#and how it's always tinged with tragedy and anger

[cho-aaacho]

To you who will be gone

Masterlist

Warning : Angst, Heavy Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Tragedy, Betrayal

He's always been alone; that's just who he is. He doesn't need anyone; he never has. Saying that people fail to understand him, saying that his entire life is a facade, saying that he doesn't need love.

For 15 years, he's spun a web of lies; each one is like cancer. Each lie hurts him deeply. 

Sometimes he wonders if it's worth it, and sometimes he thinks about stopping himself, running away from his life, and leaving everything behind.

"How about if I stop and drown myself in the river?"

But he never did that. Never.

He fondly recalls his time in the S.T.A.R.S. office, surrounded by his men, and all the beautiful things at that time. Their smiles greet him each morning, sharing coffee and laughter. Those were the days when every moment felt like spring.

But... S.T.A.R.S. is now gone. Every gesture he takes now feels agonizing as he betrays them, opting for a path of violence that severs the bonds he once shared with his men. His hands, now covered with their blood, serve as a constant reminder of his betrayal.

He knew that Chris hated him, Jill cursed his name for his betrayal, and perhaps Rebecca and Barry secretly wished for his death. He understood that his actions would inevitably lead to this. What did he expect?

He still recalls the last time he saw your face at the RPD, on a pleasant summer morning. Despite how happy you are that morning, joking with Chris and Joseph, talking about a new movie and music, and teasing Jill, Wesker feels sad. Something inside his heart broke him into pieces. 

Everything seems unplaced and wrong. Empty. Alone.

"How could I do this to everyone here? They're all my friends, aren't they?" He thought to himself.

"But... friends did not stay longer; they could leave you." He continued, trying to make everything better from his point of view.

He always hates summer, and he confided this to Birkin, and the summer of 1998 was the peak of his dislike. 

He couldn't quite pinpoint the reason behind his hatred—perhaps the heat was frying his brain, or maybe he was just overwhelmed by thoughts of his mission.

Time flies, and days pass. Every time he glances at the calendar, a frown is painted on his forehead, and his lower lip is caught between his teeth as he lets out a frustrated sigh. What happened to him? What is the sudden feeling?

Despite his sunglasses shielding his blue eyes and expression, Enrico caught glimpses of Wesker's melancholy, and... in the silence, he would ask, "Is everything okay, Wesker?"

...curious probably worried.

And as an answer, Wesker would dismiss it with a giggle, assuring Enrico that he was fine and had nothing to worry about. Just like that, Enrico would forget, as if it never happened to his partner.

At the end of his shift, Wesker spotted you alone in the hallway, leaning against the wall. You seemed lost in thought, and Wesker couldn't read what was on your mind. Perhaps he didn't want to; cheering on his colleagues wasn't a priority.

With a stack of documents in hand, Wesker stood there awkwardly, like a fool, and didn't say anything or greet you. 

You gazed at your phone and groaned, and it startled him, but as you glanced up at Wesker, the anger on your face softened into a calm expression. A smile curls on your lips. It's cute, to be honest. At least in Wesker's opinion.

"...evening, Wesker," you greeted.

Maybe you'd had a breakup, he thought, or perhaps you were disappointed about missing out on some Digimon merchandise at the toy store.

"You're still here?" he asked, moving closer to you.

"Yeah, Chris pulled a prank on Brad, and now his motorcycle's blown up somewhere because of his prank. He wants me to go pick him up. Useless."

"Oh!" Wesker chuckled. "I thought maybe you'd lost your Digimon merch," he teased, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. Yet a tinge of sadness flickered in his eyes.

"I've given up on that merch. It's too hard to find. But, damn, I still want it so badly! Maybe... I'll get to touch it at least once before I die."

Wesker's smile faltered. "Why do you say that?"

"Well... considering our line of work, I'm not sure I'll make it to old age," you replied. "Maybe I'll meet my end by the end of '98—caught in an explosion."

Silence hung in the air, heavy with unspoken thoughts, and after you mentioned the explosion, a voice inside his head pleaded. "Please, just run from me." 

"Oh, I'm sure you'll make it to old age. I can imagine you with a family, maybe even grandchildren, someday. I'll be there to lend a hand," he said with a chuckle, his voice tinged with warmth. "But I do wonder what I'll look like in 30 years."

You laughed and playfully punched his arm. "You'll probably look the same, Wesker. I mean, just look at you. When I first saw you, I thought you were the same age as Brad. I often wonder what your skincare routine is like. But knowing you, you'd probably just say it's just a moisturizer."

He smiled. "Oh, I'm definitely aging. Maybe you just haven't seen me up close. I've got wrinkles too, like Barry."

"Oh, yeah, you're right. But you are aging slower; I've always known that!" 

As both of you laughed, Wesker caught a glimpse of rosy cheeks on your face, prompting him to reflect on his actions. "How could I have done that to you? Should I..."

"Eh, Wesker, I overheard something during lunch," you said, your voice taking on a mysterious tone.

"What did you hear?" Wesker furrowed as he tightened his grip on his documents.

"Well, they're saying people are disappearing in the mountains, and some claim to have seen ghosts. I didn't catch all the details, but apparently this ghost is preying on humans. Cannibalism seems far-fetched, doesn't it?"

"Don't worry too much. It's probably just a rumor. But if it bothers you, you could discuss it with Enrico," he suggested, pausing. "Or perhaps with me?" His last words came out almost as a whisper.

Before you could respond, a phone call from Chris interrupted you, drawing your attention to run to the entrance.

That night remains etched in your memory—cold and chilling, your chest feels hurt and burnt. Chris cradled your bleeding body, rendering you unable to move or speak. Despite your efforts, opening your eyes proved to be a struggle. All you could do was listen.

Oh... Wesker is arguing with Chris. 

"You've killed them with your dirty hands!" Chris' voice pierced the air.

"I think you're a bit confused. I've always been with Umbrella."

Suddenly, all your senses returned, flooding you with memories of what happened to Richard, Forest, Enrico, and everyone else.

You still remember that time. You were on the balcony, locked in an argument with Wesker, desperately trying to make sense of his betrayal. 

He had been a Judas all along; his kindness, smiles, and everything is a facade.

"So, everything was a lie?" Forest's bleeding body startled you. "But why?"

"Don't point fingers at me," Wesker said, but it was devoid of warmth, colder than anything you'd ever heard from him.

You remembered how his laughter and smile used to fill the room with warmth, always making you laugh along, or how gentle he was. 

He pointed his samurai edge at you, a smirk curling on his lips. "I'm sorry it had to come to this. You were the best subordinate. I didn't want to kill you. Perhaps I could have taken you away, run with the wind," he paused. "But I know that's not what you'd want."

Then he shot you right in the chest, sending you plummeting from the balcony to the ground below. As you fell, you caught a glimpse of Forest's lifeless body nearby, with Wesker standing at the edge. He seemed to say something, his lips moving in slow motion.

"Please, just run from me," he whispered, disappearing from your sight.

A/N : Hey there, sorry for my disappearance! I was planning to write another Wesker fanfic but got distracted by something. It's funny how that happens, right?

Btw, I'm writing this after listening to Sakayume by King Gnu and Confused Memories by Yuko Tsuburaya. You should check them out when you get the chance!

[ancientcraftnoccultism]

🌿 Herb Of The Day

Title: Lilac

Gender: Feminine

Element: Water

Planet: Venus

📜 Folklore & History 📜

Lilacs are an old, old, species that originated in Persia and then traveled to Europe. They were brought to America in 1750 and then planted at New Jersey Governor Wentworth’s home. Other prominent men fell in love with lilacs. They were reportedly one of Thomas Jefferson’s favorite flowers, and he documented his lilac-planting-methods in 1767. George Washington followed suit and moved existing lilacs on his property to his garden in 1785.

In Greek mythology, Pan, the god of the wild, chased a nymph named Syringa. She turned herself into a lilac bush to escape Pan, and in anger, he broke off the reed-like branches which made pipes. With regret, he tried kissing the broken branches, and as his air pushed over them, sounds were made. Lilacs were responsible for the creation of “Panpipes.”

Russian folklore believed that hanging lilacs above a baby’s bed would bring the child wisdom.

American folklore thought that lilacs could drive away evil and that placing them in a haunted house would displace ghosts. Thought to be symbolic of “old love,” Victorian widows often wore lilacs as a sign of remembrance. One hundred and fifty-five years ago today, April 15th, Abraham Lincoln died after being shot by John Wilkes Booth. Any American — and much of the world — knows the story of the self-educated, country lawyer who became one of our nation’s most beloved presidents. But what many Americans might not realize is how the death of Lincoln reverberated into so many areas of our collective psyche, including literature and horticulture, thanks to Walt Whitman. Walt Whitman was a reporter, printer, writer, traveler and Civil War nurse who is considered one of America’s greatest poets. He self-published Leaves of Grass and worked on it throughout his lifetime, eventually modifying it so that there are eight different editions. Whitman felt a great affinity with President Abraham Lincoln, and when Lincoln was assassinated in the spring of 1865, Whitman grieved.

He wrote years later in Specimen Days about learning of the President’s death:

"I remember where I was stopping at the time, the season being advanced, there were many lilacs in full bloom. By one of those caprices that enter and give tinge to events without being at all a part of them, I find myself always reminded of great tragedy of that day by the sight and odor of these blossoms. It never fails."

While lilacs are first to bloom, their flowers are short-lived. The heady fragrance lingers sweetly at first, but then the blooms start to die, leaving a heavy, cloying smell. One of the first flowers of spring, lilacs contain a natural compound called indole that’s found in flowers — and feces. It’s that undercurrent of the “bottom note” of fragrance that suggests decay and death.

🔮 Metaphysical Properties 🔮

The beautiful May-blooming lilac is one of the loveliest tokens of spring. But they are much more than beautiful shrubs with showy, sweet-smelling flowers. Originally lilacs were planted to repel all evil. Planted near the entryway, lilacs were believed to send out protective vibrations. When the flowers are cut and brought into the home they cleanse any living space. And they'll also remove any unwanted spiritual presence. Blue and white varieties work well for this purpose. Since lilacs are ruled by Venus, they are also used in love spells. Try placing some pink lilacs on your altar while performing a love spell. The dried flowers make a powerful addition to any love sachet.

🍴⚕️ Culinary & Medicinal Properties

The simplest way to enjoy lilacs is as an infusion of the flowers for a lilac sugar. The sugar can then be used in recipes to add lilac flavor to baked goods. This also works with a lilac simple syrup which is just a liquid form of the same thing that’s perfect for making cocktails. For my money though, I think lilac infused honey sounds the best. The sweet floral flavor of lilacs translates beautifully into an ice cream base.

To prevent the recurrence of disease, lilac flowers were used to help strengthen the system and prevent relapse after a patient had healed. They’re said to be specifically good after cases of malaria. Tasting the raw flowers you can actually pick up some of the astringent qualities, as they make your mouth dry and pucker a bit (along with their floral flavors). This astringent quality makes them good for use in skin care products. Lilacs are used as a folk remedy for intestinal worms, as well as a treatment for gastric discomfort and gas. Regardless of the purpose, the most likely medicinal lilac preparation is a tincture, which is just a lilac infused alcohol

[coolbeans32]

Echoes of Destiny: The Serpent and the Phoenix

PAIRING: Tom Riddle x F!Reader (OC)

SYNOPSIS: After exploring Genevieve's memories, Harry, Ron, and Hermione are stunned to learn that her supposed death triggered Tom Riddle's descent into darkness. They grapple with feelings of disbelief and anger, particularly directed towards Dumbledore, whom they feel betrayed by for failing to save Genevieve. Genevieve reveals Dumbledore's manipulative nature and proposes an alternative to destroying the Horcruxes: a complex ritual to mend Riddle's fractured soul. Intrigued by the possibility of defeating Voldemort, they embark on a journey to locate the remaining Horcruxes, guided by Genevieve's knowledge and fueled by determination.

WARNINGS: This chapter involves themes of death, violence, dark magic, betrayal, themes of manipulation, and emotional turmoil which may be distressing for some readers.

WORD COUNT: 2.1k

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Chapter Nine

An Alliance

As Harry, Ron, and Hermione reflected on Genevieve's memories, they were met with a shocking revelation. The truth behind Tom Riddle's descent into darkness, triggered by Genevieve's supposed death, left them reeling with disbelief and anger.

Harry's reaction was visceral, his anger simmering just beneath the surface as he struggled to come to terms with Dumbledore's apparent lack of action to save his own daughter. How could the man he had admired and trusted for so long stand by and allow such a tragedy to unfold? It felt like a betrayal, a harsh reminder that even those we idolize can have flaws and make grave mistakes.

"I can't believe this... Dumbledore knew all along? He let you... his own daughter... die?" Harry exclaimed in such disbelief.

Hermione's brow furrowed with concern, her mind racing as she tried to process the implications of Genevieve's revelations. The idea that Dumbledore might not be the paragon of goodness she had always believed in shook her to the core. It challenged everything she thought she knew about right and wrong, good and evil.

“Why would he do that? It doesn't make any sense. How could someone do something as terrible as letting your own family die in front of you!" Hermione exasperated.

Ron's expression mirrored the shock and disbelief etched on his friends' faces. He couldn't wrap his head around the idea that Dumbledore, the wise and compassionate headmaster of Hogwarts, could be capable of such callousness. It was a bitter pill to swallow, a harsh reality that shattered his faith in the authority figures he had looked up to for guidance.

"It's mad, isn't it? I mean, we always thought Dumbledore was this great, wise wizard, but... this changes everything." Ron said in a cold tone.

As they grappled with their emotions, Genevieve spoke up, her voice steady and resolute despite the weight of her words. "Because Dumbledore isn't who you think he is. He's not the benevolent old wizard you've been led to believe. He's a manipulator, a puppet master pulling the strings behind the scenes." She reminded them that the Dumbledore they knew was not the same as the one she had known. Behind his facade of benevolence lay a cunning manipulator, someone willing to sacrifice lives to further his own agenda.

"But why? What does he gain from all of this?" Harry asked.

“Power, Harry. Control. He's always been obsessed with it. He'll do whatever it takes to gather those who will fight for his cause, even if it means sacrificing his own blood. Trust me for many years, I could never understand such a thing, especially so young. All I wanted was his approval and validation. I had ignored it for so long, until I could no longer…Let me tell you about the mission Dumbledore sent me on when I was just fourteen..."As she spoke, the memories flooded back, transporting them all to a time long before the darkness had engulfed their world.

"It was during my fourth year at Hogwarts," Genevieve began, her voice tinged with a mixture of nostalgia and sorrow. "Dumbledore approached me one day with a task - a mission that he said was of the utmost importance." Harry leaned forward, his eyes fixed on Genevieve, eager to hear her story.

"He told me that there was a powerful artifact hidden deep within an abandoned forest in Albania," Genevieve continued, her gaze distant as she recalled the events of that fateful day. "A relic of great significance, one that could tip the scales in the battle against darkness." Ron and Hermione exchanged glances, their curiosity piqued by Genevieve's words.

"I was young and naive, eager to prove myself to Dumbledore and to prove that I was worthy of his trust," Genevieve admitted, a hint of regret coloring her voice. "So, without hesitation, I agreed to undertake the mission as I had so many before." As she spoke, the scene unfolded before them, the abandoned forest looming dark and foreboding in the distance.

"I ventured into the depths of the forest, guided only by the light of my wand and the whispers of the trees," Genevieve recounted, her voice trembling slightly with emotion. "But as I drew closer to my destination, I realized that I was not alone." Harry's heart raced as he listened to Genevieve's tale, his mind conjuring images of the dangers that lurked within the forest.

"I encountered creatures of darkness, creatures that sought to thwart my mission at every turn," Genevieve continued, her voice growing more intense with each passing moment. "But I pressed on, driven by the belief that I was doing what was right." Ron and Hermione listened in rapt attention, their expressions reflecting a mixture of awe and concern.

"And then, finally, I reached the heart of the forest, where the artifact lay hidden," Genevieve said, her voice filled with a sense of awe and reverence. "But as I reached out to claim it, I realized the true cost of my actions." Harry's breath caught in his throat as he waited for Genevieve to reveal the outcome of her mission.

"The artifact was cursed, Harry," Genevieve whispered, her voice barely above a whisper. "A curse so dark and powerful that it threatened to consume me whole." Ron and Hermione gasped in horror, their eyes wide with shock at the revelation.

"I barely managed to escape with my life," Genevieve admitted, her voice trembling with emotion. "But the experience changed me, Harry. It showed me that Dumbledore's quest for power knows no bounds, that he will stop at nothing to achieve his goals." Harry felt a surge of anger and determination coursing through his veins as he listened to Genevieve's words. 

Genevieve took a deep breath and said, “I fear he is doing the same thing again, with you three…I assume he gave you a task to complete to save the Wizarding World, did he not?”

Harry looked at her, puzzled at how she seemed to know everything, even without knowing anything of their current situation. “Yeah, well…he told me to hunt for Tom’s horcruxes to destroy them…I really don't know why aside from my connection with Vol-I mean Riddle.”

Genevieve looked at him with concern and anger at how her father could still make people, especially children, do his dirty work. “Hunt for Tom’s Horcruxes…is…is he mad?!” Genevieve exclaimed. “Don’t you know how dangerous that is? To destroy them on your own?”

Ron spoke up, “Well, technically…he already did second year without knowing with that snake- what’s it called?”

Hermione rolled her eyes and said, “It’s called a Basilisk, Ronald.” Hermione turned to Genevieve, “He destroyed the horcrux with the Basilisk's fang after he killed it.”

Genevieve’s eyes opened extremely wide, mouth agape, “You killed Seraphina? With what exactly?”

Harry, stuttering, said, “With umm…Gryffindor’s sword. In the chamber. Tom was really mad about it.”

Genevieve rolled her eyes, “Of course he was, he was practically glued to Seraphina.” She then asked, “Wait, Tom was there? How?”

Harry explained, “Well it was a memory of him to be exact, he said how he preserved his memory in his diary, the one engraved with his name. After I killed the Basilisk, I kind of realized that maybe destroying the diary could destroy him…It did, and it wasn’t til later I learned it was a horcrux…I was just trying to save a friend but he did say he wanted to meet me, loads of stuff happened that year…Well every year but that’s the jist.”

Genevieve, as she was learning more about what had occurred, couldn’t hold back on one certain detail. “That pompous arsehole…How dare he defile my GIFT into his stupid little dark magic obsession…Oh when I bring him back I’m going to hex his little arse!” She exclaimed angrily.

Ron snorted and Hermione jabbed him shoulder with her fist. Ron, stared rubbing his shoulder, “Bloody hell woman, why’d you have to keep hitting me.”

Hermione retaliated, “Maybe if you would be a little bit less dense, I wouldn’t need to.” 

Harry watched the two with Genevieve. Genevive, forgetting her anger at Tom, smiled and whispered to Harry, “You know, they remind me of when I was with Tom. Bickering and arguing like a married couple.”

Harry whispered back with a wry grin, “They can’t seem to admit that they’re in love with each other. Trust me, they’re both so stubborn about it.”

Genevieve quietly laughed as she continued to observe Ron and Hermione’s bickering. “I take it that Ron is the oblivious one. He kind of reminds me of Tom, but a really less serious version with the intellect of a bird, at least academically. Ron seems to be the type to know a lot about life rather than school, but without anyone really getting that impression from his behavior.”

Harry joins in on the laughter. “Yeah, he does. He’s a great friend…we’ve had our ups and downs but he knows more than he leads on.”

Genevieve grins. “I figured and I can definitely see myself in your friend Hermione. The stubborn one, trying to get Tom to realize I fancy him. Took him so long, but he eventually got there.” As Harry and Genvieve watch Ron and Hermione, it became evident to them that they were watching. Both Ron and Hermione blush and apologize for steering away from the stakes at hand.

“No worries dears,” Genevieve says. “I do have to ask. Why destroy the horcruxes?”

Harry turns to her, a little confused, “What do you mean by that? Isn’t that how we take care of them?”

Genevieve turns to Harry, “No, there is another way. It’s a bit more complex, but less dangerous.”

Hermione, interest piqued, “What do you mean by that?”

Genevieve turns to all of them and blows their mind with what she says. “Why instead of destroying them, fix them by stitching the soul back together? Kind of similar to reviving a person, but this time, a soul?”

Ron, eyes bugged out, “You can do that?”

Genevieve smiled mischievously, “We’re wizards and witches aren’t we?”

Harry, mind boggled as well, answers her hypothetical question, “Well…yeah…I guess.”

She laughs at his response, “Well, there is a ritual. Except, this ritual is quite advanced and requires for all the vessels to be aligned in a room by order of making, and the ritual will help us stitch back Tom’s soul and ultimately, we can bring him back to life, with a fully intact soul.”

Hermione asks with such curiosity, “Do you really think we can pull off such a thing?”

Genevieve replies seriously, “I think so. The only hard part about it is finding the Horcruxes and for those that were already destroyed, we may need to pull up more magical tricks up our sleeves to bring back the vessel to its undamaged state.” 

Harry, secretly excited of the adventure this journey might bring, asks, “So we have to find all seven horcruxes in order to do this?”

Genevieve turns and clarifies with an astonished face, “Seven…You mean he made seven fucking horcruxes.”

Harry nods, “Yeah, he made seven. And, that’s kind of what we’ve been doing. Trying to find them. The only ones we have are the diary and the Gaunt ring.”

She turns, trying to reduce the anger of hearing the extent of what Tom had done. “I…Alright, we’re going to need to figure out what the rest of the vessels are. We have two destroyed ones, in which we'll need to retrieve their intact counterparts. If I know Tom at all, he definitely created vessels in honor of either his bloodline or Hogwarts itself. Before me, Hogwarts was his only home. I wouldn’t be surprised if he chose to use relics symbolizing Hogwarts.”

Hermione pipes in, “We have a clue for finding the next Horcrux, but we need a bit of help to unravel it.”

Genevieve smiles at the trio and says, “Great, the faster we start, the quicker I can revive Tom, the faster I can beat his arse for being a complete idiot and say ‘I told you so’.” She moves to grab some books from the Black library, knowing that she would find some illegal texts to perform the ritual. Ron, Harry, and Hermione all look at each other, hoping to run high to end this war. 

Harry breaks the silence first, “Guess, we’re doing this huh? Never thought I’d see the day where I’m saving Riddle.” 

Hermione chimes in, slightly dazed at all the information she had just heard, “But if we save Riddle, he’d be back to who he originally was…He’d be the key to destroying his counterpart…Destroy Voldemort.”

Ron agrees, “Looks like we just made our first ally in this task.”

Harry nods and breathes before responding, “Looks like it.”

Taglist: @wheenerrr @jillian2003

Tom Riddle Masterlist

© coolbeans32 2024

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

Ψ M is for Maraclea: Chapter Twelve

M is for Maraclea: Following an accident you had over summer break, you find yourself in limbo after being legally dead for several minutes. Now an outcast at boarding school, you end up finding comfort in a strange boy named Nigel. As winter draws near and tragedy strikes, your only reprieve from madness comes from a mind much like your own.

Warnings: If You Haven’t Figured It Out Yet, Nigel Baby-Trapped You.

To Note: Nigel Colbie x Fem!Reader, NAMED Reader for Plot Reasons, There Are A Lot of DARK Themes.

Word Count: ~2.4k

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You lie in your dorm room, the walls closing in on you. The fever from the strep throat has you sweating through your sheets, and the fatigue drags you deeper into the mattress. Each breath feels like a mountain to climb.

The door opens slightly, and you see Mrs. Kensington step in. Her face is a mix of pity and frustration. "Mary," she starts, her voice soft but firm, "we need to talk."

You muster the strength to sit up, your body protesting every movement. "What is it?"

She takes a deep breath, her eyes not meeting yours. "The results came back. You're pregnant."

The words hit you like a freight train. Your mind races, trying to grasp the reality of it. Pregnant? How? But you know how. The memory of that night with Nigel floods back.

"The headmistress is not pleased," Mrs. Kensington continues, her voice now tinged with a hint of anger. "Your father has been informed and will be coming to see you once you're feeling better."

You nod slowly, the weight of the situation pressing down on you. The thought of facing your father sends a shiver down your spine. He always had high expectations for you—expectations you’ve now shattered.

Days blur together as you remain confined to your room. Nurse Brown checks on you regularly, but her visits are brief and clinical. The school has become a prison, each hour stretching into eternity.

Finally, the day arrives when your father steps through the door. His face is set in a grim line, eyes cold and unforgiving.

"What were you thinking?" he demands, his voice low but seething with anger.

You swallow hard, unable to meet his gaze. "That I simply did not wish to feel," you reply.

"I expected this kind of behavior from Alex," he continues, pacing the small room like a caged animal. "But from you, Mary?"

Your father's eyes narrow as he takes a breath, trying to compose himself. "Mary," he says, his voice strained but steady, "I know who the boy is. Nigel Colbie."

Your heart skips a beat at the mention of Nigel's name. You nod slowly, not trusting yourself to speak.

"While I'm furious about this situation," he continues, "at least he's a boy with a future. A bright one."

You blink, the weight of his words sinking in. A future? You hadn't thought that far ahead. You only care about how he makes you feel.

"Here's what's going to happen," your father says, his tone brokering no argument. "You and Nigel will marry before the baby is born. The sooner the better in fact.”

Marry? The word echoes in your mind, filling you with a mix of dread and confusion. Marry Nigel? Another dictation of your life.

"Once you graduate," he goes on, "you'll both go to Cambridge. You'll study music there."

You open your mouth to protest but close it again. There's no room for argument here; your father's mind is made up.

"Do you understand?" he asks, his eyes piercing into yours.

You nod again, feeling the walls of your world closing in tighter.

"Good," he says, standing up. "I'll speak with Nigel about this arrangement. We'll sort everything out."

He leaves the room, and you sit there, numb. Your life has taken a turn you never expected. You think of Nigel and the night that led to this moment. The cold lake water, the crawl space filled with his things—his touch that made you feel alive for the first time since your drowning.

But now? Marriage? Cambridge? It feels like someone else's life being laid out before you. You lie back down on your bed, staring at the ceiling. The fever still lingers, but now it feels distant compared to the storm raging in your mind. Yet at the same time, you find peace in that storm.

You stand at the edge of the stage, your graduation gown flowing around you. The weight of your swollen belly anchors you to the spot, a constant reminder of the future growing inside you. The room buzzes with the excitement of your classmates, but you feel like an outsider looking in. Applause fills the air as names are called, one by one, each student stepping forward to collect their diploma.

Your name echoes through the hall. "Mary Colbie.”

You take a deep breath and step forward, each movement slower than the rest before you. The eyes of your peers burn into you, whispers trailing in your wake. Nothing you haven’t grown used to. You keep your gaze straight ahead, focusing on the headmistress holding out your diploma.

"Congratulations, Mary," she says, her smile tight but professional.

"Thank you," you reply, taking the diploma with both hands. You turn to face the audience, their faces a blur of indifference and curiosity.

You spot Alex in the crowd, his expression a mix of pride and concern. He gives you a small nod, and you find a flicker of strength in that gesture. Your father stands next to him, his face a mask of stern approval. Nigel is nowhere to be seen; he's already left for Cambridge to prepare for your arrival and begin summer studies.

You descend the steps carefully, mindful of your balance. Each step feels like an eternity, but finally, you're back in your seat. Your feet hurt, sitting down feels better. The ceremony continues around you, but it feels distant, like watching a play unfold from behind thick glass.

As the last name is called and the final applause dies down, you're swept into a sea of moving bodies. Congratulations are exchanged; laughter fills the air. You navigate through the crowd, searching for Alex and your father.

"Mary," Alex calls out as he reaches you first. He pulls you into a gentle hug, careful not to press against your belly. "I'm so proud of you."

"Thank you," you manage to say, feeling a lump form in your throat.

Your father steps forward next. "We need to talk about the arrangements for Cambridge," he says without preamble.

You nod. "Of course."

Your father’s stern face remains unwavering as he ushers you and Alex to a quieter corner of the hall. The noise of celebration fades into a distant hum. He takes a deep breath, straightening his jacket.

"You'll leave for Cambridge in a week," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Nigel has already arranged everything."

You nod, feeling the weight of his words settle over you like a heavy blanket. A week. It feels like no time at all.

"He owns a house there," your father continues. "His inheritance from his parents has seen to a suitable home and his scholarship promotes a good future.”

The mention of Nigel's parents brings back the memory of their tragic end. Nigel needed it to fully be free of them. You push it aside, focusing on your father's words.

"You'll give birth during the summer," he says, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that makes you feel small. "After that, you'll start university. Music studies, as we discussed."

Your heart races at the thought of balancing a newborn and university life. "And the baby?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

"I'll pay for a nanny," he replies, dismissing your concern with a wave of his hand. "She'll take care of the child while you're in class."

You swallow hard, trying to process everything. Cambridge. Nigel's house. A nanny for the baby. Hand and foot he will have you waited on, nothing but the best for his daughter. Even if she greatly disappointed him.

"Is that clear?" your father asks, his gaze piercing into yours.

"Yes," you manage to say, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside you.

"Good," he says with a curt nod. "We'll finalize the details before you leave."

He turns to Alex, who has been silent throughout the conversation. "Look after her," he instructs, his tone softer but still commanding.

"I will," Alex replies, giving you a reassuring smile.

Your father steps back, giving you one last look before walking away. You and Alex stand there for a moment, the weight of the future pressing down on both of you.

"Are you okay?" Alex asks softly, concern etched on his face.

You nod slowly. "I miss his warmth, he chases the numbness away."

Alex's eyes soften as he places a hand on your shoulder. "You'll be with Nigel in a week," he says, his voice filled with an odd mix of reassurance and resignation. "Your numbness and chill will disappear."

You nod, feeling the weight of his words settle over you as you turn the rings on your leg ring finger. The thought of Nigel waiting for you in Cambridge stirs something inside you, a flicker of warmth amidst the cold that has enveloped you for so long. Alex's touch feels distant, a pale imitation of the heat that Nigel's presence brings.

"How do you know?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

"I've seen how he looks at you," Alex replies, his gaze unwavering. "And how you look at him. He's the only thing that makes you come back to life. You need him."

You stare at Alex, his words echoing in your mind. He's the only thing that makes you come back to life. You need him. The thought feels both comforting and terrifying. You nod, not trusting yourself to speak.

Alex's hand drops from your shoulder, and he gives you a small, reassuring smile. "Come on," he says, guiding you towards the exit. "Let's get out of here, I can't stand all this pretentiousness." A flicker of a smile crosses your lips.

As you walk through the crowded hall, you feel the stares of your classmates burning into your back. Whispers follow you like a shadow, but you keep your head held high. You refuse to let them see how much their gossip affects you.

Outside, the air is crisp and cool, a stark contrast to the stifling atmosphere inside. You take a deep breath, feeling the cold air fill your lungs. It brings a strange sense of clarity.

"Mary," Alex says softly, his voice breaking through your thoughts. "What are you thinking?"

You glance at him, then look away, focusing on the horizon. "I'm cold."

Alex chuckles softly and shrugs off his jacket, draping it over your shoulders. "Here, this should help," he says. His jacket is warm but it doesn't chase all of the chill away.

"Thank you," you murmur, pulling it tighter around yourself. The gesture warms more than just your body; it feels like a small shield against the outside world.

He looks at you with a mixture of concern and curiosity. "It's not just the cold, is it? You're thinking about what they said in there."

You sigh, the weight of the evening pressing down on you. "It's hard not to," you admit. "They don't understand, and they never will."

Alex nods, his eyes full of empathy. "Maybe not. But who cares what they think? You've got me and Nigel. That's what matters."

The days blur together as you prepare for Cambridge. The packing, the planning, all feel like motions you go through without truly feeling them. Alex’s sudden disappearance gnaws at you, a hollow pit in your stomach that grows with each passing hour.

Detective Mackenzie arrives unannounced one morning, his presence a dark cloud in your already stormy world. He steps into your dorm room, eyes scanning the packed boxes and scattered belongings.

"Mary," he starts, his tone measured, "we need to talk."

You cross your arms over your swollen belly, feeling the baby shift inside you. "What happened this time?”

His eyes stare at your belly for an extended period, he certainly did not expect you to be pregnant.

"Detective?" You enunciate, drawing his attention away from your protruding belly. "I assume this is no social call?"

"Susan's grave has been dug up," he says, each word heavy with implication. "Her head was taken from her body."

You blink, processing the grotesque news. "And what does that have to do with me?" you ask, keeping your voice steady. "As you can see, I am plenty busy packing for Cambridge."

Mackenzie steps closer, his gaze intense and unyielding. "Everything around you seems to be falling apart," he says softly. "And you're at the center of it."

You feel a flicker of irritation but push it down. "I've had enough tragedy in my life," you reply coldly. "I didn't dig up Susan's grave. I've no point to and I think we both know that is a task I would not be able to do.” His eyes drop to your stomach for a brief moment before he clears his throat.

"I'm not here to interrogate your whereabouts," he says in correction. "I'm here to ask about Alex's whereabouts."

The question catches you off guard. Alex? You try to mask your confusion and worry, but your pulse quickens. "Alex?" you echo, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. "Why would you need to know about him?"

"Because," Mackenzie replies, taking a step back and folding his arms across his chest, "he's missing."

"And?" The detective has to work to keep his eyes from rolling in frustration, even more when all he wishes is to go off on you, a pregnant teenager.

Mackenzie sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. "Alex has been missing for several days now," he says. "Given the recent events, his relationship with Susan, and his connection to you, we need to know if you have any information on his whereabouts."

You shake your head, frustration bubbling up. "I don't know where Alex went," you reply, meeting his gaze head-on. "I don't dictate where he goes. He's not a child."

Mackenzie’s eyes narrow slightly, studying your expression. "Mary, I understand that you're under a lot of stress right now," he says slowly. "But given everything that's happened—Susan's death, the bullies, now this—it's crucial that we find him."

You let out a bitter laugh. "And you think I have all the answers? My life has been controlled by my father for as long as I can remember and still is. Can you blame Alex for wanting some freedom?"

The detective's face softens just a fraction. "I'm not blaming you," he says, his tone gentler now. "But I need to understand what's going on here. If Alex reached out to you or mentioned anything about where he might be going, it could help us find him."

You shake your head again, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on you. "He didn't tell me anything," you insist. "He's been under our father's thumb too. Maybe he just needed to get away from all of this. I wouldn’t blame him…”

Mackenzie nods slowly, absorbing your words. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "Alright," he says finally. "If you hear anything from him or remember something that could help us find him, please contact me immediately."

You nod in agreement, though you have intention of following though. As Mackenzie turns to leave, a thought flickers in your mind—Perhaps Alex did have something to do with Susan's head missing. Maraclea. Your lips twitch as you decide you will say nothing.

The detective pauses at the door, turning back to give you one last look. "Take care of yourself, Mary," he says softly before stepping out and closing the door behind him.

Date Published: 7/31/24

Last Edit: 7/31/24

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[belit0]

begging for any form of shisui content 🙏

for some reason, I always associate Shisui with tragedy, and my life has a rather dark tinge to it at the moment, it seems like we are going back to the old days folks

Viola's story from Bly Manor but make it Shisui

He walks, walks, walks.

His clothes are wet.

Why are they wet?

Never mind, he can take care of that later. He knows he has a mission, he must go somewhere but....

Where to? Where was he going?

It doesn't matter, his feet will guide him where he needs to be, his instincts always worked best in times of pressure.

Is it a time of pressure? Why are his clothes wet? Where should he go?

"Focus... focus... focus... you know this place..." He speaks to himself, a voice too fuzzy to be his own, as if each word drips liters of water.

Is this his voice? Why does it sound so... muffled?

He looks around in a desperate attempt to orient himself, and only remembers the shore of that river. Turbulent waters full of stones and a monumental flood after long rains. The swell is pounding from side to side, and his body trembles at the image.

Since when is he afraid of water? He has seen this river a million times.

His body begins to move without his consent and he doesn’t even notice, swift feet that walk with a rushing urgency but have no idea where they're going, guided by a galloping anguish that pounds his chest incessantly. It is an overwhelming, almost drowning sensation, feeling like his throat is full of water.

Something is missing. What is missing? What is missing?

Quick steps turn into a fast run, without sense and direction, desperate to escape that place as soon as possible. He doesn't remember what happened, he doesn't know what could be the cause of so much anguish, but he prefers to go back home and forget about it. A Shinobi has no time to be cornered by intangible threats inside their head, there is no place for it. A hot shower and removing his soaked clothes will be the perfect solution.

Has it been raining? Why was he outside in the rain?

He can't get rid of the feeling that something is missing, that something needs to be found, but it will have to wait. The priority is to get home, to feel comfortable and at ease, to be well.

Where is home? Where should he go?

Shisui stops in his tracks when he realizes that he does not remember the way back, and an uncontrollable tremor runs through every limb of his body. It is a mixture of anger, distress, helplessness and pain, but he has no explanation to justify where all this is coming from. He can't concentrate, he doesn't remember how to act like a cold and inert weapon, he doesn't remember how to be the perfect soldier he once was... he was, wasn't he?

He screams at the top of his lungs and his chest fills with a ghostly fire, a heat that was there before but is no longer so.

What is happening?

He starts running again regardless of direction, trying to get away from the area as quickly as possible, until he collides head-on with a heartbreaking image. Itachi is crying on his knees, both hands resting on the ground as long strands of tears run down his cheeks. He sobs like a small child, and when Shisui wants to rush over and comfort him, hug or hold him like when they were little, he goes through him.

He falls to his side, toppled over on his stomach and unprepared for the impact of the ground, looking at his hands as if they were not there. Itachi cries like a baby, unmoved by his presence, without looking at him or saying anything.

What is it?

Shisui tries to hug him again, quickly getting on his knees to pounce and hold him, but this time he falls and falls deeper as he goes through him. The ground disappears beneath him, his knees cease to feel dirt and branches, and a feeling of impending emptiness grips his stomach.

Shisui falls, and falls and falls, his body frozen by the strong blow of the wind on his back and eyes wildly staring at the sky, not knowing what awaits him down below, if there is anything there to receive him.

He makes every effort to hold on to something, but nothing within his reach can stop the speed with which he plummets to the ground. A choked cry catches in his throat as he looks up, at the spot from where he fell, and sees Itachi reaching out to him, trying to grab him and crying as he watches him vanish.

Shisui feels the water, cold and violent invading his back, a seizing and sudden pain breaking all over his body and taking away the healthy state of some bones. The current pushes him to the bottom, and none of his limbs react when he tries to swim upwards.

He sinks helplessly, in a mixture of despair and sadness, praying for someone to jump and drag him up from the bottom, feeling his nose ravaged by water and his lungs filling with liquid, an unbearable burning in his throat that he can do nothing about.

His body hits the bottom of the river, and an expanse of turbulent, black water is the last thing he sees before he closes his eyes.

Is this what hell looks like?

[underworldobsessed]

Fanfic Writer Questions!

Thanks for tagging me, @optiwashere. I don't think I'm going to tag anyone, but if you see this and want to do it, feel free! Have fun with this!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

158, oops. I will say so many of those are Star Wars because I went from barely writing to 'Oh my god I have so much motivation' because of my SW phase. I do owe a lot of my current muse because of that

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

I mean, it's not nearly as much as one would think, only sitting at 326,735, but a lot of my fics on here are drabbles rather than full blooded fics.

3. What fandoms do you write for?

So my current main fandom is (obviously) BG3. But I'm still planning fics for Star Wars, Underworld and The Magnus Archives, even if all of those have taken a back seat since BG3 has taken over my brain.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

So here they are. 1. Blood Memories (Underworld) 2. Taking Care of Her (Agent Carter) 3. The More You Try to Hide It (Star Wars) 4. Winds of Change (Underworld) 5. Anger Manifestation (The X-Files) I will say, I'm rather surprised that two of them are Underworld fics. The fandom is quite small, but I'm glad to see that honestly. That's where I spent so much of my time, and those fics were me righting the wrongs that the series did to me (I'm looking at you Blood Wars, and your treatment of Michael). And I'm honestly not surprised about BG3 not being here, I don't pay attention to my kudos much, but I do know I don't see nearly as much attention on them. I love what I write, so that's the important thing.

5. Do you respond to comments?

I do my damnedest to remember to reply to comments. I know I don't always succeed, but I try. Often times, the ones I don't reply to are the ones that I see when I'm on the clock at work (checking my emails when I really shouldn't be) and I'll be like "Oh I need to reply to those later" and then I forget for like two weeks, and then I feel so guilty that I forgot that I just... don't.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Oh shit ummmm... I have a lot of angsty fics in the world. Can't Breathe literally explains Satine's perspective as she dies in canon. Or Even in Death where even as I tried to write it as a hopeful ending for Selene, it was the tragedy of Selene finding Michael's body post Blood Wars, and I was honestly in tears writing it.

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

I'm not sure. I'd love to say my adopting Kurik fic is the happiest ending I've written, but I tinged it with uncertainty. Perhaps Shining Like They Never Did Before, because it gave me a chance to give Nemeia the feeling of truly being comfortable in their body (and to have Shadowheart and Karlach enjoy being with their partner :P )

8. Do you get hate on fics?

I had someone go onto one of my Bo-Katan fics and write a review about how much they hate Bo-Katan, which I just deleted after being so shocked and how brazen they were. Other than that, it's kinda been a while. Perk of not being a huge author I suppose is that I don't get much hate. I did get a massive hateful review when I just started writing fanfics at 12 that almost made me quit writing.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

I definitely do, not super frequently, but I do! I've got some vanilla (mostly vanilla if I'm honest), but I definitely have some kinky stuff that's been published (or y'know, planned because there is no way Karlach/Shadowheart/Nemeia are vanilla).

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

I have something on FFN that's a crossover, but I haven't touched it in a while. I wrote an Underworld/Castle crossover that didn't get very far. I have, however, been planning an Underworld/Star Wars crossover for years but I'm very tentative in writing it for some reason.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Thankfully not.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Nah, but I'd be down to talk to people about it!

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I mean, technically yes? I've taken a roleplay I've done with a friend and (with their permission) turned it into a fic, and a friend of mine is using our rp that we did into a fic. Other than that, I don't think so.

14. What's your all time favorite ship?

I can't safely answer that because god knows I love so many ships like... Shadowheart/Nemeia/Karlach for BG3, Obitine for Star Wars, Selene/Michael for Underworld. Those are probably my big ships that I love more than anything.

15. What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

My Dark Obitine fic that I started writing that never really got any further. Like... I have up to chapter 5 written in docs, but only two published. I'd love to continue it, but this is the one based on the rp with my friend and I'm worried about hitting the point where we stopped rping. So I stopped writing.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Angst. I'd like to think I'm very good at writing angst. I also love writing dialogue and I'm very talented with grammar and (most of the time) spelling.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Keeping up with updating fics, sometimes I struggle with characterization (though I try my best), and I ramble sometimes.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I used to do it fairly frequently. I was trying to learn Mando'a for my Star Wars fics since Mandalorians were my area of love for that series, and I wanted to write more in their language.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Yu-Gi-Oh 5Ds was my first fandom. I haven't really written for it in years, but yeah, I started writing for them so long ago now.

20. Favorite fic you've written?

Now that is a hard question. If I'm looking in the past year, Give Her Back! is my favorite thing I've written. Writing Nemeia's perspective with Shadowheart being taken by Orin was some of the most fun I've had in a long time! I also love Save Me If I Become My Demons because I got to write two of my favorite things at the time, Star Wars and Vampires.

[myhiraeth]

@curaetive​​ asked: have you ever been in love? / styxx hehe  random asks || always accepting 

[ tw for mentions of attempted unaliving ] 

His smile is soft, tinged with sadness and affection and longing all at once.     “ I was... a very long time ago. ” 

He takes a quiet breath, a moment of debate before he continues.    “ I was ten and six when I first met her. I unintentionally frightened her at the stream where she was fishing. I was in a rough state- I’d just found out I was at least conditionally immortal, but not impenetrable. I remember everything hurt... my head, my back, my sprained arm and broken wrist, my equally sprained or broken ankle. I’d just been looking for water... I’d heard the stream and hadn’t given so much as a thought to anyone being there. ” 

It was a simple reference, a brush over how he’d come to be so injured. A brush over the horror and abuse that had sent him riding his beloved Troian out to the cliffs where no one would come looking for him. That had led him to remove Troian’s bridle so the stallion would be able to make his way home alone, without snagging himself on anything along the way. It was a brush over the hopelessness and fatigue and resignation he’d felt as he’d stood at the cliff’s edge and let himself fall over it, hoping for once, for the first time in his memory- for peace. For silence. For the curse that was his life to cease. 

He hadn’t gotten it, just a shitload of pain. But those events had led him to the most beautiful creature he’d ever encountered. 

“ I remember her wielding a blade at me. A small thing, for protection more than for assault. I apologized, asked to be permitted to stay and rest a moment. ”    His eyes fell to the ground, his smile growing the slightest.    “ She allowed me to, offered help when I told my first lie to her- that my horse had thrown me. I didn’t think the truth would go over well. ”    he chuckled at the memory.    “ She cleaned my injuries... the softest touch I’d ever felt, that I’ll ever remember... ”

‘ you’re bleeding. ’  ‘ sorry, here... ’ ‘ why are you cleaning my hand when you’re the one bleeding? ’ ‘ i don’t want you to soil your gown. ’ ’ but you’re bleeding. ’ ‘ it’s all right, really. i do that a lot. ’

   “ I remember I made her laugh. ” 

‘ do you know where your horse is?’  ‘ i fear he went in search of a more competent rider who wouldn’t embarrass him in the future. ’ ‘ how can you joke when you’re in so much pain? ’  ‘ to hear you laugh, my lady, I’d gladly throw myself off a hundred cliffs. ’

“ I remember how when she laid my head in her lap so she could soothe my headache, it was the first real peace I’d ever been offered... I fell asleep, right there in her lap. Kept her captive for hours... when I asked how I could ever repay her her kindness, all she said was that she’d liked to see me on the days she came to that stream to fish... ”  

‘ so long as the sun shines, I’m here at the beginning and end of every week. should your horse ever throw you again on one of those days, I wouldn’t be opposed to seeing you here as you rest on your way home. ’  ‘ really? ’  ‘ i’ll be here tomorrow, too. ’  ‘ then i shall be here. ’ 

    “ Her name was Bethany. ”

Darkness suddenly clouded his expression, fond memory and sweet affection replaced by sorrow, regret, and anger.    “ It ended in tragedy, as I should have predicted in my life. I dragged her into my ill-omened existence... I should have known better... perhaps she would have lived to be old and loved, have children and a family filled with love and laughter... ”  

“ Instead she chose me, and paid for it with her and our child’s life. ” 

[theserpentsadvocate]

@iceberg-hootenanny I tried to save your ask as a draft and tumblr deleted it instead, but if I recall correctly you said 4, 5, 17 for any Silmarillion character, so! (Insert joke about ‘ha, you think YOU took a long time to answer’.)

4. Has the character ever witnessed something that fundamentally changed them?

I go back and forth on whether Handir was even at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad (depending on which source you use, as few as three of the Haladin’s warriors returned, so his odds of survival are not good, and we know he did survive past that) – but if we assume that he didn’t remain behind as interim leader and he didn��t choose to stay because his son was badly injured (my preferred reason), then he would have been there.

Of course, the Nirnaeth is an experience, more than just a single event he witnessed, but my personal headcanon is that Handir saw his father killed. Witnessing it had a profound affect on him, being unable to recover the body had a profound affect on him, returning home with his men absolutely decimated had a profound affect on him – it’s hard to separate these things from each other, but the visceral blow of seeing his father cut down contributed tremendously to the near-despair he was mired in during his first years as Chieftain. Between that and watching his mother just hopelessly waste away immediately afterward, it took him along time to recover. (It didn’t help that he had to focus all of his attention on getting his people through the ensuing difficulties, and what extra strength he had he spent trying to be present and steadfast for his family, rather than on processing his grief. It’s not that his priorities are wrong, there are just no good choices here.)

Losing his cousins in the fighting at the Fords of Brithiach also had a profound affect on him (no less so because they miraculously popped up alive a year later), but in that case the fact that he didn’t witness it, was fighting in another area entirely and only found out afterwards that they were gone, was the really traumatic part, and it took quite some time before he could really believe that Hurin and Huor even were alive in Dor-lomin. It just juxtaposes really interestingly to me.

5. What have they got in their pocketses?

Knives, or string, precious!

…You know, it’s actually a decent bet that most characters I’m interested in would have at least one of the above. Except for the Valar, I guess.

Knives: Haleth, Nienor, Mablung, probably Fingolfin, decent odds any random member of the Haladin will have at least an eating knife

String: Beldis (well, thread, anyway), Niniel, maybe Idril actually?

Both: Brandir for sure

17. What was the character’s favourite childhood toy?

Handir likes to whittle, and he made Brandir a lot of little animals when he was young. I don’t know that there was one specific one that he preferred over the rest, although I’m sure he was very attached to various ones at different times, but having some wooden figurine his father made for him to play with was a staple of his childhood. He takes it up himself after his father’s death as a way to feel closer to him, although he’s not as good at it as Handir was and always feels slightly like he’s coming up wanting once he’s finished. In that way it mirrors his feelings about being Chieftain.

[kuromochimi]

My Savior, My Demise

KMG Hanma x Reader x Brahman Draken || Chapter 1: Heal Me

♡ Saving lives was top priority. You were a doctor. Time was of the essence. Each life that slipped through your grasps was a lesson learned. All until you met a man who always came to you wounded and bruised. Not until you couldn’t help but heal not only his wounds but his aching heart too; His need for touch and affection but nothing more than that.

But unlike saving lives and healing physical aches, you didn’t know trying to fix a broken man would take you to a path you never wanted to take. Never knew it would bring you a kind of pain no surgery could fix.

Main Masterlist | Taglist Form

WC: 1.4k+

Content & Warnings: last arc spoilers, angst, fluff, medical setting, mentions of wounds and blood, guns & gangs, drugs, eventual smut

If your high school self would get a chance to look at you now, she’d probably be ecstatic. Standing in front of a mirror in the change room, you, wearing fresh, blue scrubs. It’s always been your dream to become a doctor and after years of grueling tests, books, scut work, you’ve finally reached your residency. Unfortunately, it’s not as exciting as all those shows portrayed it to be, but you expected at least that much anyway. There really is no romanticizing all the blood, gore, and tragedy that goes on inside a hospital, much less one that is known for getting loads of trauma patients on the daily. Despite that fact, your days still felt like a routine. Sure, there were a few instances when a freak accident ended up falling into your care but other than the occasional bizarre cases, everything played out as you expected it to. Up until today, that is.

When you started your shift, everything seemed normal. It was somewhat unfortunate for you however, that your area just so happened to be the usual place for gangs to do their business which meant dozens of gunshot injuries and scary looking dudes. Not to say that you didn’t enjoy your job. You signed up for this after all. You just never liked and understood what gangs were for and why the fuck they had to do what they do. It angered you how they usually got civilians caught up in their fights. “You’re on trauma again?” one of your co-residents asked. “Yeah, it looks like Doctor Ikeda wants me to take up a fellowship with her with how much trauma experience I have now” ; “Well at least someone’s out to mentor you”. Your conversation was cut short when you were called. “Doctor l/n, trauma 3” With a quick nod to your colleague, you left to attend to the patient assigned to you. The EMT in charge gave you a brief description of what happened and how the patient was. Once you reached the area for their treatment, you were a tad surprised at the view that greeted you. The man was sitting up well on the hospital bed as he gripped the area near his shoulder. He looked rather… unfazed by his injury which wasn’t a usual thing. You’ve treated more than a couple of those menacing gang members but none of them looked as relaxed and nonchalant as this one did. “I’ll bleed out and die if you just keep staring at me, doc.” a light nudge from the nurse brought you back to your senses. “Right.. Sorry about that Mr.….”. You momentarily checked hius chart to look at his name “... Hanma. Mr. Hanma Shuji.”  With still a tinge of shock, you started checking on him, cleaning and assessing the wound and how to go about his case. “The bullet went through and the bleeding has been controlled. Externally, nothing else seems broken or injured but we’re going to have to take you up for an x-ray, just to see if anything else is going on internally.” He nods. Everything goes about smoothly and fortunately, no other complications were presented upon further examination.

Just as you were preparing to leave to go home, you were suddenly summoned to the hospital chief’s office. With worry threatening to spill out of your eyes through the form of tears, you entered the office, trying your best to contain your anxiety about what could have possibly happened for you to be called in. “Doctor l/n, sit.” Without a single breath, you followed the instructions. “I was told that you treated a gunshot wound today, correct?”. You didn’t trust your words to work as they should so you only nodded to confirm his statement. “Right. And you’ve been working in trauma for a while since you became a resident, haven’t you?” Another nod. “Then why is it that you didn’t report the incident to the authorities?” With the reason behind your summon finally being revealed, your face drains of color, heart sinking past your feet all the way to the ground. “Look, I understand. You’re tired and I know it’s hard work being in trauma all the time and being a doctor in itself is already draining enough as is much less one where you have to deal with what you deal with when trauma patients come in but this can’t happen. The hospital is responsible for things like that regardless of who the doctor in charge was.” You mumble your apology without attempting to look up. You had no excuse. “I’ll let it slide for now. But make sure this never happens again else I might have to ask you to be relocated to a less busy hospital” After a couple more reprimanding and apologies, you finally made your way out of the office and eventually, the premises. Out of your mind, you unconsciously found your way to D&D motors. The neon led signage atop the small structure was turned off and “closed” was hanging off the front entrance. Ignoring all that, you pushed past the glass and aimlessly walked towards the back rooms where Draken probably was. “Ken? Are you there?” a soft rustling and sounds of clanking was heard before a deep, familiar voice answered. “Yn? Is that you?” ; “mhm”. The man had to literally duck to be able to get past the small doorway from the storage room. “What’s up?” He spoke while dusting off his hands. Upon seeing his familiar face, one very much detached from your work and one that reminded you of just being dumb college kids having fun, you couldn’t help but let out a soft, almost muted sob. Everything just came crashing down. What happened at work earlier that day, that one child you had to pronounce dead a week ago, the long list of studies you had to read. Without uttering a word, he enveloped you into his warm and tight embrace. Draken was a very good childhood friend. You met him in middle school when you were seated beside each other. Two quiet kids just got along and clicked and more than a decade later, the friendship remained. He was one of your few very trusted friends. He just had one rule that you had to abide by throughout your years of friendship: You couldn’t under any circumstances ask and involve yourself in his gang and other related matters. He never once spoke about his friends there or gang generally. You only ever got to meet Mitsuya, one of his closest friends, because he offered to make your prom dress for a really cheap price. You knew why he had that rule. He wanted to keep you safe, prevent you from even knowing the names of who he had to face off. You didn’t even know which gang he was in. Safe from the subtle curiosity from time to time, you had no problem abiding by it. It’s worked for the longest time after all.

After spilling your guts out about what’s been going on with you, you finally calmed down. That evening, you both waited for Inui (who you suspected was another one of his friends from his old gang but you never asked) to come back from errands before preparing and eating dinner. Draken thought it would be best for you to stay the night to which you immediately agreed. You were grateful for the two of them who always extended a helping hand, gave you a place to find comfort in whenever you were stressed with school before and now work. D&D motors was more of a home than any place you’ve resided in.

The following day, despite sleeping fairly late at 11:00 pm the night before, you woke up feeling well rested. Trying not to wake the two men sleeping on futons on the floor, you quietly took a shower, got dressed, prepared breakfast, and left a note for them as a reminder to eat breakfast before work. Ironically, despite wanting some excitement from time to time, you just wanted the day to go as it always did. With a routine you were familiar with and without having to interact with a patient that apparently distracted you enough for you to forget that you had to report his injury to the authorities. It wasn’t your fault you were so shocked to see a patient so careless about his injury that he was even smiling widely when you met. Unfortunately for you, your routine days were about to be mostly gone because before you even got to step foot into the hospital, on the train on the way there, someone approached you from behind, a tall, warmth inching closer to you, leaning his head on your shoulder to whisper “I need your help, please, doctor.” You looked back to find the very patient you treated the day before. Hanma Shuji

Taglist: @youpieceofwasabi​ @rizakari​ @sunarin136​ @rinrinfoxy​ @uselessnumber​ @the2ndl​ @adeptusnunya @ubbjwi​ @narxiso​ @lostsomewhereinthegarden​ (If I missed tagging you, please lmk! or fill out the taglist form instead)

a/n: This fic is very much overdue. It’s been hard to find writing motivation and inspiration lately but after months of writing this fic little by little, I finally mapped out how I want it to go for the next couple chapters.

[barnes-dameron]

Balance

*gif not mine

The Mandalorian x Jedi!Reader

Summary: Upon arriving on Corvus, you realize you won’t be able to hide your secret from your Mandalorian traveling partner forever, especially since the Jedi you encounter asks a lot of questions...

Word Count: 4.1k 

A/N: Spoilers for Chapter 13 so read at your own risk! I think we all need a little something after the tragedy in Chapter 14. By the way, this is a gender-neutral reader ;)

***

The closer you got to Corvus, the further down your stomach sank to the floor. Your heart beat faster against your rib cage as anticipation rose inside you. The day that the Mandalorian came to you saying that he knows where to find a Jedi for the Child, you were shocked. Of course you were happy that the kid will finally get a teacher, but you were shocked that there were still Jedi around. 

Your leg bounced up and down as the landscape of Corvus came to view in the windshield. You took a deep breath, and left the cockpit, trying to avoid any questions that the Mandalorian might ask. The Child was asleep in his little hammock, and your heart ached for the little guy. From the first moment you saw him, you knew something was special about him. Well, you sensed it, really. And you hoped that the Child wouldn’t say anything, and thankfully, he didn’t.

You reached over, and picked up the tiny creature, his black eyes revealing themselves as his green lids pulled back. 

“Listen,” you whispered, bringing his face close to yours. “When we find that Jedi, you don’t say anything, got it? Do not blow this for us.” 

Of course, he didn’t repsond to your warning, but instead cocked his head and cooed. You rolled your eyes and shifted him so he was sitting on your hip. 

“We’re here,” the Mandalorian announced as he climbed down the ladder and opened the hatch door. 

You took another deep breath, and straightened your back before following the Mandalorian out.

***

You’ve been wandering around the forest on Corvus for a while now, your stomach turning with every step. After visiting the seemingly enslaved village and meeting the Magistrate, you followed the Mandalorian into the wilderness to find the Jedi named Ahsoka Tano. 

You constantly turned your head in search for the Jedi, dreading the impending moment of your meeting. You rested your hand on your blaster, your heart beating rapidly. 

“So you’re not really gonna kill this Jedi, right?” you asked, looking at your beskar clad companion with wide eyes. 

“No,” he simply replied.

You nodded, looking about your surroundings again. The Mandalorian set the Child down on a nearby rock, bringing his binoculars to his visor. You were so in depth in your own thoughts and anxieties that you didn’t even hear him talking. Sweat was collecting on your brow as you thought about what this Jedi will be like. You have heard stories of her bravery and her part in the Clone Wars, but that was years ago. Was she a different person now? Would she try to kill the Mandalorian? A crack from a tree drew you out of your thoughts, and a person descended from above. 

You moved over to the Child, reaching for your blaster as the Mandalorian struggled with the intruder. But the sight of the white lightsabers didn’t do anything to relax you. You could feel the heat from the Mandalorian’s flame thrower as he set her cloak on fire. You thought she was contained once he tied her, but never under estimate a Jedi. She gave him a smirk before jumping up, back bending over a branch, dragging the Mandalorian with her. Once on the ground, she ignited her lightsabers, freeing herself from the restraints, and preparing herself in a battle stance.  

“Ahsoka Tano,” the Mandalorian yelled. “Bo-Katan sent me. We need to talk.” 

You watched as she straightened herself from her fighting stance, pulling back her sabers to her sides. She was as intimidating as you imagined. 

“I hope it’s about him,” she said, looking over to the spot where you and the Child were.  

***

Your leg once again was bouncing as you settled yourself on rock. The Mandalorian’s pacing was no help to you at all, only increasing your nerves. You looked over at the campfire, with Ahsoka and the Child just staring at each other in silence. You have heard about this technique, in fact it was how you were found out years ago on Tatooine. 

Mando’s pacing wouldn’t cease, much to your annoyance. You never done what you were about to do, but you needed to know what was going on in his head. You were always so careful to hide your true identity from the man, in fear of what he would do to you if he uncovered the truth. However, something didn’t rub you right. You closed your eyes, concentrating and reaching out into the darkness. You could sense his own anxiety about the situation, but you left it there. If you lingered too long, he could catch wind. Ever since you came across him and the kid on his first trip to Tatooine, you could sense the bond between the two. When he mentioned about finding the Child a teacher, you knew it would be difficult for him. 

The Mandalorian stopped and began to make his way towards Ahsoka who was holding the Child. You got up from where you were perched and followed your companion. You listened carefully to everything that Ahsoka said, from the time of Child’s training up to the present. Plus, you were pleasantly surprised to find his name was Grogu. Ahsoka ended the conversation on a hopeful note of Grogu’s training in the morning. You nodded, getting up from your spot as Mando grabbed the Child, Grogu, to prepare a place to make for camp. 

“Wait,” Ahsoka spoke up, getting your attention. “Can you stay here for a minute?” You nodded to her, sitting on a nearby log before waving off Mando, who nodded and continued to make his way. You pressed your lips into a thin line while clearing your head from any impending thoughts. Your heart was pounding once again. You rubbed your hands over your thighs. “You know a blaster isn’t a Jedi weapon.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lied, gripping your thighs in defense. 

“Really?” Ahsoka replied. “Because Grogu said something very interesting-”

“Dammit,” you whispered, dropping your head while letting out a sigh. “What did he say?” 

“He mentioned that you knew the Force,” Ahsoka began. “But you were hiding it.”

“Yeah,” you nodded. “That sounds about right.” 

Ahsoka was quiet for a moment, and you felt her eyes peering into you despite your steady gaze on the forest floor. 

“Where are you from?” she asked. 

“Tatooine,” you mumbled, before meeting her eyes. 

She nodded, shifting in her seat a bit. 

“Have you practiced with a lightsaber?” she questioned, quirking up an eyebrow. 

“Once,” you revealed. “But my master thought it would be too dangerous to have one with the Empire and all so-”

“Wait,” Ahsoka interjected, holding up a hand. “Who was your master?” 

You realized your mistake. The air escaped your lungs as your heart sank to your stomach. You got up from your seat abruptly. What you needed to keep a secret, you almost let out. 

“No one important,” you said. “It’s late, so I’m going to go get some rest.”

You didn’t wait to hear her reply. You practically ran back to the Mandalorian, who was resting his head on a log as he laid on the ground. Grogu was nestled in one of arms, fast asleep. 

You tiptoed to where they were at on the ground, and moved to lay beside Mando, with your back to him and an inch or two between your bodies. You tried to even out your breathing, and put aside the questions that Ahsoka was asking. You had one job, and you almost blew it from the slight excitement that maybe you weren’t alone in the galaxy.

“What did she want?” Mando asked, his voice tinged with sleepiness and gruff through the modulator. 

“Nothing important,” you lied, turning over to face him. “Just some stuff about the Child.” 

Mando hummed, then out-stretched his arm as an invitation. You moved closer to him, placing your head on the clothed part of his bicep. Mando’s hand rested on your hip, and began to draw shapes with his thumb. 

“Do you think she will be a good teacher for him?” he asked, uncertainty laced in his voice. 

“I do,” you answered. 

You closed your eyes and started to drift into sleep, trying in vain to forget about Ahsoka for now. 

***

You were awoken from your sleep when a hard object was dropped on your stomach, the air from your lungs escaping. Your eyes flew open as you went to cradled your abdomen. A gasp nearly escaped your lips if it wasn’t for a hand covering your mouth. You looked up to see Ahsoka crouched above you, pressing a finger to her lips before motioning her head to follow her. She retracted her hand, and walked off. You took a deep breath, and looked over to Mando. For being a well trained Mandalorian, he can sleep like the dead when he wanted to. 

You slipped out from his arm, grabbing at the object that Ahsoka dropped on you. On closer inspection, you realized it was one of her lightsabers. Anger rose in you for her lack of dropping a topic. You marched over to where she stood, a good distance away from the Mandalorian and Child. 

“What the hell!” you whispered yelled, waving your arms. 

“A Jedi needs to practice,” she replied, shrugging her shoulders before igniting her lightsaber, illuminating her features in the darkness. 

“I’m not a Jedi,” you said through gritted teeth. “I’m just Force-sensitive.” 

“Oh really?” Ahsoka said in unbelief. Ahsoka reached her hand out, lifting up a rock that was a bit bigger than the Child’s size, and threw it at you. Panic arose at first, but by instinct, you rose your hand out in response. The rock was suspended in mid air right before your face. “I usually wouldn’t do that unless I knew for certain. That was just to show you that I didn’t believe you.”

You dropped your hand, the rock falling in front of you. You tightened your grip on Ahsoka’s lightsaber. If this is what she wants, then it’s what she’s going to get. You ignited the lightsaber in your hand, shifting your feet to a fighting stance that your Master once taught you. You saw the slight smirk that appeared on Ahsoka’s face as she too brought her lightsaber up with her backhand. 

 Ahsoka was the first to lunge forward, bringing down her saber onto yours as you rose it in a defense. You kept your feet planted to the ground as you pushed forward, then swung at Ahsoka, who blocked your advance. It was like a choreograph dance as you and Ahsoka sparred around the open space. The sound of the colliding beams filled the air along with your grunts. The lights of the clashing sabers nearly blinded you several times, but you didn’t let that stop you. You were taught better. You pushed Ahsoka aside one more time, before she looked at you, straightening her back. 

“Who was your Master?” Ahsoka asked through deep breaths. 

You ignored her question, and lunged forward again, bringing your lightsaber down on Ahsoka who blocked it last second. She pushed against the collided sabers, using more strength than before, causing you to stumble back. While caught off guard, Ahsoka bent down, swiping a leg against yours, making you fall down on the ground. The lightsaber flew out of your hand, switching off before Ahsoka grabbed it. She once again stood above you, but this time her lightsaber hovered over your face. 

“I’m going to ask you this one more time,” she reiterated. “Who was your Master?” 

You gave her a smirk, before reaching out your hand. The unlit lightsaber flew out of Ahsoka’s hand, returning once again to yours. You ignited the saber, clashing it against hers so it was away from you. You lifted your leg, and pushed Ahsoka with your foot. She fell backwards, but quickly got up, however you were faster. You scrambled to your feet, lightsaber in hand, and jumped onto a nearby boulder. You looked down at Ahsoka, switching off your lightsaber. 

“Obi Wan Kenobi,” you revealed. 

Ahsoka stumbled back, turning off her saber as her eyes widen down at you. You moved down from the boulder to a sitting position on the floor, watching Ahsoka’s reaction while trying to catch your breath from your bout. She let out a little laugh before sitting down across from you. 

“Obi Wan trained you?” she asked. 

You nodded.

“It seems like a forever ago, but yes,” you began. “I was living on Tatooine, and he found me. He only taught me little stuff like using the Force, and had me mess around with a lightsaber once. He was afraid that if I grew too much that the Empire will notice, so he ended our training.” 

You looked down at the forest floor, admiring the tangled roots from the nearby trees. So different from the sands of Tatooine. You remembered Obi Wan’s kind face and smooth instruction. He was always so patient with you even if you doubted yourself. You remembered the time when you went to visit him, but found his hermit’s hole empty. You waited for so long, but he never returned. You thought back to the time where you sat in his place, reaching out through the Force to feel him. But emptiness filled you when you couldn’t feel him. Looking up at Ahsoka’s sad eyes, you sensed that she knew about his absence in the galaxy as well. 

“I can see some of him in you when you fight,” Ahsoka said, fingering her lightsaber. “But I sense some fear in you.” You gulped, looking down again at the ground. “What are you afraid of?” 

You took a deep breath, thinking about your beskar clad warrior who you temporarily left behind. There was no way that you could hide anything from the Jedi before you. 

“I don’t know,” you started, rubbing your hands over your forearms.

Ahsoka smirked again, putting her hands behind her to lean back. 

“It’s the Mandalorian isn’t it?” she inquired, cocking up an eyebrow. 

“Yeah,” you sighed. “I try to conceal my identity from him because I’m afraid how he would react. Everyone knows that Mandalorians and Jedi aren’t on the friendliest of terms-”

“That’s an understatement,” Ahsoka snorted. 

“And,” you continued. “I don’t want him to hate me. I mean the kid-”

“Grogu,” Ahsoka corrected.

“Knew about who I am,” you continued, once again. “He used the Force multiple times in front of the Mandalorian but he’s only a child. And he was given the task to help him find a teacher. I’m not a kid, and if he finds out, I’m just scared that he’ll leave.” 

Ahsoka sat there, absorbing everything while nodding. She tilted her head. 

“You love him don’t you?” Ahsoka asked, already knowing the answer. 

“Yes,” you replied. 

***

You listened to the villagers’ joyous noises as they celebrated the victory over the Magistrate. Their outfits changed from dreary gray and brown to green and blue. You assisted Ahsoka and Mando in freeing the city, shooting down droids and defending the villagers. Despite all the fighting and blaster shots, you were impressed to see how well you all worked together, especially Mando and Ahsoka. If anything, it gave you hope for your situation. But was it different for them compared to you? Does he rather work with a Jedi who he has never met before to one who was hiding their identity to him? You shook the question aside, choosing to instead watch the people. Ahsoka smiled in pride, and gave over the pure beskar staff to the Mandalorian before he set off to retrieve the Child. 

You waited alongside the Jedi, admiring the people’s celebration as they reinstated their original leader before the Empire took over. But some time has passed, and the Mandalorian was no where in sight. After much silent deliberation, you and Ahsoka decided to head over to the Razor Crest instead. 

You navigated through the foliage, dodging roots and rocks here and there. It was silent between the two of you until Ahsoka broke it. 

“You know I can’t train him,” she said, repeating her conclusion from yesterday morning. 

You let out a sigh, remembering how Grogu proved himself with moving his favorite metal ball from Mando’s hand to his. You were so proud with him, but that was instantly crushed when Ahsoka gave her verdict. You glanced down at the forest floor, reevaluating your options for the little guy, but it was slim to none. 

“What if I trained him?” you asked, looking up to see her reaction only to be met with a blank expression. “I don’t know much, but I could teach him how to control it and when to use it. Plus, Master Obi Wan taught me about meditation so-”

“Y/N,” Ahsoka interrupted holding up a hand, and stopping in her tracks. You ceased your walking in return, looking at her. Ahsoka shook her head, her eyebrows coming together as she looked down before meeting your gaze. “You can’t train him either.”

“Why not?” you demanded, disbelief creeping in your voice. “He needs someone to help him, he’s just a child-”

“You have an attachment as well,” Ahsoka interjected. You felt like she just punched you in the stomach. It was true, but knowing that she could tell and hearing her say it out loud made it sound so real. You stared at her in a loss of words. “Jedi cannot have any attachments, it could lead you down a dark path. Like Grogu, you were in hiding too, in a way. It’s just not wise.”

Ahsoka returned to her walking, leaving you standing there. Obi Wan did tell you the stories and lore of the Jedi, and everything about the Light and Dark side. He instilled the principles of the Light side, and you always planned to uphold them, despite your slight attachment to the Mandalorian. You jogged to catch up with Ahsoka. 

“You’re wrong,” you said, holding up an air of confidence. “I won’t let my attachment lead me anywhere near the Dark side.”

“Funny,” Ahsoka replied. “I knew someone who thought the same.”

“Unlike that person,” you defended. “I will succeed.” 

“A Mandalorian and a Jedi,” Ahsoka hummed, looking up at the gray sky above you two. “Quite a combination.”

You shrugged your shoulders, before looking over at her. She met your gaze as she raised an eyebrow at you. 

“It’s all about balance,” you said. 

***

The hull in the Razor Crest was quiet except for the little noises coming from Grogu. The Mandalorian resided in the cockpit as he set the coordinates to your next destination. You could tell how lost he was when Ahsoka reaffirmed her previous conclusion to him, but she didn’t leave you totally in the dark. She provided you some instructions to find Grogu a teacher and to decide his fate, but you yourself were uneasy in the whole matter. You knew you could train him. Hell, you even came across him, and you’re a Jedi. 

You looked down at the little green creature who was sitting in your lap, his dark eyes staring up at you. You bounced him a little, while he giggled. 

“What are we going to do with you, Grogu?” you asked, meaning for it to be rhetorical, but he tilted his head at you at the mention of his name. “By the way, I didn’t forget what you did. You really had to tell Ahsoka about me, traitor? We had a deal.” 

You knew he wouldn’t say anything, but you still smiled at him. You pet his ears, and he cooed with content. 

“I can’t be mad at you,” you sighed. 

Your attention was pulled away from Grogu when the sound of boots hitting the metal rungs of the ladder echoed throughout the haul. The Mandalorian approached you, his figure towering over you while casting a shadow. He bent down, and picked up the Child, before returning him to his hammock in the bunk. Mando shut the door before turning to you, his gaze burning a hole into you despite the beskar helmet. 

“We need to talk,” he said, stepping closer to where you were seated in the haul. 

“About what?” you questioned, blood roaring in your ears as fear gripped your heart. What if he knew?

“I saw you,” Mando began, his voice even and steady. “That night on Corvus, you left with Ahsoka. I followed you. I saw you. You have the same power as the kid. You used a lightsaber like Ahsoka.” With every sentence, the Mandalorian took a step forward until he was right before you. Your heart hammered in your chest, tears brimming the rims of your eyes as you tried to keep your emotions in check. What if this was it? You couldn’t bear to leave him and the Child, but now it seems like you have no choice. You took a deep breath, watching him carefully. He gave off no inclination on what he’s about to do. His hands were steady by his sides, his breathing was even, and his voice was unwavering. “Are you a Jedi?” 

“Yes,” you whispered, looking at the floor instead of his visor. You gripped your  own arms with a vice, reminding you to stay grounded before getting overwhelmed. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, his features unchanging. 

You swallowed a lump in your throat before standing up. You needed to face your fear, and not let it overcome you. You straightened your back, staring into the expressionless helmet. 

“Because I was scared,” you started. “I was scared that you wouldn’t want to take me on as a crew mate. I was scared that you would desert me on a planet all by myself. I was scared that I would lose you. The Mandalorians’ enemy is the Jedi, and I was scared that if you found out you wouldn’t want anything to do with me-”

You were cut off when Mando grabbed your biceps, pulling you forward until you were wrapped in his arms. Your cheek was pressed against his chest plate, his hands pressing into your back. You were silenced by his sudden actions. You wound your arms around him, before letting the tears fall from your eyes to run down the beskar. He didn’t want to kill you, or leave you. He wasn’t disgraced by taking in the enemy of his people. Instead, he was embracing one. 

“Listen to me,” he said. “I would never do that to you. After everything we’ve been through, I could never do that to you. I care about you, Y/N.” He pulled you back a bit, while keeping his hands on you. You stared up at the helmet, but if you looked closely, you could see the outline of his eyes. He caressed your cheek, the leather of his gloves soft against your cheek. “Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum,” he said, his voice softening. 

You didn’t know what he meant, but from his tender caresses and gentle voice, you knew he was speaking from his heart. 

“So you don’t mind having a Jedi on board with you?” you asked, humor hinted in your voice. 

“No,” he replied. “Now two Jedi, I might have to think about it.”

You gave him a playful punch to his bicep, a laugh coming from his modulator. His hands came to rest on your hips, before he reached in one of your pockets, and pulling out a small object. 

“What’s this?” Mando asked, holding the object up in the light. 

You grabbed the object from his hand, and held it up higher. 

“It’s a kyber crystal,” you answered, admiring the gift from Ahsoka. Before departing from Corvus, she pulled you aside once again, handing you the crystal. You were a Jedi after all, and she thought you should have a Jedi weapon instead of carrying around a blaster. Though Obi Wan is gone, she wanted you to know that there are more Jedi out there. “They power lightsabers. Ahsoka gave it to me so I can construct my own lightsaber when I’m ready. But I don’t think I’m going to do it.”

“Why not?” Mando questioned. 

“Well, our focus is the Child. We don’t exactly have time to stop everything to build one,” you tried to reason.

“Not now,” he said. “But maybe in the near future.” 

“Really?” you asked, excitement in your voice. “You would help me?”

“Of course, cyar’ika,” he affirmed. “A Mandalorian and a Jedi, they’ll never see it coming.”

Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum- I love you 

Mando Taglist: @absurdthirst @tangledlove27

[amelie701]

There’s something about endings that I can’t really define.

I just finished a short story. It was a sweet one, without hanging plots or eye-catching drama. It was a happy slice of life, two people happening upon each other and letting the world around them draw them together. It was sweet, I know I’ve said this already, but I can’t help the fact that this distinction won’t leave my brain. Because if it was so sweet, why does my chest feel empty? Why does it ache? What is it so hollow I can hear my heart screaming at me from another empty cavity to fix what I’ve just somehow managed to break?

It isn’t just the sweet ones. It never is no matter how much I fucking wish that were the case.

Sometimes it’s the action-packed ones. The one with so much blood and violence and anger that I’m always inclined to ask after the author but never do (it’d be rude of me to think the pieces were projecting anything just because my own works often suffered the fate). Sometimes it’s the scary ones, the ones where a good ending is uncertain, if not near impossible to expect. There aren’t many of those that I’ll read, but whenever I brave them I always hold out hope I’m too freaked out to feel the cracks reforming over where they always managed to heal over. The sentiment never gets me far.

Sometimes— sometimes it’s the painful ones. The tragedies. The ones that end in bittersweet or frustrated tears. Those feel almost justifiable, the growing pain behind my eyelids and my chest more easily explainable behind all the trauma I’ve just forced myself to ingest. But still, I find myself declining so rapidly after just about every story I complete. Every series or movie. Every comic or event. Every fucking piece of vaguely final sounding music I have ever heard. It feels a little like losing parts of myself I hadn’t realized existed.

I guess I recognize it is likely some combination of attachment and investment. That I easily connect with what’s in front of me and spend a large sum of time immersing myself in it that when it’s taken from me, I lose a part I hadn’t realized existed (because it hadn’t existed before I began what last piece of content had so wholly captured my spirit).

But it feels like more than that too.

Here’s something I learned early in life: We aren’t eternal. We’re put on this earth for a short amount of time before we leave it. Most of us won’t leave a large impression, others will. In the end, we’ll be forgotten. Because we’re a speck in the great cosmos or whatever existential bullshit or what have you. We’re inconsequential. We’re so horrifyingly fucking finite. And there isn’t some new story to find, some game level to restart to find a different path. There isn’t a reset or a try again button. Once it’s done it’s done.

We aren’t eternal. But I’ve been so conditioned by handheld perpetuity that I forget sometimes that it’s too late for me to go back a few levels in decisions and choose medical school instead. I forget that I can’t reread a chapter thats ended in my life because time doesn’t really work that way. I forget that there aren’t one hundred different versions of me that have lived and would get to live one hundred different lives. I forget that I’m just a person who’s lost their hope in eternity. In being anything more then a sad, angry, scared blip on the ever changing track of existence.

I so desperately want to pin down endings for myself. To give them some quantifiable weight that I can measure against the pressure in my head and arms and chest when I dissociate into a mindless heap at the sparse, but oh so encompassing, thoughts of finality. Maybe that’ll help me come to terms with my mortality a bit. Maybe I won’t cry myself to sleep wondering why I would never get to see the future, be that one tinged in the light of innovation or certain upheaval. Or wishing I could gaze into the past and climb the pyramid of Giza when it’s golden top still adorned it like a crown. Or becoming desperately hopeless in my realization that no, I wasn’t the “main character.” Or A character. Or a member of the background cast. Fuck, I’m not even in the audience. I was never written into the narrative because there isn’t one. There isn’t and as simple of a concept that must be for others, for someone who grew up consuming books like water I feel listless at the realization, even 6 years later. I would not be remembered, and if I would be, then not for very long. Not long enough for my name to see a future I would not get to explore with my own eyes.

I so desperately wish it were only the sweet ones that made me feel so hollow, but all endings did. All endings do and will probably continue to do so.

And, in a brilliant stroke of cruel irony, that’s the one thing I can’t forsee the end of ever coming to fruition. Not while endings, in whatever form they exist, render me so conscious of what I’ll be losing, what I’ve lost, and what I’ll never even get the chance to lose.

[winslctrg]

I Love You, With A Touch Of Tragedy And Quite Madly. (Mildred Ratched x Reader)

summary: a regular day at work turns out to be not so regular

a/n: this is for @sassicaismysupreme surpriseeee i was ur secret fic writer. Not important, but this is my first fic ever so i hope it is any good!

warnings: slapping, angst!

Your relationship with Mildred was a fairytale. You were all sunshine and blue skies. Though some clouds might be there with the occasional rainy day, there were rarely thunderstorms.

Mildred only added to your sunshine. She has been like some sort of rainbow hanging above your little heart island, making it a happier place. Rainbows are rare and special, and that’s also how you looked at Mildred.

It had always been happy. You were used to it like that, and you liked it that way. No complications, no anxiety, no fears, no anger. Mildred was some sort of safe haven where you just never had any problems. That's probably why the situation affected you so much.

It was one of those blue sky, happy sunny days. You opened your eyes, closed them again against the rays that fell right through your curtains. You couldn't be annoyed for long though, because your head immediately met your sleeping girlfriend's.

Your mouth fell into a soft smile upon seeing her. She always seemed to have that effect on you, no matter where you guys were. It once even happened at a funeral, and Mildred had to give u a soft warning glare. Not that that helped though, it only made you smile more. She made you smile. At home, at work, in the grocery store, on the street, at parties, anywhere at anytime. She was quite simply everything to you.

You pressed a soft kiss on her temple “Wake up darling, we’ll be late.” You whispered, before running your hand softly through her hair. The sun made her features even more gorgeous than they usually were, accentuating her sharp cheekbones and her beautiful big lips. Your hand left her hair and ran softly from the forming frown between her eyebrows all the way down to her nose before putting it on her now blushing cheeks.

“Goodmorning sunshine.” You giggled. A soft smile spread on Mildred’s face as she finally opened her eyes. Her brown eyes looked nearly gold because of the sun. You begged. Wished to stay like this forever, but the alarm went off, pulling you both out of your trances. You grinned at her before you sat up and grabbed her wrist. She positioned herself right in your arms. You let your nose slip into her beautiful reddish-brown hair, smelling her expensive shampoo.

You never got used to moments like these. They made your heart race, and you were sure it also grew 3 times bigger. “I love you” you whispered into her hair, as if making a promise to yourself that your heart would forever beat for her. “I love you too honey.” She said before yawning. “Aww are you sleepy baby?” you teased. “Did i wear you out last night?” your said, and you winked at her. Mildred glared at you, but you could see the pink tones covering her ears and cheeks. You kissed her softly, before pulling away again but resting your forehead against hers, noses touching. “We have to get ready.” You whispered. “I know.” She replied. She put her soft hands on your cheeks, as her long slender thumbs started stroking the area right beside your nose. “I love you.” You said again, just for the sake of reassuring your promise to her. She knew, because she smiled and when you looked deep into her warm brown eyes you saw that same promise. “I love you too, lets get dressed.”

You were in the car to work, both of you working at the hospital. Mildred drove, always. You did try once, but then nearly hit a car because you were too busy staring at her. You didn’t mind not driving, it meant you could stare at her without the posibillity of killing an entire family and their dog.

As you both arrived on the parking lot, you made sure your hat was on right and straightened Mildred’s too. You glanced around, saw nobody and kissed her. It always cleared your mind, kissing her. It seemed to draw out any negative feelings and fill your head with love, much like a love potion.

You both stepped out of the car and went to your respective entrances. You gave Mildred a small smile before parting.

Work went slowly, but good. You were good friends with Huck, and he made time speed up just a little faster, plus seeing Mildred at lunch really made you optimistic again.

After lunch, Mildred called you and Huck to a treatment room. There was a girl there, around your age, and she looked frightened.

“Nurse Finnigan, nurse y/l/n, this is miss Ruth Davis. She’s here because of unexplainable feelings towards women, which is simply unacceptable, don’t you guys think?” You pushed up an eyebrow and looked at Huck, who also had a confused expression on his face. “Well?” Mildred asked, a slight tinge to her tone now. Huck cleared his throat. “Yeah uh sure, unacceptable.”

You, however shook your head. “I don’t think she should be tortured simply for liking women. I don’t see a problem with it honestly.” You said as calmly as you could. You met Hucks gaze, saw his shocked eyes but also his slight grin. You averted your gaze to meet Mildreds eyes, saw a flash of panic. Panic? No, now it was definitely anger. “Nurse y/l/n thats incredibly inappropriate. I suggest you find another job if you think that way.” She said, her voice sounded a little too forced for your liking. “I’d gladly do, but um I know you don’t have a problem with it either.” You said and moved your head to look at the girl. “She doesn’t,” you told her. “I’d know-“

Before you had the time to finish your sentence, you felt a hard burning on your cheek and you stumbled tot he ground. She had hit you. Your mind was running 800 miles per second. You stared back up at her with tears threatening to come out of your eyes.

“I should’ve known it wasn’t real, right? That this was all a big game to you. That you didn’t actually care about me.” You whispered and you tried to lean on your shakey hands. “I’m sorry for believing you didn’t actually hate me, I’m sorry you had to keep your act up for so long. I just thought-“ your voice broke mid sentence. “I thought we were happy.” You blinked. Didn’t, couldn’t look at her. You opened your mouth to speak again, but instead a sob made it’s way out. You shook your head feverently and ran past her. “Don’t come after me.” You murmered as your shoulders touched. Away. Away. Away.

You didn’t know how long you had ran for, you wondered how you had even kept on going that far. Breathing was becoming, air scraping it’s way through your lungs, making them bleed. Doesn’t matter, you told yourself. It definitley wasn’t bleeding as badly as your heart

You only ever wanted to be hers. To watch the sunset with her ever night in the summer, and sit by the ocean just because you could. To give her hugs for warmth when she had underestimated the cool sting of the autumn air. To hold her hand on walks during the snow in the winter, and buy her the perfect christmas presents. To pick her some blooming daisies and lavender and violets in the spring and make a bouqet, just for her. You wanted to make her feel wanted.

You came to a halt as you realized where you had run to. Her house. Because that was home. She was. Your face crumpled and you started sobbing. You rand to the nearest wall to steady yourself, before giving up and letting yourself slide down the wall. You let your head fall in your hands and buried your shaking fingers in your hair.

“Yes, I’m scared of you! You hit me!” you screamed out, voice breaking halfway through out of frustration, anger and love. That one was hard to admit, but you knew you were mad because you loved her. Because you had spent months making a flower garden with all of your memories, and all that you knew of her, and all of your feelings, and she had just set it on fire.

“Look y/n I’m sorry, I don’t know what to do.” She said. Her voice was soft and you tried to listen for any sign of a lie. You couldn’t find any. You whipped your head up, glaring at her with such passion that even you were scared of what you were capable of. “You should’ve thought about that before you put you whole palm on my face, don’t you think?” you snarled. You saw her chin tremble, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. “You know, you always tell your patients not to be afraid, but i don’t think there’s anyone that’s more scared than you. I know you are, don’t even pretend you aren’t. I know you.” You paused for a second, took a shaky breath in, cursed at yourself internally. “You might not know it, but I do. 4 months don’t just go by, Mildred. Neither for you nor for me.”

You saw a tear slip out of her eye. “I’m so sorry y/n. I do know. I do care. I’m sorry.” She breathed, and you could practically hear your heart break. “I don’t know what to do, but I do care. I can’t-“ her sentence got broken up by a big intake of breath, before a loud sob escaped her mouth. “I was so scared.” She cried. Your eyebrow pushed up. You should've known she was afraid, should've known she never agreed to do the therapy, should’ve known you burnt your own flowers the minute you started talking. But you were confused, and you felt hurt and you reacted on that.

You didn't even think about her feelings, if you were going to be honest with yourself. You wanted to feel guilty, but deep down you knew you couldn’t blame yourself. She hurt you, she hit you and that wasn’t going to be forgotten in a heartbeat.

But you loved her. More than anything. And so you tried to pick up all of the broken pieces, yours and hers, and tried to glue all of it into one big love ball.

“I’m not gonna say that its okay, Mildred, because it’s not and you know that.” You started. You saw her eyes scarily looking up into yours. You took a deep breath in before continuing. “But this doesn’t mean I don’t love you anymore.” Her eyes watered again. “It doesn’t?” You shook your head. “No it doesn’t, but you try doing that again and I won’t give you another chance.” Mildred shook her head violently. “Alright, come on, we’ll go home.”

That night before you guys went to bed, you approached her.

“Mildred,” you said as she was going to the bathroom. She turned around, her beautiful curls falling just right over her shoulders. “Yeah?” she said. You smiled. “I love you.” She hid a small blush while turning back around. “I love you too darling.” She replied. You smiled to yourself. Though this was too big of an issue to just blow over, you knew you and Mildred would work through it. Because you loved her, even if it was tragedy sometimes.

[actualaster]

Of Names and Degrees of Separation

Title:  Of Names and Degrees of Separation Fandom:  Tales of Symphonia: Dawn of the New World Rating:  General Pairing:  Richter Abend/Emil Castagnier, implied past Richter Abend/Aster Laker Characters:  Richter Abend, Emil Castagnier, mentions of Aster Laker Summary:  "The names we call each other can tell so much about the intimacy between us.  Or the (believed) lack thereof. Additional Notes:  Angsty.  Also, the change in tense and perspective in certain parts is intentional.

(Also available on AO3)

---

"Aster would have been 19 today."

Six simple words, uttered in a quiet, reflective tone touched with grief and regret.

Six simple words, and yet they transform this day--a day of guilt and regret for the life he had stolen--into the greatest tragedy Emil can imagine.

He hadn't known, couldn't have known.

They--he, Ratatosk, both of them or whatever they were--had ended an innocent life on the very anniversary of its beginning.

Six simple words, and he knows the gulf between himself and the speaker would, should, never be bridged. He has stolen Aster's life. His face, his voice, even his mantra. And he has tainted what should be a day of celebration and remembrance with murder.

When green eyes bright with unshed tears shielded by fragile lenses (a gift from long ago, Emil has been told, from that very person he destroyed) finally meet his, Emil can only utter four words of his own knowing all the while they can never be sufficient.

Knows that they come from one who has no right to walk free while another rots beneath the ground, who has no right to inflict his presence on the one his victim has been stolen from, no right to treat the two of them as anything but acquaintances brought together by chance in the worst of ways.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Abend."

---

“Donuts were always Aster’s favorite.”

Emil blinked, looked up from his contemplation of the ground, and carefully took the sweet treat that Richter held out to him. It wasn’t exactly unusual that Richter would offer him something to eat--though never anything the other man made, they hadn’t exactly had a chance to teach him how to avoid poisoning people with his food--but the commentary was unexpected.

“He enjoyed sweet things, and junk food in general, but donuts were his favorite.” A small smile played about Richter’s lips as he spoke, but it couldn’t hide the sadness that touched his eyes. “I first realized he was serious about me when he told me he always wanted to share donuts with me and gave me one.”

Emil watched Richter take a small bite of his own treat, and looked down at the sweet cradled gingerly in his fingers. It made sense, really, that Richter--not necessarily one for sweets at random--would purchase some. It was nearly three years now, after all.

Three years since Aster and Richter had met with Ratatosk. Three years since Ratatosk--since Emil--had acted in anger and pain and struck him down.

Three years that Richter had been without his best friend--without someone who, Emil realized, was more than that.

Emil forced himself to take a small bite, though in truth he felt sick as the guilt of his crimes settled more firmly upon him. Aster should be the one here, eating donuts with Richter…

He failed to notice the concern that tinged the green eyes that watched him slowly eat.

---

“Aster was always rather unathletic and sometimes clumsy.”

Emil paused, shifted his balance back to both feet after recovering well from tripping when his foot sank into a hidden hole in the ground.

Richter’s gaze was vaguely distant, as if he saw both Emil and something else, a moment that now lived only in his memory.

Emil carefully extracted his foot from the hole, wondered if maybe it would have been better if he’d fallen on his face--would it have been more familiar for Richter? More comforting?

“I was always patching him up and lecturing him.”

That, at least, Emil found relatable--he often ended up lectured by his companion for taking a risk in battle or, more often lately, straying too far from sight.

Emil wasn’t sure why the other wanted him to stay closer these days. It made it hard to give the man some space--and nearing the anniversary of when Ratatosk, when they, stole Aster’s life… Of course Richter needed some time to himself.

He failed to think about how Richter has had quite a bit of time to himself already.

---

“Aster always had something to say, he didn’t really like leaving silence for too long.”

Emil hesitated, closed his mouth on the words he’d been about to speak. The question of “Is there something on your mind?” slipped away unneeded: of course, Aster was always on Richter’s mind.

Emil wondered if Richter found his silence a bane or a blessing.

Somehow, these days, it just seemed wrong to intrude too frequently on Richter’s thoughts. Better, instead, to let actions speak for him. So Emil let the words go, nodding to show he had listened, and held his silence as he fell back a few more steps to distance himself from the other man.

He wasn’t one for small talk, anyway.

Emil didn’t consider that the other’s stories of Aster were a way to fill the silence Emil had let grow between them.

---

“Aster always liked to talk about his mother, she meant the world to him.”

Emil wondered, just a little, what it was like to have a family that cared for you. His didn’t--but then, Alba and Flora weren’t really his family. He hadn’t gone back to Luin after, well, everything. It felt wrong to pretend, to their faces, to be their dead nephew. He wasn’t the real Emil, after all. A stolen name and a stolen family, to go along with the stolen face he wore.

Everything about him was stolen from another.

Even now, his existence stole time from the other--time that would have been better used doing anything but being around him.

Emil didn’t pause to consider that perhaps Richter found their time together a blessing, one he guarded carefully with the desperation of one who knows “forever” doesn’t really mean what it promises.

---

“Aster always liked coming up with ridiculous nicknames for me.”

Emil tilted his head, wondered for a moment what sorts of nicknames they might be. Then he dismissed the thought--it didn’t truly matter, he would never accidentally utter one and so remind his companion of his loss.

Something like that was far too casual, far too intimate for the likes of them. No, Emil would barely be able to call the other by his name--it felt oddly inappropriate, somehow far too familiar for what lay between them.

Especially now that the other man was sharing stories that helped paint a picture of an intimacy that wasn’t purely platonic.

Emil didn’t think his change in address towards the other had been noted.

---

“Aster was always very physical in his affection, he didn’t seem to know what personal space was.”

The words were said in a joking tone, though one touched with wistful sadness.

Emil shifted uncomfortably, aware that he’d been putting more and more distance between the pair of them--it didn’t feel right to be too close, to reach out and grip the other’s arm to get his attention or to be near him at all, really. He had no right to stand here, to take the place of another he could never live up to--and to try seemed to spit on the memory of the one he’d murdered.

He slipped back another pace or two, his eyes averted.

Emil didn’t see the hand that reached towards him and lingered in the air, unable to close the distance between them.

---

“I’m sorry, Mr. Abend.”

Four simple words, and they pierce right through Richter’s heart in an agony rivaling only that which he had felt as he closed Aster’s eyes for the last time.

He stands, frozen, even the air in his lungs still for the moment in the silence that falls after the words. He takes a step forwards, hand lifting to reach out and stops at the way Emil flinches back from him, eyes averting to look at the ground. The ache in his heart spikes again.

“H-he… Should be here, with you. N-not… Not me.”

A single tear slips down one cheek, coming to rest at the tip of Emil’s chin. It quavers slightly, glittering despair that breaks free and falls to the ground with the tremors beginning to run through Emil, and more follow.

“I-I… I’m the r-reason he’s gone, I-I’m sorry.”

Richter remains still, afraid to try and close the distance between them lest Emil flee--and realizes that, in a sense, that’s what Emil has been doing for over a week now. Drawing away from him, drawing into himself despite Richter’s efforts to include Emil in his own remembrance and celebration of Aster as the day of his birth, and death, approached.

He noticed as Emil began to speak less, began to be less physical in their interactions. He had thought Emil was just giving him a little space, not wanting to intrude too deeply if he would prefer to mourn less openly. But only now is Richter finally seeing that hesitancy for what it has always been--crushing guilt and regret, that have been growing heavier each day until they’ve crushed his spirit beneath their immeasurable weight.

He sees Emil take another trembling step back, and in that moment knows with the same certainty he knows the sun rises each morning that if Emil leaves he will lose him--and that Richter cannot bear.

He isn’t truly aware of the intervening steps, only that in one moment he stood watching Emil struggle to push apologize past the sobs strangling him from within and the next he’s crushing Emil to his chest so tightly it must be painful for him yet Richter can’t let go.

His voice is rough and the sharp echo of pain runs through his words as he begs, “Don’t. I can’t lose you, too.”

The words “I won’t survive another loss like that” never quite manage to make it out of his chest, they feel too heavy to speak. But he tries to communicate their truth in the strength of his grip on Emil, in the hand that presses Emil’s face to his chest and the fingers that stroke through the blond strands.

Instead, he says, “Stay with me.”

And though he feels the shuddering as Emil sobs, apologies lost amidst the broken cries, he understands the unspoken “yes” in the way Emil’s arms grasp him--clinging to him as though he is the only thing tethering Emil to this life.

Richter finds his own eyes blurring, and doesn’t fight the tears that fall. He breathes slowly and deeply, trying to keep his voice steady if he needs to speak--the last thing Emil needs is to feel that he’s done anything to hurt him. (Emil already blames himself for far, far too much)

He shifts, changing his grip on Emil to be a little more comfortable, and feels Emil sag slightly against him.

“Sit with me,” he suggests, carefully loosening his grip to let Emil move more freely. Moments pass in silence before Emil pushes a little away from him, but Richter is reassured by the small nod and he gently guides Emil to the ground.

After a moment of sitting beside him, Richter pulls Emil into his lap instead, arms wrapping securely around him and resting his chin on Emil’s head. He feels the way Emil tenses up, but moments later Emil is curled against his chest, still sniffling and trying to stop his tears but notably calmer.

Richter holds him close, afraid to let go--he’s finally rediscovered happiness and peace, and he’s terrified to lose it all over again. He keeps his grip on Emil even when the other’s tears dry and his breathing evens out. He shifts, bending his head to nuzzle gently against Emil.

“Please. Stay with me, Emil.”

The answer is in soft, rough tones.

“I… I can’t be him.”

“I know. But you can be Emil, and that’s more than enough.”

He feels Emil press closer to his chest, a small tremor running through him once.

“Are you s-sure?”

“Yes.” And he shifts, wanting more than a mere word to convey his feelings--as if words could ever truly convey them. He repositions Emil enough to tilt the other’s face towards him, and presses his lips gently to Emil’s salt-flavored ones.

When he pulls back, Emil’s face is flushed from more than just his crying, those gentle green eyes wide with surprise and a hint of confusion.

“I’m very sure.”

[cdroloisms]

maybe you could talk about the dynamic between c!wilbur and c!tommy / c!tubbo? i think it's very interesting and i have conflicted feelings about them, i'd love to see your takes

c!wilbur my beloved ,, he’s such an interesting character and his relationship w/ c!tommy and c!tubbo is simultaneously so ,, twisted and heartbreaking. i think he really did care about them, to the end, but c!wilbur had always been characterized with his ,, love for lmanburg, to the point of obsession - think him in the revolution, saying “we would rather die,” him and his unfinished symphony in the button room on the sixteenth. in the end, it’s this obsession that really comes to destroy him,, but i feel like he still *cared* for tommy and tubbo, you know? tommy, canonically, saw wilbur as an older brother figure, and i feel like to some degree that feeling was reciprocated - not in the healthiest way, especially as c!wilbur became more manipulative, but that came from his untreated mental illness and growing paranoia and other things. i think that he saw himself as a sort of,, mentor figure, to both tommy and tubbo, and he hurt them, in the end, in very very deep and unjustified ways ,, but he still cared. it doesn’t make it right, or even better, but i think that w/ the way wilbur thought, he wasn’t necessarily trying to be cruel.

anyway, take this mutually assured destruction au (credit to @dreamsclock for the au) interaction of c!wilbur and c!tubbo!

tw: mentioned abuse, death, manipulation, toxic relationship, unhealthy thinking, mental illness, derealization (? wilbur thinks of everything as a twisted story), c!wilbur critical (not really? but just in case)

“Do you know what he did to Tommy?”

Wilbur turns, blinks, smiles; Tubbo is standing in front of him, spine straight, shoulders pulled back; there’s a fire in those eyes, highlighted by the starburst scar that stretches over his face. He wipes the gunpowder with a quick snap of his wrists, one-two, and cocks his head to the side. Amusement bubbles under his skin; now this is interesting.

“Tubbo! Can’t say I expected you here,” the kid is wearing netherite, but doesn’t move closer, keeping himself just out of reach of a sword. Smart, Wilbur shifts, stuffs his hands into his pockets, he’s learned.

“Wilbur,” Tubbo’s voice is firm, tired. Wilbur stays silent, prompting, something satisfied becoming a curling warmth in his chest; he’s always been perceptive, moreso than Tommy. Tommy lives, breathes a sort of unpolished sincerity, drawing attention, bleeding heart and loyalty and emotion so brilliantly and shouting so loudly that everyone has no choice but to listen - to contain him is no easier than to cage a flame. Wilbur knew this, even back in Pogtopia, let his and Dream’s passion and drive and bone-deep feeling burn each other out.

Tubbo sighs, lifts his chin; his eyes are cold. Something amused pulls at the corners of Wilbur’s lips; where Tommy is fire, Tubbo is ice, waiting, watching, letting Tommy charge into the fray while he hangs back and simply observes. He’d known, even then, that when push came to shove, Tubbo would be the one to get the job done, that he was the one that would smile serenely with an arsenal of weapons hidden up his sleeve, had looked into those ice-blue eyes and seen the same snake-in-the-grass determination that he recognized from every time he looked in the mirror.

“I know,” he says, finally, every word carefully measured, just smooth enough to edge on the side of sincerity. He doesn’t miss the way that Tubbo flinches, the tremble of his bottom lip, but turns away and pretends not to notice. “He told me, and even if he didn’t, I still have Casper the friendly ghost’s memories, as much as I don’t like them.”

“Then-” Tubbo’s voice cracks, goes quiet, and Wilbur watches from the corner of his eye as the kid purposefully untenses, hiding his shaking hands behind his shield. “Why are you helping him?”

Wilbur pauses; it’s not a question he didn’t expect, but the weight of it is- startling, even so. Something bubbles, hot and vicious, in his throat, almost tasting like anger, revenge, love. He remembers his hand placed, calming, on a too-tense shoulder, nestled in wind-blown hair, remembers star-bright eyes following him, hanging onto his every word like they had the power to coax the sun into the sky. Remembers, even in the hazy joy and grief that had been the world falling to pieces under his hand on the sixteenth, that spark of blue-tinged sorrow that had almost felt like regret burning cold and quiet in the middle of his chest.

“Have you read Shakespeare, Tubbo?”

Wilbur turns away, but it’s not early enough to miss the way Tubbo jolts at his question, a mumbled, incredulous “what?” falling from his lips.

“His tragedies, specifically,” he counts the TNT in his inventory, thumbing through the rows and rows of dynamite. “If you haven’t, they all follow the same basic formula - it’s how tragic heroes work, after all. It all boils down to one flaw - just one mistake, that sends the entire house of cards crumbling down.” Just one button pressed. Just one person that shouldn’t have been trusted. Just one life.

“I don’t- I don’t see how this is relevant, Wilbur.”

And here’s the thing; once upon a time, these boys - they had been his.

Not his, as in family, or his, as in followers, but some muddled mix of the two. They’d been his to guide, to some degree, his to keep out of trouble, his to teach about drugs and blackmail and propaganda and respect and leadership and honor. And- maybe he never should’ve been trusted with kids, maybe they shouldn’t have given a damned man this responsibility - scratch the maybe, they definitely shouldn’t have - but the universe didn’t operate on “should have”’s so he ended up with these brilliant, lost boys anyway.

And he fucked up, more than anyone, more than even Dream, because these boys had been his in a way they never were for Dream, but Wilbur has always been a selfish, selfish man. He chose his unfinished symphony first and he’d choose it again because that was the flaw in his foundation, the chip in his soul that would send him collapsing from the outside in every time, but that doesn’t mean he can’t try to guide the kid standing in front of him away from the path of self-destruction that Wilbur’s already too far down to come back from, that he and Tommy and Dream have been damned to.

“You’re a side character, Tubbo. You don’t matter,” Wilbur speaks, ignoring the hitch of breath that comes from behind him, “and this is a tragedy. Everyone that matters dies at the end of a tragedy.”

“Wilbur-”

“Cassio lives in Othello. Horatio lives in Hamlet. Dream, me, Tommy - we’re fucked. We’ve been fucked since the beginning of this story, since L’manburg. I signed our death warrant the moment I signed that declaration, Tubbo! We’re dead men walking. It’s only a question of how much we burn down before we burn out. But you?”

“You’re not like us, Tubbo. When the curtains close, when this story ends - somebody’s going to be left to pick up the pieces. You have people to live for now.”

“This- this isn’t a story, Wilbur.” Tubbo’s words tremble in the air, hang between them like a thread pulled taut - the thread frays, snaps, as Wilbur begins to walk away.

As he leaves, Wilbur remembers Dream, hair white in the moonlight, back when those eyes shone with something other than remembered pain - this isn’t a story - and hopes that Tubbo won’t learn the hard way, too.

[morocosmos]

FFxivWrite2022 Day 24: Vicissitudes

“You what?” Leveva’s usually calm demeanour has been shattered in disbelief over what Moro’a just said, and she stares at him with wide, questioning eyes. “The cards portended ill news this morning, but this – I never – Moro’a, you cannot be serious….”

They’re alone in the abandoned ruins of the Steel Vigil, where icy winds and crumbling walls conceal them; the better to speak discreetly, for both Leveva’s sake and his. It had been her suggestion when he’d requested that they meet – a measure borne from her recent trials, he supposes – but a small part of Moro’a wonders if this, too, is another unfavourable yet unshakeable piece of fate. He scowls and sweeps the suggestion aside. “I’m sorry, Leveva. I meant what I said. I’m quitting astromancy.”

“And as your tutor, I demand a better explanation as to why before you go about making such an unreasonable decision,” she insists. She’s clearly upset, crossing her arms as she refuses to budge.

For a moment, Moro’a’s words catch in his throat, until he grits his teeth and swallows down the rest of his hesitation. “Several…events have forced me to conclude that I cannot continue to practise it in good conscience. I can no longer trust in my ability to read the future,” he answers. Speaking the truth into further existence hurts far more than he’d thought it would. “It is through no fault of your own – I will always be grateful for what you’ve taught me,” he continues, before taking his soulstone and holding out the honey-coloured crystal before his tutor. “You should take this back. For your grandfather, or should you….should you find someone else to teach.”

“No.” Leveva’s voice is tinged with anger now. “My grandfather chose you to take his soulstone. He did not do so because of mere happenstance, but because of what he saw in you – you cannot throw it all away now!”

“This has nothing to do with you or your grandfather,” Moro’a retaliates, feeling his own temper rise as the storm within him stirs. “My reasons are mine alone, and I will not change my mind because someone else has placed their hopes and dreams in me!”

Leveva takes a step back, bewildered by the force of his anger. There’s a note of fear in her expression, and suddenly she looks her age, barely past seventeen summers. Moro’a feels a pang of guilt twist in his heart. “I’m sorry,” he says, taking a step back. “You only wish to carry on your father and grandfather’s legacies. I don’t mean to trample on that.”

After a moment of silence, Leveva speaks up. “I’m sorry too. It wasn’t fair of me to place my desires over your own,” she responds in turn, looking at him once more. “Moro’a, all I know of your deeds is what passes through the streets of Ishgard, and what little you have told me. Out of discretion I have avoided peering too much into your future since that day” – he tenses at those words – “but you have kept me, and yes, even Jannequinard in the dark for far too long. Tell me why, Moro’a. The heart of it.” After some hesitation, she adds, “I only wish to understand.”

A part of Moro’a still vehemently resists. But the dam had begun to crack a while ago, and it’s getting harder and harder to keep his hurts within. “I don’t….believe astromancy has the power to help me anymore,” he says softly; the words taste as bitter as ash. “I once told you that I wanted control over my future. A way to see what might befall myself or those around me before it happened, that I might have the knowledge to do whatever was within my power to keep them safe.” His fists clench of their own accord, nails digging into the skin of his palms. “And still I have been powerless to stop tragedy in its tracks, unable to save those I should have been able to save.” Haurchefant. The thought alone is still enough to pierce his heart. Ysayle. Minfilia. Papalymo. How many more?

With a sigh, Moro’a feels the last of his fight leave him, and he settles down onto the stone. “And what’s worse is my failures haunt me, clouding my judgement and rendering me unable to see the future for its myriad possibilities. I cannot unsee potential suffering in the stars, and this has only caused further harm to the ones I care about.” He closes his eyes, but he can’t avoid seeing the hurt on Aymeric’s face from when they’d fought. “The last thing I want is to perpetuate that.”

He hears Leveva settle into the snow with him. “Losing my father was the most painful thing that ever happened to me,” she says after a while, a little timidly. “And yet….I do not know if I can fairly comprehend everything you have been through.”

“I would not wish that on anyone.”

“Mmm. But neither should you have to bear that weight alone.” Moro’a doesn’t have an answer to that, and so he chooses silence. They remain seated for a while, listening to the winds howl around them until it becomes too cold to stay. “We should head inside,” Moro’a suggests, and Leveva nods.

“I don’t intend to throw it all away,” Moro’a relents later, as they’re making their way back to the aetheryte. “If perhaps, I believe myself ready to try again….I don’t know for certain if that will happen. But I do not want yours and Jannequinard’s efforts to have been in vain.”

“In that case, I ask that you keep the soulstone.” He hears the gratitude in Leveva’s voice. “Not because I believe you must return to astromancy. But should you ever find yourself turning to the stars once more….I want you to have something to help you find your way. It’s the least I can do for you.”

[nincompoopydoo]

DEBRIS AND MISERY

DOUBT MAKES THE STRONG WEAK ; PART 8 / ?

PAIRING: Loki Laufeyson x Female!Reader WORD COUNT: 3.5k SUMMARY: From concussions to destruction, you find yourself developing an odd trust in the last two people you would even begin to have faith in and when the apocalypse seems unavoidable, you discover that there may be more to the mystery of the universe. A/N: Well, this chapter is long. And mainly pertains around the theme of 'doubt'. A lot more of Sylvie stuff and Loki just having heart eyes the whole time. I love this chapter and I can’t wait to write more as the story ends. Please tell me what you love, hate, anything (maybe theories lol). Thank you for showing so much love. gif from this gifset by @kamalaskhans WARNINGS: Swearing. Apocalypse. Injuries. Blood. support my writing through ko-fi💖 MASTERPOST ; MASTERLIST

You were once a fighter.

Hunter E-87 was the name you once knew, hollered through different fields and dimensions in time and space. You fought for what you thought was right, pledging allegiance to a cosmic establishment that held all power to a single timeline and never questioned the works of the Time-Keepers. The Sacred Timeline is indeed sacrosanct, too important, too valuable to interfere. You fight in the name of the single thread of time, the bark of a tree, forbidden to bare branches of a potential multiverse. You fight because the thought of alternate timelines used to scare you. Yet, if alternate universes were meant to be, the lives you took and destroyed are now in the grasp of your bloody hands. You hold the responsibility of the death of the innocent, taking part in mass genocide.

But promises must be kept.

The thought constantly haunts you in your sleep. You have dreams of death, war, destruction, and famine from across the universe. People seem to glide like specters in the world built by your imagination and mind. You have seen a lot, more than any being in the universe should, but no one talks about the aftermath of witnessing the tragedy of the universe as time goes on and on. No one talks about what it does to the mind. Music from cassettes and the wonder of human space exploration were distractions to cope with the grinding hole in you and the fact you might be turning truly crazy.

Sometimes, you would like to be human—Fewer problems and less time to live.

You blame the sickening and bizarre vivid images that come and go whenever you close your eyes as a symptom of being a hunter. The others are stronger than you. Well, they act like they are. Becoming an analyst made you sleep better but there was always doubt. Sakaar made you doubt.

Doubt makes the strong weak. Doubt makes you weak.

“You startin’ to have doubts?”

Green eyes. They watch you with curiosity with a hint of amusement. You hear yourself hum. “Would it be bad if I said yes?”

He laughs. It’s mighty. “Yeah. Definitely bad.”

A beat of silence. You feel your eyes start to sting. “I couldn’t even tell my mom.” A laugh escapes your lips despite the hurt you feel in your chest. “Did you tell anyone? Your wife?”

You see him now, blonde hair slicked back and deep-set eyes. He shakes his head. “Nope. Not even my wife.”

“She’ll be proud, you know.”

“I know...So will your mom. Jesus, you’re gonna be the first woman on—”

Wake up.

“—Is she dead?”

The voice is familiar. It pulls you back to reality but right now, your eyes are too heavy. Doubt is the first emotion that waves through your brain before the process of pain can even occur—uncertain if you are dead or alive.

You can’t feel your limbs, they are too weak.

Doubt makes the strong weak. Doubt makes you weak.

Maybe, you are dead.

“This is your fault! You’re the one who swung that sword of yours to her head! You’re careless—”

Sword...Sword...Careless? You remember a train, a fight.

“Oh, I’m the one who’s careless? You’re the one who’s drunk!”

Drunk...Who was drunk?

Then, your voice echoes in your head, images of a certain brunette with a deep frown. He called you a mewling quim. You quoted Hávamál. You then left him and wandered through the other cabins of the train. He blew his cover. He got you into a fight.

Loki. Loki Laufeyson.

Son of a bitch.

Your eyes are wide open now. All you see are the faces of Loki and Sylvie, looming over you. Just two floating heads. Then, the pain arrives, coursing through the entire back of your head. You wince in immediate reaction and the floating heads turn to you in an instant.

What a way to wake up from a concussion.

You remember everything now, but you certainly don’t recall being on the outside of the train. Must have gotten thrown out. The thought angers you, irritation practically boiling to the brim. Yet, it’s your fault. You hadn't thought to babysit the very person you wish were dead. As your palm grips onto the dirt beneath, muscling all strength left to lift yourself. Your head feels light and heavy all at once. Not good.

“Are you alright?” is the question that flies from Loki’s lips, tinged with an emotion you never knew he had for another but himself—worry. Whether selfless or selfish, you wish to ignore the complexity of Loki’s reactions and possible change in character, especially towards you. Ever since you stepped foot on Lamentis, all you felt was pain. You have never been injured so much within the last few hours than in your entire life and weirdly, you feel fine.

Sylvie is quick to stand, watching the two of you work in tandem. His grip finds the curve of your shoulders as you stick your hand out to grip him by the bicep. At your touch, you notice how his arm stiffens ever so slightly. You don’t say anything.

Some things about Loki are best left unknown and unanswered.

Today is filled with a lot of getting off the ground in the most unceremonious way possible.

A deep exhale leaves your lips, wisps of your hair drifting with the brutal breeze from your nostrils. Beads of sweat trail along the curve of your forehead and the back of your neck. Some entangled with the strands of your hair. Your hands feel clammy and dirty but you run them to push your hair back and away from your face anyway.

“I’m fine,” you mumble, pulling yourself away from his touch.

You finally get a good look at the two. Loki looks like complete shit but Sylvie manages to maintain the regalness to the locks of her hair despite her opposing overall behavior. It’s the Asgardian blood coursing through her veins. You cannot hide your ancestors' blood. It’s hard to believe the two are the same—one being. Yet, it's believable when you’re angry at the two of them.

The two messed up your career, that’s why.

Unbothered and uncivilized. It’s a miracle you’re still alive.

As your eyes shift along the train tracks that meander along a gorge with steep rocky walls that leer above it, you catch sight of a spark by your feet, glinting under the iridescent sky.

It’s the TemPad, shattered into pieces; you recognize the color gold of its border.

Your eyes grow wide, mouth agape. You don’t even feel angry anymore, it’s more than that. You stick out your hand to gesture towards the destroyed device, “Is that—Is that the TemPad?” you ask as your other hand lifts to hold the side of your head. “Or am I just seeing things from the concussion?”

Sylvie is the one to speak. “It’s not the concussion.”

You suddenly feel like you’re burning.

If it were possible, you could have instantly killed him with a look.

“You. You killed us!” you step closer to him and for a moment, Loki doesn’t exactly know what to do. “So, it’s my fault then? You were the one who left me alone in the lounge.” are the words that leave his lips. Completely useless. Trying to diffuse the tension is the exact opposite of what he does.

His silver tongue isn’t so shiny and silver anymore.

You don’t pull your blow this time. Your palm strikes his cheek, rocking his head to the side. Your hand is oddly soft. Loki winces and you stand your ground. “You’re a jerk and an asshole. You’ve probably been called that for all your life and yet, here you are. Still, the most insensitive and pathetic man I’ve ever met,” you articulate your words with frustration and rage. You don’t raise your voice like before, it’s low and frightfully intimidating. “And I’m not your babysitter.”

—

Battles, ruination, and fracas gave a sense of familiarity to Sylvie in a time of an impending apocalypse. When worlds end, benevolence is resolute. The tragedy of the end of lost souls—afraid to die. But as daunting as the apocalypse is, the beauty of their souls finally returning to the universe protrudes amongst the debris and misery.

She sees herself in the two of you, as much as she doesn’t identify as a Loki anymore, and her hatred towards the TVA. You have a temper and he doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut.

You’re mysterious in an almost enchanting way and possibly significant as you seemed to be at first glance. Sylvie is highly curious about you.

You don’t stray too far from the group, only to find rest by the edge of a pit made by a crashing meteor. You sit with your back turned against the very two beings you distrust as you watch the border where the bustling city of Shuroo is based. Your guard is down and you don’t care at this point. Everyone is about to die anyway.

Sylvie’s gaze finds Loki who seems to be only watching the back of your still figure, eyes glinting with an emotion unknown to her. Possibly regret? Sylvie doesn’t know what regret looks like. But fear and anger, she feels it radiating from you. She knows it. Something tells her you’re not solely angry at her and Loki.

She finds herself drifting closer to you. You don’t move. She cautiously settles beside you. “You’re not hiding a knife somewhere, aren’t you?”

You merely scoff, caressing your head, “You’re the one to say.”

Sylvie blinks. Fair enough.

Silence. Sylvie’s eyes shift to the handkerchief tied around your arm, stained with blood. “How’s the arm?”

You hum. “Surprisingly, fine.”

Oh, Sylvie knows it’s fine. She knows what Loki did. She decides not to mention the scratch she made across your cheek.

“Did the slap make you feel better?”

The question is hinted at near sarcasm, but genuinely, she wants to know.

“Yes, it did. You should try it sometime.”

She simply hums. “I would have but you beat me to it.”

A turn of your lips as they curve into a small smile. Sylvie watches with an odd sense of satisfaction. “You know, I’m still mad at you. For what you did to me.” Your words are slow. You find yourself swallowing. “But it’s nothing compared to what the TVA did to you.”

Empathy. Is this what empathy feels like? The moment when someone finally understands what it’s like to be alone for so long. Your lives are different but they reflect in certain ways. You have had your fair share of living in constant fear and constantly running. Sylvie finds herself wanting to tell you that she hadn’t simply pushed you into Sakaar. When it’s a mission, things are never accidental. She always has a plan.

Yet, she chooses not to say anything.

You speak again but merely whisper, fidgeting with your fingers, “Before Sakaar—did you enchant me?”

It's as if you're reading her mind.

“Are you seeing things?”

After a pause, the fidgeting stops.

“I’ve seen things all my life, images. Brief and insignificant. But ever since I was in Sakaar, it’s gotten a lot harder to differentiate a dream and a memory.”

“That’s because they aren’t dreams.”

Your hardened gaze finds hers for a brief moment, nearly growing wide at her words but in an instant, your guard is up once you hear the shuffling of feet behind you where Loki lingers. The subject is dropped immediately. He meets Sylvie’s gaze, the two share a knowing look.

Your anger is provoked and well deserved and yet, the last thing he wants is to be your enemy. Loki doesn’t know why. He has lived a life full of them.

You’re different.

He stills, wondering if you’re going to lash out at him again but when he notices your slow breaths, he decides to sit next to you anyway, awkward glances to you in his periphery. A deep sigh escapes his lips, fiddling with his fingers. “What now?”

Sylvie is the one to answer. “I don’t know. You broke the TemPad.”

“Well—”

“And that planet is about to crash into us.”

Loki looks up at the nearing planet of Lamentis. He blinks. “Well, yes, but—”

“Yes, but what?”

“Well, the entire moon is destroyed, right?”

Sylvie is trying to suppress your growing annoyance. “Yep. And everyone on it is killed.”

But Loki pesters on. “Including us.”

She raises her voice. “Yes, including us.” Loki glances at you momentarily. A pause. He furrows his brows in thought.

“What about the ark?”

“The ark never leaves because it's destroyed.”

Suddenly, an epiphany, his eyes light up. He turns to you and Sylvie, “Never had us on it.”

You suddenly scoff at his words. “Are you suggesting we hijack the ark and make sure it gets off this moon?” You turn to him to only spot a vague smile playing upon his lips. He nods in return. “Sounds like a good idea to me, Agent.”

You merely blink, watching the way his eyes shift across your face. First, you’re struck with uncertainty. It’s a risk, a huge one but you know, risks are meant to be uncertain. Risks are also vital in success. Hesitation, doubt—they make you weak. This time, you want to be strong. Strong enough for one last push to save your life.

“Okay.” is what you say, your expression reflecting his.

For the first time, since he took your hand in Sakaar, you’re starting to trust him.

—

The walk to Shuroo seemed endless. You trail behind the two, feeling like you’re about to suffocate.

“—To preserve the connection, I have to create a fantasy from their memories.”

Loki and Sylvie had been conversing about the science and functions of enchantment in a rather surprisingly calm manner. Loki hums, amused by her elucidation. “And you call me a magician.”

Her expression is unchanged as she continues to trudge alongside Loki, ignoring his previous statement. “That young soldier from the TVA, her mind was messed up. Everything clouded. I had to pull a memory from hundreds of years prior...before she even fought for them.”

Loki halts abruptly in his step, hand flying to grab Sylvie’s arm. “What? What'd you say? Before she joined the TVA?”

Sylvie blinks. “Yeah. She was just a regular person on Earth.”

His mind starts to reel, face muddled with confusion. “I was told that everyone who works for the TVA was created by the Time-Keepers.”

“That's ridiculous. They're all variants, just like us. Including her.” Sylvie gestures discreetly to you who has stopped to take a breather, hands on your hips as you blink up to the sky.

You, Mobius, all of them. All variants.

“They don't know that. She doesn’t know that.” he breathes a terrified expression.

Sylvie looks at you from afar. You’re now looking at them with a bewildered expression. “What?” you call out, voice echoing through the wide area, in a somewhat defensive tone.

She turns to Loki once more, voice nearly faltering. “I have a feeling she already knows it.”

—

Loki doesn’t realize the unfamiliarity of hopelessness. Throughout his life, he was constantly surrounded by those with unfaltering determination—His brother, family, friends who were warriors, The Avengers.

Never was it known that he would see it burning in your eyes as they reflect the growing fire of the Ark, crumbling down, tongues of fire engulfing it whole before you. His heart burns with it as Shuroo falls quiet—only the sounds of the metallic crashing of the disintegrating parts of the ship falling from above and the screams of the rich and deemed worthy to live. Every Lamentian still alive held their breath, a moment's silence for their lives must end. Everything must end.

So close yet so far.

Sylvie is gone by the minute as the city starts to descend in terror and panic. He stands behind your still form, just watching your only chance of making it out, swallowed by its own billowing smoke. He reaches out for you, tugging you by the sleeve. “We should leave,” he says with a sudden sense to protect you. There isn’t much to do at this point. It doesn't matter if you are hit by the falling pieces of the Ark because you are all going to die anyway.

But he considers it a gesture, as insignificant and small it is. The least he could do is to distract you from the end, whether for a mere second or minutes.

“I know things haven’t been the best between us and I concede I bring out the worst in you, but I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

You turn to Loki with his sudden words. He watches the way your expression softens so gracefully, face adorned with gashes and wounds. Your mouth twitches as you respond with a gentle voice. “I forgive you.”

Three words. Very powerful words.

His heart skips a beat.

You find Sylvie at the brink of the city, sitting on a stretched slab of rock amongst the dirt, watching the horizon where the planet starts to meet the moon. Loki still has his hand around your arm, but you don’t complain. It’s your only source of support at the moment. It’s an unconscious move, but everything about it feels right when the two of you settle beside her, shoulders brushing against each other. It only makes sense to want to feel the nearness, the closeness of another as the light at the end of the tunnel begins to dim.

It’s impending. It’s scary.

“I remember Asgard.”

Sylvie’s voice trembles, her eyes are somber.

“Not much, but I remember. My home, my people, my life. Then, the TVA showed up, erased my reality, and took me, prisoner. I was just a child.”

You turn to her, guilt bubbling in your chest, but you don’t say anything. You let her speak. It’s only right.

“I escaped.” she breathes, blinking the brimming tears in her eyes away. ”Stole a TemPad and I ran for a long, long time, which really sucked. Everywhere and every-when I went, it caused a Nexus event.”

Sylvie turns to you with a melancholic gaze. “The universe wants to break free, so it manifests chaos. Like me being born the Goddess of Mischief. But to you and the TVA, I’m not supposed to exist.”

For so long, you hadn’t realized the consequences of your work at the TVA. You believed you were right. That erasing, resetting realities were meant to be. You cannot comprehend how it only occurred to you to question the authority of the Time-Keepers over time itself after Sakaar. All those years of being ignorant and selfish. You hadn’t realized. You never did.

But now you know.

Sylvie continues, gaze shifting away from you. “I figured out where to hide. And so that's where I grew up, the ends of a thousand worlds. Now...that's where I'll die.”

Then, silence. It sits heavily between the three of you.

“The universe—isn’t she beautiful?” Your voice is soft, eyes trained on the horizon—a fleet of asteroids, they reflect the end. But they seem to dance to the silence of the apocalypse, drifting across the stratosphere, lining the firmament. Loki’s gaze shifts to you, training on every curve of your face and the tears slipping down your cheeks. He agrees, the universe is beautiful.

You’re beautiful.

“She brings turmoil, agony, and destruction but in all her flaws, there’s beauty in her very existence.”

Your hands find Sylvie and Loki’s hands, holding on to them tightly as you fight the wavering of your voice.

“You...Both of you might be the epitome of chaos but you must know that you have such beautiful souls. All of us, we're her children...and if she is beautiful, so are we. And the Universe is always right. If she created you then we are wrong.”

Sylvie’s face is soft. Loki squeezes your hand.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. I should have known from the start...that the TVA was lying to all of us. I should have questioned. I should have doubted—”

“It’s okay. It’s not your fault,” she says, smiling with saddened eyes.

You laugh. You don’t know why, but you do. Maybe, it’s because you know you are a part of the problem anyway, even if you were just doing your job.

You find Loki’s gaze that’s already on you. You sigh and speak through a whisper. “I’m sorry for slapping you.”

His lips curve into a grin, eyes crinkling like your own. “It was well deserved, but I forgive you.”

Fingers entangled with the hands of two unlikely people, you finally realize what it truly feels like to not be alone. To be in the company of someone you want to be with.

“Now long now.” Those three words leave the very lips of Sylvie and your chest feels like it’s about to collapse.

You never knew you were afraid of death, yet here you are—terrified.

The ground shakes beneath you. It’s dark and there’s fire everywhere. A meteor collides to the ground just across the way, it sends smoke billowing to its surroundings faster than you can blink.

Even in the last seconds of your life, you have doubts remaining. What if the universe isn’t always right?

Then, through the growing dust, you see a spark, like lightning. A glint of a figure, standing before you. White, pure, and serene. You’re standing now, staring ahead. Sylvie and Loki cease to exist in your mind as they gaze at you with bewilderment. They anxiously call you by your name but you don’t hear it. There’s only silence now, you don’t hear anything but the ringing in your ears.

A voice, she speaks with dignity. A voice so familiar.

“Doubt makes the strong weak, my child.”

Then, you hear it. A soft hum—a Time Door glows warmth amid your impending death.

Suddenly, she’s gone.

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