bench, the space where I was terrified of being rejected, of meeting Dan and who he could be. 

Once we got to it Dan began to chuckle to himself. “Stand there a second?” He positioned me until I was in the right spot as he stood a short distance away. Slowly I lift my head, the black fabric on his shoes is still tainted, marked with the gravel that clings to the fibres. The same black jeans that were on my floor this morning, a warm sheepskin lined denim jacket, the one I felt safe wearing in the cool evenings as we strolled back to mine. My eyes only trailed further as I remember the beating of my heart being uncontrollable the first time I did this, but now it feels calm, as if I’m lying in bed in a state of tranquility. 

Yet as I reach his neck, the stubble that stretches down and fades my heart begins to beat slightly faster. His smooth jawline that is lined with a thicker mass of stubble, how badly I wish I could see a beard happen, maybe someday, someday. Swallowing the lump that was rising in my throat as his smile grew from a thin line across his lips to a cheerful grin, dimpled cheeks, as if he is trying to tell me it’ll be alright. By the time my eyes reach his, he slips off his glasses. Lines are marked by his eyes, but all I can read is how much he cares, how much it seems I matter to him. 

Stepping closer I don’t dare take my eyes off his, I wish I could swim deep into the depths of the blue that fill his eyes, the unique blends of night and day, of love and true intentions. How in a single glance his gaze can explain more, tell more than some novels can. With one look he can tell me a story, he can comfort me. It feels like the first day we met, how I broke down and without realising it he helped, he made me feel safe in a way no one ever has. 

And now I have to let that go. 

Our hands reach out for the others, once connected we step closer together until our foreheads rest together. “Is it always this hard?” I mumble, lifting my head as I scan his expression, how quickly it has changed, his eyes darker, sorrowful. 

“Only for those we truly love.” Lifting myself up my lips softly kiss his, this time it wasn’t about being in the heat of the moment, it wasn’t about suppressing my feelings and letting them out. This time it was about the raw emotions that are being driven into this, about the salty tears that mix with the sweet. The pain and love that I can feel, that I know is reciprocated. 

As I pull away first I fall back from the balls of my feet, resting them flat against the ground. My eyes focus on the floor, how we’ve spread the small stones out, leaving room for us to stand together. Neither of us spoke up, we simply walked through the crinkled grass as it crunched beneath our feet, each step sounding like the first bite of an apple, this being less sweet. 

I take a seat in the swing as he stands behind me, pushing me until I’m close to soaring, until I feel like a kid again hoping to swing all the way around and never quite achieving it. Then as I come back down to the ground he is no longer there to push me, to help me soar high. Instead he is next to me, swinging by my side rather than being in the background. As we swing we laugh wholeheartedly, already preparing for the jump that will follow. 

Slowing down I try to time it, both of us hoping our landings could be in sync. As I swing one last time I launch myself off of the swing, only focusing on not landing face first into the tightly compacted soft tarmac. My feet collide with the ground, a light sting spreading up my calf, but as I straighten up I laugh to myself. “Still got it.” I applaud myself, yet he isn’t stood next to me. Turning around he is still swinging, determination written all over his face as his tongue rests on the corner of his top lip, glasses now back on. “Come on Dan,” I joke as I begin to move around, blocking his opportunity to jump. 

Blinking in mid laugh all I see is a mass of blue coming straight for me. Before I realise it a pain spreads through my back as a heavy weight rests on top of me, both of us moaning and groaning like we are too old to do this, which we probably are. He lifts himself up off of me, sitting down in front of me as he eases me up, a few clicks and I’m back to normal. Sitting opposite each other we laugh, neither denying the fun of being a kid again, even if it was momentary. 

The rest of the morning we have together we spend talking in hope, rather than focusing on the harsh reality that lies before us. We go to the home of a kind family who let Dan play their piano, I sit and listen to him perform to me for the last time, the last time I can see the emotion driven into each line, into each rise and fall of his voice. I reminisce on our first phone call, where it took place in the cafe that is hidden away, only known by few. It was a place I felt comfortable, where I could be distracted instead of panicking about who I was talking to. 

Walking back into my room I can’t avoid the bag that is now packed, how badly I want to kick it under my bed, ignore it and hope he forgets to go. But that isn’t the reality of this, no matter how badly we both want this to, we can’t win. I perch on the edge of my bed as it sits in the middle of my room like something alien that I fear to touch, to get too close to. 

I don’t even notice him walking in, how he sits down next to me making me shift closer, the added weight that rests on my shoulders as I rest my head against his. “This is really it.” My mind has no other words, no comfort to provide to either of us, only the truth, the coldness that it is wrapped in. 

“I know,” Moving away I admire his face one last time, knowing once we walk out of this apartment I will be returning solo. I simply bore into his eyes with more emotion and gratitude than words could describe. As I opened my mouth to say something in response I couldn’t find any form of wording to give. Everything I had hoped to say or phrase doesn’t sound right, the words I desperately want to say merely vanish, leaving me in a silence. “I know.” 

Holding onto his bag I wished it was empty, or filled with clothes that needed washing. I wanted this brief journey in the car to be going in the opposite direction as if he had been on tour already and was now coming back to see me again, that the trip was over and instead he’d be returning to me, not leaving me. Pulling up the driver got out, the chatter on the radio that replaced our voices came to a halt as the engine switched off, yet I remain still. I stare straight ahead blankly as families smiled, rolling their suitcases into car boots or children who jumped up and down as their parents walked them towards the building. If only I had that amount of joy and innocence about the world.

Dan places his hand on top of mine, the look thickly coating his eyes as we climb out. He thanks the driver on our behalf  as the cool air nipped at my ankles as the sky darkened, the end now nigh.  We walked towards the building, the sound of wheels against the concrete filling the air as chatter of weather and flights surrounded us. I glanced over to him but his eyes remained forward, set ahead not meeting mine. Moving my hand closer to his I brushed his fingertips, effortlessly mine fitted into his and locked tightly.

The signs were now in sight, the noise of conversations I’ll never fully understand fill my ears in attempt to block out his goodbye, something I’m not ready to hear. His movement stops as does my heart in response, we both know it’s time. 

Turning to face him my breathing became rapid, I could feel my chest rising and falling as I tried to hold back the tears that brimmed my eyes. “I didn’t think it would come so soon.” I released a watery laugh, unsure how else to cope. My eyes darted around to find a distraction rather than focus on his sad expression. The usual raised eyebrows and bright smile were drooped, lowered. “Before I start crying, or make this any worse I just want to say thank you.” Taking a deep breath I wipe my eyes with my sleeves that are now discoloured, permanently darkening. “You got me through some things, some bad things. And already I’m hoping we can meet again, as I can’t think of anything worse.” 

His hand rises to wipe the tear that falls from my cheek, stroking the soft skin as I lean into his hand, not wanting to forget this. Lightly he said my name, my full name making my heart swell. “You mean too much to me to lose, I’ll be back. I can promise you that,” He place his hand under my chin, my eyes meeting his which held the passion, the care, the intense love. “don’t forget me, okay?.” He laughed lightly as he squinted, struggling to contain his emotions anymore.

I wrapped my arms tightly around his neck, closing my eyes tightly I tried to picture us back in bed this morning or any morning. Slowly I eased my grip and placed my lips on his with such a force. The same old butterflies fluttered like newborns, fresh out of the cocoon. A rapid pace that created friction and sparks inside that didn’t die out. Salty tears mixed into our kiss, so full of love and sadness that neither of us wanted to be the first to pull away. But we did. We had to. Moving away from him I felt my hands slipping out of his, trying not to think about how this will be his lasting touch on my skin. 

As he turned around I preserved his laughter, remembered the first glance at him I had, the first time we spoke on the phone, trying to tell myself to calm down. Now I had been with him, I was able to learn about his music, about the band I’d heard everything yet nothing about. After a week of adventuring, of living in the moment with him it is over as quickly as it began. 

Watching him check in I hold back the tears as he carries his bag away, walking up towards the escalator and glancing back to me, one last time. He pauses as others pass him by, my heart freezes in my chest as I see him walk towards me. My mouth remains slightly open as I try to fathom the right words, but they don’t come. 

I watch as he slips the jacket off, placing it around my shoulders. “A reason for me to come back, well another reason.” He laughed and a smile formed on my face, with a longing forehead kiss he turned around and quickly walked to the escalator, knowing the risk of staying, the longing to walk off back to a taxi and leave with me. 

Once he is out of sight I can feel the crumbling begin, I pull out my phone and call Myla as I leave. The second she answers I break, and she quickly comes to get me. We both sit in silence as she drives us back, the occasional sniff as I tug on his jacket, the hugging of it on my shoulders not even comparing to his hold on me. “Listen,” She starts as I look out of the window, my broken expression reflecting in the dark. “he’ll come back, I know it’s hard for you. I know how much you care about him.” Her words bore into my mind, how much I actually care for him. 

“I can’t put it into words, Myla.” I sniff as I face her, a concerned look plastered across her face. “I don’t want to admit it, I couldn’t tell him that I, that I-” The word felt like lead in my mouth, it didn’t want to shift, it refused to be spoken.

“Love him?” A smile grew on her face as she realised, as it sank in. 

In my mind a flash of it all came across, the mornings when we would lie in bed, when we could talk about nothing and everything on the phone as if he were sat next to me. Things I couldn’t do, things I couldn’t talk about to anyone, not even Myla were easy with him. “I think I do.” A simple statement that has a colossal meaning behind it. It means I have too much of a feeling for him, one I know is reciprocated to a degree, “But it’s too late.” Leaning back into the seat I sigh. “I’ll have to wait until I see him, whenever that’ll be.” 

final part 

[shostakobitchh]

One shot request: Snape coming home from spying mission and attempting to hide a huge gross gash on his arm from Ariel

Severus knows Ariel is waiting up for him, like she always is.

Of all the times he has been summoned to the Dark Lord’s side, tonight is the first – since his return – that Severus has had to bear the brunt of his wrath. Draco’s task, according to the Dark Lord, is moving far too slowly. He’s growing impatient, anxious for Dumbledore to finally be out of his way so he can have his own with Lily’s children.

Which was why his wand landed on Severus, tonight. Draco couldn’t be present for obvious reasons, and Severus was the second closest to the mission. He hadn’t known what was worse — the brunt of the pain from his injuries, the gleeful light in Bellatrix’s eyes that enjoyed every second of his torture, or the churn in his stomach that reminded him that Ariel wasn’t going to react well. They’d made a promise, almost two years ago now, that every time Severus left, he would never leave without saying goodbye, and he would never return without greeting her first.

Severus has never regretted his promise to her more than he does now, holding his arm tightly against his chest as he bites back a moan of pain. He wants nothing more than to collapse against one of the dungeon walls and let the dark spots in his vision overtake him, but he knows he can’t, because if he doesn’t make it back to his quarters, he’ll leave Ariel wondering, worrying, waiting. The gash in his arm is bleeding profusely, and Severus can’t afford to linger any longer.

It’s nearly four in the morning when he walks through the door. Severus inhales deeply when he spots her curled up in his armchair, staring blearily into the fire.

Severus closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Ariel.”

Her head shoots up, a look of relief passing over her face as she leaps off the couch. Severus wants to go to her, wants to hear her laugh and say that he needs to hibernate, that they all should until the war is over. Severus’ daughter, however, is far more observant than that, like he is, and notices the grimace he’s trying to peel off his face, and the arm he’s shoved behind his back, between himself and the door.

She halts.

Ariel’s eyes lock onto his. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Severus forces out in a toneless voice. “I’m exhausted. Aren’t you?”

“What… what happened?” she ignores him, swooping forward – Severus recoils against the door. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

“No,” he lies.

“Liar.” Ariel hisses. “What is it?”

If Severus wasn’t so taken aback by the sudden change in demeanor, he might’ve snapped and brushed past her. There’s a dangerous glint in Ariel’s eye that doesn’t unnerve him, but intrigues him.

Severus slowly moves his arm, watching her face carefully as horror crashes and tears into her already tense features. Ariel raises a shaky hand over the wound, her mouth set in a tight line that threatens to spill over with something Severus isn’t sure he can handle right now.

“He did this to you?” Ariel whispers.

“It’s not as bad as it looks.” Severus lowers his arm out of her view. “I am fine.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he sees the pool of blood forming on the floor below him. It’s dripping down his elbow, collecting into a messy puddle between them.

Her eyes flash like a coin at the bottom of a pond. “You weren’t going to tell me. You were going to try and hide it from me.”

Severus sucks in a breath of air through his teeth as the entire right side of his body throbs in pain. “Once I was alone, I was going to heal it and rest. You shouldn’t have stayed up, I’m more than capable of taking care of myself.”

“There’s a giant gash in your stupid arm and you’re trying to go to bed without treating it?” Ariel fumes. “Are you trying to bleed out overnight?”

“Are you not listening? I said I was going to treat it myself,” Severus snaps. “Obviously.”

“Oh yeah, healing the giant gaping hole in your arm by yourself sounds ingenious!” she shrieks. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Severus can feel little flicks of rage digging into him, but it’s all overpowered by the pain in his arm. He bares his teeth, dragging the cold, night air between them, a retort on his lips, when Ariel grabs his wrist.

“Jesus, what did he do?” Ariel’s other hand went to his forearm. “Try and filet you?”

“Watch yourself, girl.” he warns, pulling his arm away, but Ariel points her wand at him.

“If you don’t sit down, I’m going to put you in a Body Bind.”

He blinks. “Sit? I need to take care of this.” he gestures to his arm.

"No, you don’t,” Ariel’s jaw sets, the look in her eyes causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand up straight. “I am. Sit.”

A mental note Severus had tucked away in some terribly disheveled corner of his mind surges to the forefront of his thoughts. Ariel had taken up the hobby of obsessively reading Healing articles – everything she can get her hands on, the more morose, the better. Severus assumed it had to do with her future, her career, a way to prove Umbridge wrong long after her departure from Hogwarts.

Severus knew what it was really for. He can’t recall a time he’s ever hated being right.

"You are not doing anything!” Severus snarls, though there’s a frantic pressure building inside him at her words. “I am going to sterilize and mend it myself, and then, you’re going to leave me be!”

“Why are you always like this?” Ariel shoots back. “Just let me fucking help, for once!”

Severus is seconds away from letting her have it –  he can’t recall a time when she’s ever spoken to him like this, ever, but knows he should hate it. He tells himself that his resignation is due to the blood loss. He’s too tired to keep arguing with her, too exhausted to fight Ariel on this one, and he does require medical attention… immediately. What unsettles him, however, is that he’s placing his health in his teenager’s hands.

… Quite literally, it would seem. As Severus tries to move away, his legs buckle, and Ariel is suddenly the one holding him up.

“If you try and do everything, you’re probably going to end of accidentally killing yourself in the process.” Ariel says in a much softer voice – Severus feels his face flame. She’s pitying him, under the impression that he’s useless, and while it might be temporarily true, he can’t stand it. He’d rather death, over this.

Severus lets her drag him to the couch, nonetheless.

His head hits the back of couch as Ariel pulls the coffee table closer so that she’s sitting atop it. She’s maneuvering his arm around his torso, and Severus relocates his gaze to the ceiling. He knows that in a minute or so, Ariel is going to realize she bit off more than she can chew and call Poppy, but there’s something else he can’t name, something that —

“Take your robe off and pull up your sleeve.“ Ariel orders. "I can’t fix you if you’re wearing these things. They’re too bloody thick.”

Like you, right now, Severus wants to retort, but he bites his tongue and does as Ariel asks.

The robes hit the floor with a wet smack. They both wince, but Ariel’s nostrils flare angrily as Severus let out an exhausted sigh. He feels mildly nauseous, the thought absolutely mortifying. If he vomits, Ariel will never let him live it down. She’ll start sleeping on the couch again, to make sure she hears him if he gets up before she does.

"What curse did he use?” Ariel asks in a crackly voice. Her fingers trace lightly around the wound, causing him to hiss warningly.

Severus hesitates – up until this point, he hasn’t relayed a single detail about his summons with her. He’s held that to him when he sees the look on her face every time he returns. It’s the one thing left he can give her – the one shred of information he can still protect her from.

“Sectumsempra.” Severus says in a heavy voice. “You don’t know it –”

“I do actually,” Ariel snaps. “Harry showed me your stupid potions textbook.”

Severus feels his arms and head go numb. He hasn’t seen that book in years — hasn’t thought about it in longer. All of his belongings from his childhood are locked up in the attic at Spinner’s End, where Ariel couldn’t find them, but close enough for Severus to know they’re still around. He’s not sentimental — it’s more of proof of that time, that it really transpired, his mistakes as numerous as the parchment stored away.

“How – how –” the words stick to his throat, like the blood rolling down the palm of his hand, dripping off his fingers.

“Please,” Ariel gives a humorless snort. “I recognized your handwriting. And that name – Prince? After your mum? Nice touch, Dad.”

“Where the hell did he find it?”

“Slughorn’s room. He carries the stupid thing everywhere. You wouldn’t happen to have developed the counter-curse, would you?”

Severus swallows roughly, his chest squeezing around his heart. “Vulnera Sanentur, thrice. The first usage eases the blood flow, the second causes the wounds to knit and the third removes –”

“Effects?” Ariel finishes. “I know how three-time healing works, Dad.”

Before he can tell her that his own spell being used against him warrants his own method of healing, Ariel raises her wand.

His eyes slide shut as she begins reciting the incantation, slow and even, her voice’s cadence low and soothing. There’s a shriek in the back of his mind that keeps supplying that having your barely of-age daughter heal the gaping hole in your arm is quite possibly the worst thing he’s ever allowed to happen. Severus finds himself not caring about that, however; all he can think of is how he made it back here at all, of how instead of turning into a puddle, Ariel is as sturdy as mile-deep ice.

“There,” a small smile twists her lips when Severus opens his eyes. “good as new.”

Severus lifts his arm to look it over himself. She’s right — a pink line is all that remains. He hadn’t felt a thing, hadn’t realized it was over until Ariel had said anything. The only proof of an injury Severus can still see is the blood staining his white shirt, and on the floor.

“Accio Blood Replenisher.” Ariel calls, a vial whizzing into her opened hand. She uncorks the vial and hands it to him. “I should have you take two or three of these, yeah?”

Before he can answer, she’s already summoned the rest. Severus downs them, the glass heavy in his hand. Between the blood loss and his exhaustion, he’s beginning to feel like he’s been trampled and shoved inside of a crate. He can barely move his lips to tell her to leave him be — she ignores him.

“You’re forehead is cut too.” Ariel stands, her fingers gently inspecting his temple. “Was this the same curse?”

“No,” Severus winces. “I believe I hit my head when I fell.”

He feels her wand tap his temple. "Stay still, unless you want your face sliced off.”

“It would be an improvement.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I’m not letting you touch my face.”

“You don’t seem to care much for it, but I do.” Ariel grabs his forehead, and shoves it back. “Stay still.”

Before Severus can tear out of her grip, the cold feel of her wand is pressed against his temple. He freezes, his eyes sliding shut, waiting for the pain, for more blood to come pouring down his face, but it doesn’t come.

“There,” Ariel murmurs. “perfect.”

He opens one eye, disbelieving. He wants to yell at her for using him as her cadaver, but the satisfied look in her eyes is enough to make him see that Ariel was more than successful.

"Don’t believe me?” she scowls at the look on his face.

Severus sits up, his knees knocking against Ariel’s. “I’m still alive, so I suppose you did a well enough job.”

Her face splits off — there’s hurt, followed by cold indifference. “Glad I could help.”

“Ariel…”

“Don’t,” she snaps. “Don’t ask me anything right now. Are you okay?”

Severus looks away, down at his bloodstained sleeve. “I’ll live.”

“Not if you try and hide your injuries from me.”

“Is that a threat?”

“I’m bloody worried about you!” Ariel shouts at him. “You scared the piss out of me, and now you want to make me out to be the moron?”

His eyes turn into slits. “I said nothing of the sort. Forcing me into submission, however, while I am obviously physically compromised —“

She slams up from the table. “It was the least I could do, seeing as you’ve spent the last fifteen years doing the same for me!”

Her face crumbles, and Severus finally sees what he’d originally been anticipating bubble to the surface, washing away her anger. "You always get mad when I stay up and wait,” Ariel mutters. “but I knew… I knew he’d hurt you, and I didn’t want you to be alone.”

Her eyes water, and she looks away. Severus feels his heart throb away at the back of his throat. He can’t think — his mind is a muddled mess of fog and fear and fever — but he has enough strength for this. He forces himself to stand as Ariel’s arms wrap around him tightly, mindful not to touch the bloodstained sleeve, or squeeze him too hard. No one has ever cared about his wellbeing as much as she has, and while it’s never come to this extreme before, Severus can’t bring himself to push her away… or at least, right now, he can’t.

“Stupid git,” Ariel sniffles.

Severus agrees with a sigh, that being the last thing he remembers before she settles him back against the arm of the couch.

[bloodbornskys]

Soooo Ace and I wrote a cute little fluff fic with our WoW mains! It was a lot of fun to write!! We focused mainly on just having fun so please forgive any typos and stuff <3 Enjoy!

He found her sleeping on his sofa, one arm dangling off the edge. The other was clutched to her side, staunching the blood dripping out of a nasty looking wound. There wasn’t any doubt that things had been awkward between them since they’d reunited, but it was a relief to see she still trusted him enough to help.

He kneeled next to her, watching her sleeping face as she snored peacefully. Her once fair features had been twisted and marred; while she was still beautiful, it was the harsh and cruel beauty of a demon that now adorned her. Her once green hair was now blacker than pitch, though it still pleased him to see she’d kept her hair long.

The horns and tattoos, however, would take some getting used to.

His eyes drifted to the wound in her side; the skin under her ribcage had been sliced open, and was still bleeding. Black blood dripped from the wound onto the floor, forming a grotesque puddle. Concerned, her brushed a stray strand of hair away from her face, taking care not to hurt her with his claws. “Lana,” he whispered, his voice gentle and soft. When she didn’t stir or show any signs of hearing him, he roughly shook her shoulder. “Nythlanas, wake up.” His patience had waned over the years, however he did his best to be gentle toward the elf he cared for.

“Vald, just… Five more minutes.” Her voice sounded almost as pristine and sweet as it had years ago.

When it was obvious that the elf had not awoken, the worgen let out a sigh. A long time had passed since the two had interacted in such a way, and unknowing how to react now, he resigned himself to leaving her where she slept, and stood to grab the materials he would need to bandage the wound. He could have attempted a bit of his blood magic, but he wanted to avoid any unnecessary complications involving death and fel energy..

As soon as he stood up however, a deep and gruff voice called out his name. “Valdamer, where are you going?” Just as the demonic influence had scarred her body, it had scarred her voice as well. He knew not whether the voice he had heard earlier had been real, or what he wanted to hear; it didn’t matter now. “I… Want you to stay here.”

Her eyes were open now, and… By the Light, what had happened to her eyes? Where beautiful silver had once shined at him, he was now greeted by pits of fel fire that seemed to be staring at nothing, yet everything, at the same time. He swallowed his surprise before speaking. “I’ll be here, I just…” He struggled to find words. “I need to find something to bind that up.” He pointed to the still dripping gash on her side.

Nythlanas blinked, her weariness obvious. “Oh, right. Sorry. I thought I’d healed it…” She wrinkled her nose. “I was just so tired, it must have… reopened.” As she spoke, it seemed to become harder for her to form words. She was clearly exhausted, though not in pain, it seemed.

“Lucky for you, it’s not serious, Lana,” he said, unsmiling. “I’ll be right back, I promise.”

Nythlanas’s eyes fluttered shut. “Hurry, my dear, if you don’t mind.”

Vald rolled his eyes but rose once again to his feet. He walked off rather speedily, wanting to dress the wound quickly. Reaching his supply closet, he swung the doors open and rummaged through the supplies. He managed to find enough silkweave to fashion a bandage, returning to the couch to begin work on the injury.

“You know, you should really be more careful. You weren’t the most… Durable of people.” Vald tried to make small talk, something he had grown very unaccustomed to. Years of undeath and battle would do that to any man. “Perhaps getting hit by blades isn’t… The best course of action.”

Nythlanas, her eyes still shut, huffed softly. “Oh please, it… It wasn’t the easiest of demons to slay,” she replied, her voice still weary. “And I wouldn’t be in the care of my favourite wolf if I hadn’t gotten injured.” Vald was sure that had Nythlanas been in a better state, the tone would have been more flirtatious. However, given the exhaustion in her voice, she sounded more like she was mocking the worgen than anything else. Luckily, Vald understood what she’d meant.

“You could always schedule a meeting, like normal people. I suppose that isn’t up your alley, though.”

“Neither of us are exactly ‘normal,’ my Little Wolf. If you haven’t noticed, I’m more demon than elf at the moment, and you’re not even living.” Vald deigned to snicker in acknowledgement, something he hadn’t done in a while. “And was that… A laugh? Are you laughing, at… At my jokes? Maybe you’re the one that got wounded.”

“Even if I was hit, I wouldn’t be bleeding. I don’t smart easily; there are plentiful sources of healing for me. For you, however…”

Nythlanas grinned, flashing a row of sharp fangs. “Souls are usually more than enough, however..” she grit her teeth as Vald tightened the bandages around her waist. “Those seem… to be in short supply right now…”

“How so?”

“I…” she coughed, looking a little embarrassed. “I must admit I panicked… when i got wounded,” she rested her head against the arm of the sofa as Vald finished up binding her wound. “And I was in no shape to fight, so… I came here. To you, my Wolf.” Her hand had found it’s way to his wrist while she talked, and came to rest there. Her touch was surprisingly light, and it sent shivers down his spine. Hesitant, he slowly rotated his hand until he was touching the inside of her wrist. She seemed to take the gesture as permission, and her fingers gently  grasped his wrist. He reciprocated, holding her small wrist in his hand.

It’s been ages since I’ve been called Wolf, he thought to himself. An ache he had long thought he’d never feel again suddenly pulsed back to life as he gazed into Nythlanas’ eyes. If his heart had still been beating, he was sure it’d be pounding.

Nythlanas laughed, though it sounded more like a pained bark. “What happened to us, my Wolf? This is so far from where we thought we’d be…”

“Life happened.” The response was gruff, and almost matter-of-factly. “Life is… Unfair. The Light has a way of toying with its subjects sometimes, doesn’t it?” Vald sighed, his claw slipping down until he held the demon hunter’s hand. “I never planned on… Becoming what I am. Worgen or death knight. Even as the Light burns me now however, remembering that you… You still care for me. It reinforces my belief. While we may be far from where we originally thought, in other ways we are closer.”

While he’d been talking, Nythlanas had managed to prop herself up in a sitting position. When he’d finished, he looked up into her face- it still boggled him how she could look so different yet the same as he’d always known - and was surprised to find tears well in her eyes.

“Vald, I…” in a flurry of movement, she lunged forward, wrapping her arms around Vald in a tight embrace. “I never stopped caring. Never.” From the sound of her voice, she was crying. She buried her face into his shoulder. “When I learned what had been done to you, and when I learned that you were I alive… I couldn’t bear to face you. I couldn’t… let you see what I had done to myself.”

Nythlanas tightened her grip, holding him as though her life depended on it. “I wanted...needed to see you. To hold you and keep you safe where no one could ever hurt you ever again… But how could I show myself to you when I look like this? I...I’ve changed, my Wolf, and not just physically. The things I’ve done… I’ll never be the same as I once was.”

Vald put a large arm around the elf, pulling her close and resting his muzzle on her head. “I wanted to see you, no matter what. No matter how you look, sound, or anything, as long as your heart and soul are yours, I want to face you, and everything else with you.”

Vald scooped Nythlanas into his arms, she was still small, despite the changes to her physiology. She gasped slightly, to which Vald said, “Just relax and heal. I’ll take care of you, until you’re better and beyond.”

By the time Vald carried Nythlanas upstairs and into his bedroom, she was already drifting off to sleep. With a delicacy he hadn’t exercised in quite a while, he set Nythlanas down on the bed, delicately covering her in blankets. As he turned to leave, her hand shot out, grabbing his wrist.

“Wait,” she swallowed. “Stay… please, my Wolf.”

He stared at her for a moment, a bit surprised by her request. But once again, his chest ached with longing he hadn’t felt in years. Almost cautiously, he sat on the bed, taking a few moments before lying next to the woman he loved.

“Thank you…” she breathed before drifting off to sleep. Vald absentmindedly stroked her hair while she slept, careful not to snag it on his claws.

They sat like that for a while: Nythlanas sleeping peacefully, and Vald watching over her. At one point, however Nythlanas had somehow moved closer to Vald, their bodies pressing together. Her arms wrapped around him, and their legs tangled together. Vald was surprised; they hadn’t laid together like this in forever.

Vald smiled as he completed the hug, wrapping his arms around Nythlanas’s smaller frame. “Sweet dreams, beautiful,” he whispered. In response, Nythlanas murmured something and buried her face into his chest. Once again he rested his muzzle on top of Nythlanas’s head before drifting off to sleep.

For the first time in years, he went to sleep smiling.

[mclennunf]

This Boy - Chapter 22

~John's~ I couldn't take my eyes off of him. I was filled with anger. Mike was still hiding behind me, not making a peep. Paul stood frozen staring at Jim McCartney. It took a few moments before anybody could speak, I think we were all trying to analyze the situation and trying to believe it was really happening. Jim took his eyes off of Paul and locked with mine. "I think it's best if you leave." I managed to growl out. The sound of my voice made Mike tighten his grip around my waist. "This is my home, son. I believe it's best if you leave."  Jim spat back, his voice sounding weak and shaken. 

"Take Mike upstairs." Paul ordered as he tilted his head slightly toward me. "Paul, no I'm--" I tried to object before Paul interrupted. "John, now." He said sternly. That meant walking right by Jim. I spun around and picked up Mike, who quickly hid his head in my neck and wrapped his limbs around my body. I took a deep breath and as I walked by Jim toward the stairs, it took every ounce of my strength not to head butt him. He glared at me as I walked by.   I made it up into Paul's room, and sat Mike down on the bed. I sat down next to him and took another deep breath. "Are you okay?" I asked Mike quietly. He leaned into my side and I put my arm around his shoulder. I could hear him begin to cry, the poor lad. I did not want to be locked up here and away, Paul needed me. "P-Paul is downstairs..with him," Mike said quietly. I nodded. "G-go sit on the stairs and listen, Johnny, he might need you," Mike told me. "Are you gonna be okay if I do?" I asked, already standing up. He nodded and lied down on his older brothers bed. I opened the door quietly and tip toed down the stairs half way, sitting down and listening carefully. It was silent at first, I heard a chair shuffle and Jim sigh loudly. "Why are you here?" Gin asked. "I want my home back, I want my children." Jim said quite loudly. I shook my head to myself. I waited for Paul to object, but he didn't speak. "The boys have learned their lesson, I've quit drinking. I need my boys back." Jim ordered. I wanted to throw things. I wanted to hit Jim McCartney so hard he didn't wake back up. "Stupid git." I mumbled to myself. "Paul, don't you have anything to say?" Jim asked. "Don't you? An apology, perhaps?" Paul spat back quickly. I wanted to stand up clapping, and place a huge kiss on Paul's lips. I was so proud of him for standing up for him and Mike, not backing down. "Paul I did those things because I care about you, you're my son after all." Jim scoffed. It was all so unreal. "You nearly killed me because you care? That's bullshit." Paul laughed. "Don't take that tone with me, young man." I heard him stand up. "Or what? You'll put me back in a hospital bed?" Paul stood up as well. I braced myself. "Don't you have any respect for your father?" Jim raised his voice. "Fuck you." Paul spat back and left the room, he stormed up the stairs passed me and slammed his bedroom door shut. Jim showed up at the bottom of the stairs.  I stood up. "Yer a swine." I growled at him. "Let me pass, kid." Jim shoved me, I fell but caught myself on the stairs. I took another deep breath, I couldn't hit him. Oh how I bloody wanted to, but I knew if I started hitting him I wouldn't be able to stop. I'd end up killing the old sod. Gin stepped out from around the corner. "Come on, let's all sit down in the living room and talk." She ordered, speaking loud enough so Paul and Mike would hear. Paul walked out of the bedroom with a still frightened Mike holding his hand. I leaned against the wall, allowing them to pass me. As Paul walked by, he lightly grabbed my hand. His touch reminded me that he was okay, and we were going to figure this thing out. Paul and I sat down together on the couch, Mike jumped up into my lap, Gin was in the chair, and Jim stood in the doorway. "Jim, you know the boys are both legally mine. Now that Paul is an adult, he's a secondary guardian to Mike. This is not your decision, its our's." Gin told him sternly. I couldn't believe how calm Paul seemed. Mike was fumbling with my fingers, not looking up at his dead-beat father that I oh-so-badly wanted to knock on his ass. "Then you should know that I've quit drinking and all I want is to be a father to you boys again." Jim said, calmly. "Had yer chance already and ye blew it, didn't ye?" I blurted out. The sound of my voice seemed to sooth Paul because his face softened. "Why are you here, Lennon? This is a family matter." Jim said as he stared me down again. "John is more family than you are." Paul said in an extremely low, monotoned voice. Jim's stare didn't break with mine. "If Paul and Mike agree, we can begin with visitations. Once a week, under my supervision." Gin said and sighed loudly. I tensed up immediately. "No." Paul said as he stood up and stared Jim in the eye. Paul had gotten quite a bit taller since the last time he'd seen Jim, and he looked more like a man than before. He was more muscular now with a lot more definition in his face. "I think it's time to go." I said as I stood up and shifted into the space separating Jim and Paul. "Bloody hell boy, what are you doing protecting him so much? Are you a queer? For MY son?" Jim spat at me as his nose inched closer to mine. I clenched my fists and huffed loudly in his face, using every ounce of my will not to hit him. Paul grabbed my shoulder and shoved me back. Paul grabbed Jim's collar, his eyes looked black with rage. "Don't you DARE speak to him like that!" Paul began yelling as he dragged Jim out into the vestibule. "Get the FUCK out of this house, and don't bother trying to be apart of mine and Mike's lives. FUCK YOU." Paul was screaming in Jim's face now, still beat red with anger. He opened the door and held his hand out toward the exit. Jim looked like his heart had just been ripped out and thrown in a puddle. Good. As he walked away, Paul slammed the door shut and slid down it, sitting on the floor with his head in his hands. I knelt down beside him. "I'm so proud of you." I whispered. Mike flew into Paul's arms, burying his small crying face into Paul's shoulder. Paul stood up with Mike in his arms and swayed him back and forth as if he was a crying toddler. Gin stood in the doorway of the sitting room, clenching her chest, tears rolling down her cheeks.  I should've felt out of place, but I didn't. Paul didn't stop swaying back and forth in that spot for a while. Gin and I gave them their alone time and sat back down in the kitchen. "Do you think they would want some tea?" Gin asked me, still sniffling as she placed a pot of tea on the table along with four cups. "I'll go ask them." I half smiled as I stood up and approached the boys. Paul still hadn't moved from the spot he had been swaying Mike in. I kissed Paul's cheek. "Cuppa tea, love?" I whispered and kissed his temple. I noticed Mike was asleep on Paul's shoulder. Paul nodded and walked over to the couch, lying Mike down and placing a quilt on top of him. "Mum made this, she did." Paul whispered to Mike before kissing the top of his head. Paul walked back over to me, his head hanging. I lifted his chin with my index finger and kissed his nose lightly. "Are ye okay, m'love?" I asked him quietly. "Hard to look at him, y'know?" Paul said, his voice cracking a little bit as he wrapped his arms around me and squeezed. "Thank you for staying." He added. "Oh I wasn't going anywhere if my life bloody depended on it, Macca. C'mon, Gin is gonna see us." I told him as I pulled his arms off of me and dragged him into the kitchen. "I'm glad you boys are home safe, but I think it's time for me to resign. It's getting late after all." Gin said, almost awkwardly as she left the room and went to Jim's old room. "I love you, Paul." I said quietly as he poured us each a cup of tea. He let a smile creep out the side of his mouth. "I love you, John. I'm surprised you didn't kill the bastard." Paul laughed a little and put his hand on my thigh. "Oh trust me, I wanted to. Took all me bloody strength not to! Just seein' his bloody face got me blood boiling. Seein' wee Mike scared like that, and well, seein' you all red and mad." I told him as I sipped at my tea. "Seein' me like that made you wanna hit him?" Paul giggled a little. "Well, of course. But afterward I wanted to jump your soddin' bones, lookin' all sexy like that, y'know." I smirked and grabbed his hand, still placed on my thigh. "Are you hitting on me, John Lennon?" Paul said, trying to sound as shocked as possible. "I just might be." I said, in a low grumble as I leaned over and kissed down Paul's jawline and to his neck. "Paul?" Mike's little voice made us both jump. "Yes love?" Paul said as he took Mike's hand and pulled him up into his lap. "Thank you for protectin' me," he mumbled through a small whimper. "Ah Mikey, I'll always be here to protect ye." Paul said with a smile on his face as he hugged his small brother close, looking at me over his shoulder.  "Eh, Mike, do you wanna know a secret?" Paul said as he pulled away from the hug.  "Yeah!" Mike said, sounding a bit happier. "Johnny and I are gettin' married." Paul whispered with a smile from ear to ear. My eyes widened, I hadn't expected him to tell anybody. I suppose Mike wasn't just anybody, though.  "YOU ARE?!" Mike hugged Paul and quickly hopped off of him to hug me. "That we are, son." I smiled and hugged him back. "I'm gonna go t'bed, but remember to walk me to school tomorrow!" Mike was giddy, but yawning at this point. We said our goodnights and Mike ran up to his bedroom. "Brush your teeth!" Paul yelled after him. I laughed. "What are you on about, then?" Paul laughed too as he sat back down at the table, scooting closer to me. "Don't go freakin out on me, but I just wanted t'say I think you'd be a really great Dad, Macca." I smiled and kissed his cheek. Paul's cheeks went a light shade of pink. "Let's talk about Paris.. when were ye plannin' on goin' to do that?" Paul asked as he poured us another cup of tea. "Well I was thinkin' on me birthday." I replied with a smile. Paul nearly choked on his tea. "Ye birthday?! Bloody hell, Johnny. That's in a few soddin' days!" He said, surprised. "Shh, Mike and Gin are sleepin'!" I reminded him with a smile. "Is that too soon? Did you want time to think about it more?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "'No! I know I wanna marry ye, ye daft git. I'm only just surprised you'd wanna do it so quick." Paul said, defending himself and smiling. "It's settled then. We'll go to Paris for me birthday, and I'll marry the crap outta ye!" I giggled and kissed his hand, he laughed along with me. "Do you wanna tell anybody else?" Paul asked me a little quieter.  "I suppose we could think about it, I don't mind just goin' the two of us y'know. But if you wanna best man er somethin'..." I replied. "Lets talk more in the morning." Paul sighed and finished his tea. "Well we can at least think about it, love." I smiled and took our cups to the sink. Paul grabbed my hand and began pulling me toward the stairwell. "I don't wanna think about it right now. I've got something else on my mind." Paul said with a smirk. "Oh bloody hell." I smiled and picked him up over my shoulder, and carried him to the bedroom, throwing him down on the bed. "I'll give ye somethin' to think about." I growled as I winked and crawled on top of him.