#head in my hands. anguished. bereft

[ssecond-hand-faith]

Hey, can we talk?

[muddyorbsblr]

a heart like yours part 5: a practice in futility

Masterlist

Summary: Loki attempts to wake you from your curse

Pairing: Loki x Reader; Steve Rogers x Reader

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings: angst; gets your tissues ready [let me know if i missed anything!]

When Loki walked into your room, the unquiet so evident in your features, a fresh wave of tears overcame him. He walked over to your bedside and sank to his knees as he took hold of your hand. "Y/N," he breathed. 

"If things would go my way this would not be how you learned of my affections toward you. Perhaps you might have gone your entire life never knowing of them at all. Perhaps the only place I would have ever told you were my dreams, as I have many times in the years past. But these are not ideal circumstances, and my way feels insignificant compared to your current state." 

He pressed a gentle kiss to your knuckles as he went on. "You were my light. A supernova in my shrouded and lonely centuries of simply existing. You catapulted into my world with terrifying precision and somehow wrapped yourself around my heart and there you remained. You so quickly became my life's mission, keeping you alive, keeping you from harm. Because knowing that you were safe was what kept me breathing. You, my darling mortal, are what makes me want to keep living."

He took a breath to compose himself. This was it. He would say the words that he'd kept to himself for so long. If he listened to the voices in his head he could even almost hear Stark telling him to 'go big or go home'. 

"So you see, Y/N? You cannot leave. You mustn't die. For if you do, my world would cease to be filled with your light and I would once more be thrust into darkness. This world, this existence would make no sense if you were not in it, and I refuse to live in a universe bereft of you a day sooner than I absolutely must. It's strange how I am able to find so many words when truly it all sums up to this: I love you. Please don't leave me." 

He felt as if the weight on his heart didn't just refuse to lift, but rather it got heavier. He'd thought that getting the words out would finally ease his ache, but having the words fall on deaf ears pained him worse than he initially thought. Still, he kept going. "I will say it in every language if I must but it all remains the same. Jeg elsker deg. Te amo. Je t’aime. Mahal kita. I love you. And if I must live this life without you, it is not a life, it is merely an existence."

With one more kiss to the back of your hand, he stood up, pressing his lips to the top of your head. "I have to try, my love. You can hate me all you wish if you were to wake but at least you would be alive. I'm sorry it couldn't be who you wanted. That it couldn't be the man you're with because he simply was incapable of loving you the way you deserved. That it couldn't be the man you loved because he's a fool who thinks you unworthy. But I cannot let you leave this world without knowing you are loved. So much. By no one more than I."

He pressed a final kiss to your lips, offering up a silent prayer that you wake up. "Wake up, darling, I beg of you." 

But you remained still. 

The tears fell from his eyes and landed on your cheeks as he touched his forehead to yours, allowing the anguish to wash over him. He remained like this for a few moments before rising and taking a steadying breath. "Goodbye, Y/N. My light. My love. My heart."

He walked out of your room, feeling the world around him collapse as he tried to fathom what this world would be like now that you were truly gone. It would still turn, and lives would continue as it was before you were born, and long after you'd gone. But his world? 

His world was ash. His world was insignificant now. 

Had he not been so consumed by his grief as he walked away, perhaps he would've heard the machines monitoring you begin to change their ominous rhythm. Perhaps be could have even heard your first gasp of breath.

It felt endless, this void you'd found yourself in. You felt as if you were surrounded with the voices of those who loved you but there was no possible way for you to make your way to them. Everything was just darkness, and you couldn't tell if the steps you were making were leading you anywhere or if you'd gone in a circle, or if you'd gone anywhere at all. 

Like a hamster wheel for lost souls. 

"Goddammit, now would be a really good time for one of you guys to admit you've been secretly in love with me," you said into the void, knowing no one could hear you, let alone your team. 

Would this be how it ended? Dark and empty and so deafeningly silent? Was this how you were to spend your final moments? Letting the curse run its course before you were escorted to whatever comes after? 

Was there even an after to this? Or was this it? 

Well, no use walking around in here might as well sit my ass down, you thought to yourself, thinking as you did about the people who were no doubt trying their damnedest to wake you. 

You knew in your heart that Steve would try, but ultimately fail. It was always painfully obvious to you that given a chance to be with her again, given the choice between you and Peggy Carter, he would choose her. Every time. It was the unspoken truth of your relationship. 

And much as you loved him, you also knew that had the roles been reversed, had it been him who was cursed, you wouldn't be able to wake him, either. Because you didn't love him with your whole heart, so fair's fair. 

You thought about your friends, about Natasha and Wanda, and how they would be the most likely to comb through your belongings for a clue – any clue, really – on who could have it in him to actually bring you back from near death. How they would probably even resort to telling Loki to try waking you, but ultimately that would prove unsuccessful too. 

Of course he couldn't wake you. He couldn't love you. He was perfect; you weren't.

That train of thought made your heart ache even more. Funny, you thought that with a curse that would put your heart to sleep, it meant that you wouldn't be feeling that dull ache in your heart anymore when you thought about him but here it was. Loki. You would never see him again, never get to hear his voice, or feel warmth wash over you as you realize that he was a few feet behind you when you were on a mission, and he'd just saved your life again from someone 3 seconds away from blindsiding you. 

You figured while you were in here, in the silent and dark secrecy of whatever this plane of existence was, it was safe to admit it. You loved the god. You were so desperately, painfully, pitifully in love with him that you were convinced that had he been the one blindsided and cursed, you could wake him. Sure, he'd loathe you afterward for even daring to kiss him, but he would be alive. You were that confident in your affection for him.

And much as it felt wrong to admit to this, you'd miss him the most. Not your friends and your chaotic girls nights out, not the sarcastic back and forth banter you had with Tony or Strange, not the endearing politeness of Peter with his constant "Miss Y/N" or "Mister Captain" whenever he addressed anyone on the team. Not even Baby Morgan with all her princess stories and always wanting to be close to you when she would watch her Disney movies begging you to sing the songs along with the movie.

No. Above all of that, you would miss Loki. Were you a fool? Possibly.

And then just as you were about to allow yourself to wallow in the knowledge that the last thing you would see would be the vast and never-ending darkness of this void, you saw a light. As if a door had opened, telling you, "Here's your exit. Walk through when you're ready." 

You didn't walk. You fucking sprinted.

A/N: I'm not gonna torture y'all with the answer. She woke up. Chapter 6 starts with her waking up. And also: I'm nearly done writing it

Taglist:

Everything: @lokisgoodgirl @lokischambermaid @imalovernotahater @redbluekjw @lucylaufeyson3 @thomase1 @springdandelixn @fictive-sl0th @mochie85 @laliceee @xorpsbane @gigglingtigger @silverfire475 @cabingrlandrandomcrap @vickie5446 @salempoe @lokixryss @sinsandguilt @lokidbadguy @alexakeyloveloki @glitterylokislut @arch-venus25 @freefrommars @littlemortals @cakesandtom @girl-of-multi-fandoms @mischief2sarawr @thedistractedagglomeration @five-miles-over @goblingirlsarah @peaches1958 @lilibet261 @iobsessoverfictionalmen @holymultiplefandomsbatman

a heart like yours: @huntress-artemiss @hotleaf-juice @clockblobber @sititran @taro-gabi @wolfsmom1 @rmoonstoner @ladymischief11 @anonymousewrites @unlucky-number-13

[hrefna-the-raven]

Soul love

Masterlist - DD2 masterlist

Summary: a few drabbles that will be loosely connected to each other about the pawn falling in love with his Arisen

Notes: gender neutral version right after the original chapter :)

Warnings: this turned a bit dark due to the theme of that scene in the game, despite changing the scene a bit there might be possible SPOILERS if you haven't done the coronation quest yet

Part 1 - Part 2

Part 3

The event unfolded with such alarming speed that by the time your senses registered the clamour and you swivelled around, he was already on his knees. He was grimacing in pain, his fingers gripping the sides of his head so fiercely that blood began to seep from the self-inflicted wounds.

"M-m-master! Pray leave this place! My body, it refuses to obey", he managed to utter between gasps of agony, "there is a voice with my mind...it commands me - sways my very will!"

You rushed towards your pawn, nearly crashing down on the ground as you missed the last step. You kneeled next to him, frantically attempting to pry his hands from his head to stop him from inflicting further harm upon himself.

"How can I help you?", you shouted, the desperation of this new found helplessness almost breaking you. The warm droplets of blood stained your hand as they tightly held his, pulling them away from his head with all your strength. The moment you touched him you sensed a dark magic, akin to a hex propelling your mind into the abyss of deathly shadows, an almost irresistible yet alluring pull towards something dwelling within the palace. You reckoned that this must be the same force tormenting your pawn although its influence seemed to manifest differently in you.

"Master", his voice now was barely a whisper, pained and exhausted, "I don't want to loose myself, don't want to listen to the voice, I want, I want..."

Frightened eyes found yours, staring with such intensity that it became increasingly challenging to convince yourself that the being before you was bereft of his own spirit. Your trembling hands let go of his and clutched unto his tunic, tears now streaming down your face while anguish overwhelmed your thoughts. "Please, please, please", was all you could manage to choke out through sobs, your voice fractured by your grief.

You yearned to voice your desperate need for him - not merely as an Arisen would require her pawn, but as someone who needed him for his very existence and yet, this plea remained unspoken, held captive by your lips. Instead you were forced to watch helplessly as an invisible spell stole away the one person who mattered more than anything else in your world. The growing cracks in his heart threatened to shatter it into countless pieces upon witnessing your despair.

To him, you were more than the Arisen and even when the sinister voice would inevitably seize command of his form and compel him to inflict pain upon you, he'd still be certain that it could never truly destroy the growing love he harboured for you, guarded away safely within the depths of his heart. A sudden thought crossed his mind, a last wish of his own before he'd loose himself within the coming darkness - if he were to become a slave to the voice he'd steal one true kiss from you. With the last shred of defiance remaining within him, he took control over his body one last time, teeth grinding and with a deep growl resonating from his chest, he lunged at you. His arms wrapped tightly around your body and he mustered one final smile as his lips crashed on yours. One kiss before the death of all that was him, all the passion he did not comprehend pouring into this final act that was truly his. After the initial surprise, you kissed back, realising that this would be the last moment you had with him. None of you had foreseen that this would be what would break the spell, it was merely a final desperate act of an unspoken love, unsuspectedly powerful enough to chase the darkness away. The mark on his palm began to shine brightly in tandem with the one on your chest and the curse tormenting you, your body feeling weightless as though you were floating in an ethereal lake while the commanding voice in his head fell silent, bereft of all power, leaving only the faint tingle of a lover's embrace before all around him succumbed to darkness, his consciousness slipping into a foreign void.

His now lifeless body crumpled onto the pavement and time seemed to crawl at a torturous pace around you. Brant appeared in the corner of your eye, rushing towards your unresponsive pawn sprawled before you and hoisted him onto his shoulder. The guard captain’s head turned towards you, his lips moving but no sound rang to your ears. You felt his fingers wrapping around your wrist, lifting you back on your feet and guiding you forward. Mindlessly your body followed, not stopping until the three of you finally reached your house in the lower city. "Your Majesty, I have to attend the coronation to not raise any suspicions", Brant cradled your face to gain your attention, "I will be back by the morrow. Will you be alright?"

You simply nodded and your eyes following Brant as he reluctantly departed, leaving you in the silent, shadowy confines of your home with your unconscious pawn lying on the bed. The glow on his scar was faint but still present, the soothing warmth emanating from it intertwined with yours. Your hand instinctively moved to your chest, taking in a deep breath and all the sorrow and despair of earlier dissipated. Nothing in this world held any importance to you any more, nothing but the bond shared between you two, delicate threads of one soul woven into the love of two. You settled next to him, tenderly holding his hand and resting it on your chest, scar against scar.

"We'll manage, whatever comes. We always do, don't we?", you whispered, a faint glimmer of hope that he might actually hear your words of comfort.

The pathfinder's ghostly presence by your bedside was barely a blip in your weary consciousness, gently smiling down on the two of you as you succumbed to the deep slumber, worn out from the harrowing event that unfolded before the entrance of the palace.

GN version

The event unfolded with such alarming speed that by the time your senses registered the clamour and you swivelled around, they were already on their knees. They were grimacing in pain, their fingers gripping the sides of their head so fiercely that blood began to seep from the self-inflicted wounds.

"M-m-master! Pray leave this place! My body, it refuses to obey", they managed to utter between gasps of agony, "there is a voice with my mind...it commands me - sways my very will!"

You rushed towards your pawn, nearly crashing down on the ground as you missed the last step. You kneeled next to them, frantically attempting to pry their hands from their head to stop them from inflicting further harm upon themselves.

"How can I help you?", you shouted, the desperation of this new found helplessness almost breaking you. The warm droplets of blood stained your hand as they tightly held theirs, pulling them away from their head with all your strength. The moment you touched them you sensed a dark magic, akin to a hex propelling your mind into the abyss of deathly shadows, an almost irresistible yet alluring pull towards something dwelling within the palace. You reckoned that this must be the same force tormenting your pawn although its influence seemed to manifest differently in you.

"Master", their voice now was barely a whisper, pained and exhausted, "I don't want to loose myself, don't want to listen to the voice, I want, I want..."

Frightened eyes found yours, staring with such intensity that it became increasingly challenging to convince yourself that the being before you was bereft of his own spirit. Your trembling hands let go of theirs and clutched unto their tunic, tears now streaming down your face while anguish overwhelmed your thoughts. "Please, please, please", was all you could manage to choke out through sobs, your voice fractured by your grief.

You yearned to voice your desperate need for them - not merely as an Arisen would require their pawn, but as someone who needed them for their very existence and yet, this plea remained unspoken, held captive by your lips. Instead you were forced to watch helplessly as an invisible spell stole away the one person who mattered more than anything else in your world.

The growing cracks in their heart threatened to shatter it into countless pieces upon witnessing your despair. To them, you were more than the Arisen and even when the sinister voice would inevitably seize command of their form and compel them to inflict pain upon you, they'd still be certain that it could never truly destroy the growing love they harboured for you, guarded away safely within the depths of their heart. A sudden thought crossed their mind, a last wish of their own before they'd loose themselves within the coming darkness - if they were to become a slave to the voice they'd steal one true kiss from you. With the last shred of defiance remaining within them, they took control over their body one last time, teeth grinding and with a deep growl resonating from their chest, they lunged at you. Their arms wrapped tightly around your body and they mustered one final smile as their lips crashed on yours. One kiss before the death of all that was them, all the passion they did not comprehend pouring into this final act that was truly theirs. After the initial surprise, you kissed back, realising that this would be the last moment you had with them. None of you had foreseen that this would be what would break the spell, it was merely a final desperate act of an unspoken love, unsuspectedly powerful enough to chase the darkness away. The mark on their palm began to shine brightly in tandem with the one on your chest and the curse tormenting you, your body feeling weightless as though you were floating in an ethereal lake while the commanding voice in their head fell silent, bereft of all power, leaving only the faint tingle of a lover's embrace before all around them succumbed to darkness, their consciousness slipping into a foreign void.

Their now lifeless body crumpled onto the pavement and time seemed to crawl at a torturous pace around you. Brant appeared in the corner of your eye, rushing towards your unresponsive pawn sprawled before you and hoisted them onto his shoulder. The guard captain’s head turned towards you, his lips moving but no sound rang to your ears. You felt his fingers wrapping around your wrist, lifting you back on your feet and guiding you forward. Mindlessly your body followed, not stopping until the three of you finally reached your house in the lower city. "Your Majesty, I have to attend the coronation to not raise any suspicions", Brant cradled your face to gain your attention, "I will be back by the morrow. Will you be alright?"

You simply nodded and your eyes following Brant as he reluctantly departed, leaving you in the silent, shadowy confines of your home with your unconscious pawn lying on the bed. The glow on their scar was faint but still present, the soothing warmth emanating from it intertwined with yours. Your hand instinctively moved to your chest, taking in a deep breath and all the sorrow and despair of earlier dissipated. Nothing in this world held any importance to you any more, nothing but the bond shared between you two, delicate threads of one soul woven into the love of two. You settled next to them, tenderly holding their hand and resting it on your chest, scar against scar.

"We'll manage, whatever comes. We always do, don't we?", you whispered, a faint glimmer of hope that they might actually hear your words of comfort.

The pathfinder's ghostly presence by your bedside was barely a blip in your weary consciousness, gently smiling down on the two of you as you succumbed to the deep slumber, worn out from the harrowing event that unfolded before the entrance of the palace.

Part 4 (18+)

[bakuliwrites]

Hurt

Fandom: The Arcana

Characters: Lucio Morgasson, Nadia Satrinava

TW: Angst, Blood, Self-harm, Mentions of Death, Red Plague, Depression

A/N: I felt inspired by the song "Hurt" (I like the Johnny Cash version a lot, the original is by Trent Reznor from Nine Inch Nails, both are excellent versions).

I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel.

Lucio’s hand weeps red, shattered crystal embedded in his fresh wound. Even in his frailty, he has retained some amount of strength. Though maybe it’s just enough to shatter a wine glass in a temper-tantrum. Blood trickles down his wrist, drips to the silken sheets beneath, invisible droplets on his bed’s crimson hue. The stains are hardly noticeable on a mattress marred already with the consequences of his vanity. Those damned beetles had made such lovely dye. It makes sense they’d be the things to betray him. 

Lucio picks at the shards of glass still stuck in his skin. The pain, if he’s even feeling any, dulls in comparison to the anguish he feels when he looks in the mirror. He’s had them all removed from his room, so he doesn’t have to stare at the haggard, pathetic creature that gazes back at him. He doesn’t recognize that feeble figure, hunched and stiff, baggy clothes hanging off their thin frame. All vivacity leached from the stranger that leers back at him. 

I focus on the pain, the only thing that’s real.

Lucio squeezes his hand shut, watching as the blood seeps through his fingers. He relishes that tiny amount of pain. The feeling of living. Of hurting. It’s better than feeling like he’s dying, withering, wasting away. His lungs are heavy with liquid and his limbs floppy with fatigue. How is it that the great Count Lucio has been reduced to a sad, skeletal mess? Disease-ridden and decrepit?

“Your highness, should I call for Doctor Devorak?” an attendant questions as they poke their head into his bedroom. Lucio grabs the other wine glass on his bedside table and chucks it towards them. They narrowly dodge it, the glass bursting as it hits the door. Lucio is left in silence once again. Wicked, angry thoughts pummel his skull, threaten to burst through and set the room ablaze. He doesn’t want to die, but maybe it would be better than the sorry existence he’s been cursed with.

I wear this crown of thorns, Upon my liar’s chair.

He leans back. Once, the great Lucio had sat upon thrones of gold. His adoring subjects had showered him with praise and adoration. Now, he’s forced to prop himself up on sweat-stained pillows. Once, he clothed himself in furs and jewels. Now, he wears a thin, cotton nightgown that’s much too large for his withered frame. Once, Lucio had been loved. Now, he is forgotten.

He wonders if there’s anything he could have done differently in his life. Surely, this is all the doing of someone else? It’s someone else that infected him with this stupid illness. It’s his mother’s fault that he had to go to such extremes to gain the power he so rightfully deserves. If only she’d just given him his title on his eighteenth birthday, like she was supposed to. If only she’d just died, like she was supposed to. Papa did it well enough. Why couldn’t she?

Full of broken thoughts, I cannot repair.

Lucio is alone. He is hated and for what reason? Isn’t he a generous Count? A beloved, illustrious Count? He can see when Nadia, Asra, and Julian roll their eyes at him. He can hear their exasperated sighs and mocking snickers. They delight in his affliction. There’s a sparkle in their eyes, as they wait for him to shrivel up and disappear. Doesn’t anyone love him?

A soft knock on the door. Lucio ignores it, incensed and bereft. He casts a withering gaze at Nadia as she enters gracefully, her brows furrowed and forehead crinkled with concern.

“An attendant told me you were bleeding. I can send for Doctor Devorak,” she offers, her tone soft and warm. It fills Lucio unwillingly with relief. A flood of affection. Maybe someone does care about him after all. 

“Don’t bother,” he croaks, hardly recognizing his scratchy, quiet voice. Is it even his voice? Or some tragic old man’s? 

Nadia glides over to him, lips set in a frown as she sits at Lucio’s bedside and inspects his injury. She pulls bandages from a drawer that was once filled with a secret stash of alcohol and other delightful treats. Now it’s filled with first aid items, because it’s all too often that Nadia or Julian have to come to his rescue now, a thought that fills Lucio with fury and hate. 

What have I become? My sweetest friend. Everyone I know goes away, In the end.

“At least let me wrap it, so you’re not getting blood all over your sheets,” Nadia insists, gently taking Lucio’s hand and bandaging it up. He watches keenly as she slowly wraps the strips of cloth around his hand, securing them tight. His hand in hers looks so thin, so frail. If she wanted, she could probably crush his bones to powder. But she doesn’t. Her touch is gentle. She is always gentle and warm and loving. Even when Lucio is horrible. When he’s monstrous and bratty and ill-tempered. Nadia has remained, ever loyal, ever caring. 

“Thanks,” Lucio whispers. Nadia merely smiles softly, though he can see the surprise glittering in her eyes. He knows it’s not often that he appreciates her, not anymore. In their youth, when they first married, he showered her with affection, with gifts, with love. But as the years have gone on, infatuation gave way to irritation. And, as many impulsive marriages do, things broke down. Now, they sleep in separate wings. Entertain separate people. The ghost of a marriage haunts these palace halls. But even still, Nadia has always been his greatest friend. His most trusted friend. Even if she seems to hate him, she remains at Lucio’s side. While everyone else abandons him. 

And you could have it all, My empire of dirt. 

“How are my citizens?” Lucio tries, his voice raspy and dry. Nadia’s crimson gaze is stinging.

“Abysmal, my husband,” she returns gravely, “Our case numbers are increasing by the hour. The quarantine center is at maximum capacity. There are riots now, calling for a cure, begging us to do something. Dissent is imminent if we do not act fast.”

It’s only now that Lucio notices how weary his wife looks. There are dark circles under her eyes and her face is gaunt. Has she been eating? Sleeping? Her shoulders slump as they never have before. Her motions are sluggish, not elegantly languid as they typically are. This city is running her ragged. Stupid, ungrateful citizens. 

Or maybe it’s your fault, something whispers in his mind. It sends shivers up his spine. A seed of truth, planted in his brain. Has he exhausted her? Has he ruined her? A once proud, vivacious woman brought to devastation.

Parasite, echoes through his thoughts, Leached of your health. But look at what you’ve leached from her. Look at the ruin you’re leaving behind for her. A kingdom of detritus. Of despair and dust. An empire of dirt.

He imagines Nadia, left to puzzle together a city torn apart by chaos when he dies.

If I die, Lucio reminds himself, I’m Lucio Morgasson, mighty and powerful. I’ll pull through. Won’t I?

Guilt eats at his heart. Isn’t he the reason for all this? A returning thought. It keeps coming back. He keeps ruminating over it. He sees it written on Nadia’s face. Can she sense how sorry he is? He doesn’t want to say it. He shouldn’t have to say it. She should just intuitively know. She should know how sorry he feels, for her and for himself.

He reaches his golden hand up. His arm feels heavy on his shoulder. It’s never felt heavy before, but now it feels like a great weight. It takes all his effort to lift it. Gently he brushes aside a strand of her deep purple hair and tucks it behind her ear. She seems taken aback, but after a moment, leans into his caress and closes her eyes.

“Where have the days gone when we sat on the veranda together, in one another’s arms, looking out at the sunset until it gave way to the stars?” Nadia wonders wistfully. 

“We could still do that,” Lucio puts forth, his voice sounding small to his own ears. She smiles ruefully, and he knows why they can’t. Why they can never do that again.

I will let you down, I will make you hurt.

A coughing fit seizes him. Nadia leans away, but keeps her hands steady on his. He sounds disgusting, phlegmy and ailing. He can see the hesitance on Nadia’s face, sense the caution in her tense body. She leans away because he’s revolting, isn’t he? Weak and ineffectual. Not the man she married. Not the powerhouse, the stallion, the Adonis, the Count. He’s a tragic mess, barely held together by the thin skin that stretches over his protruding bones. 

“If you’re going to just sit there and gawk at me, then you can get out,” he snarls at her. He’s mortified. No one should see Lucio Morgasson like this: despairing and fragile. Not even Nadia. She merely frowns at his commentary, but remains. It infuriates him. She should leave. He doesn’t want to be seen like this. He shouldn’t be seen like this. 

“I’ll sit here, if you’d like,” she puts forth, seating herself in the permanent chair by his bedside. It appeared when he fell ill. It’ll stay there until he’s better. Or until he’s gone.

“I don’t want your company or your pity,” Lucio returns, pulling the sheets up and turning away from her. He wants her to hurt. He wants her to feel how hurt he is. When she leans away from him like that. When she thinks of how sad and pathetic he must look.

“Leave,” Lucio hisses, dissolving all tenderness in an instant. Incinerating it. A moment ago, she had loved him. She’d been gentle and tender. And then she leaned away, reminding him of how horrid she thinks he is. Nadia gives a deep sigh. When Lucio turns around again, she’s gone. And he’s alone in his room, staring up at the ceiling, wishing he hadn’t been so hurtful. Because all it’s ever gotten him is a lifetime of pain and loneliness. 

[amethysttribble]

fluff-24, elrond

Thank you so much for the prompt!! You asked for fluff and I delivered hurt/comfort, but at least I think this one is rather good! And it does take the swing for the positive at the end.

Prompt, Fluff 24: “What do you remember?” Elrond

So like, Elros went through the entire life cycle before Elrond was even 501 y/o. That's a baby elf right there! Like, that's so fucked up and sad, oh my god.

Elrond could smell the silt and salt in the air, and hear the gulls and waves sand together. It was not the most melodious sound, but it put him at greater ease than he had felt in a long time. The peacefulness he was feeling in his breast was helped along by where he lay.

On a grand, sunlit balcony, Elrond reclined on a long couch, his head nestled in his brother’s lap. Elros was running a hand through his long hair, humming an old song that Elrond was pretty sure only three people alive knew.

At least… he hoped it was three. Because if it was not- if something had happened, if he had never survived the the end of the war the sinking in the first place, if a different choice was made than was reported- it would soon be only one person that knew Elrond and Elros’ childhood lullaby.

His brother was dying.

This bothered Elrond far more than it seemed to concern Elros. Their talk of such horrible things was why they were settled like this, Elrond having wept like a child and Elros calm and gentle and grown. Almost parental, and Elrond hated that. That his brother had raised four children, but Elrond was still considered a youth, that his own brother babied him.

Had it not been Elrond who comforted Elros when they were torn from Sirion? When the land turned against them and Maglor and Maedhros went to stave off the dark things, leaving them alone? That first night in Gil-Galad’s camp? When news of the silmarils and their holders’ fates came? When they made their choices?

But here Elrond was, bereft of courage, bereft of comfort when he wasn’t even the one dying. He was ashamed, but he let Elros stroke his hair and sing for him, all the same. When would he lose this?

When could he get it back?

Elrond would break Arda Marred tomorrow, if it meant he could be with his brother a little longer. He knew war, he knew turmoil, he could brave Dagor Dagorath. What Elrond did not know how to do was be alone.

He cracked his eyes open, and Elros still did not look to hold the anguish Elrond was feeling. Ah, the be the one leaving rather than the one left behind.

What does that feel like, Elrond wondered bitterly.

Elros was smiling, looking towards the watery horizon, towards Valinor and the warm sun. His face was tanned from it, greater-lined from a Mannish life of over-exposure to Arien’s light. The wrinkles were around his mouth and eyes though, formed from too much smiling, too much laughter.

The sight made more tears rise to Elrond’s eyes. Fast and hard, Elros’ life had been, but his brother didn’t seem to regret a second of it. Elrond could not begrudge him that, though he wished to. It would be easier if he was just angry, instead of angry and scared and glad and proud and sad and confused all at once.

How did it feel to be utterly at peace with one’s life? Elrond didn’t know.

His brother wiped away his tears with rough fingers, callused from ship-tending and city-building and sword-wielding. Then he picked up a stray lock of Elrond’s hair, and began to braid like when they were children. It was a Sindarin type of braid, one of the few things about either of them that could be called ‘Sindarin’.

Their mother had taught them long ago, though Elrond could not recall being taught.

“What do you remember?” he rasped at Elros.

His brother quirked an eyebrow, and for a moment he feared Elros would ask for clarification. But Elros knew. They still knew each other that well, at least.

“I remember it being a lot like this. Sunlight, what could get through the smog of Morgoth, at least. It was always clearer near the sea.”

It had been. When Beleriand was dying, everyone who could flocked to the edges of the world. The Feanorians,as well, had tried to stay along the coast for greater chance of food and clear air. They were often chased off by Falmari boats, though; not welcome anywhere after Sirion.

Maglor had tried to assure Elrond that it was not their little peredhel princes they drove away, but it had felt like it.

“I remember the smell of the ocean. It clung to them, didn’t it? Father because he was always on his boats, and Mother naturally. Something ainur about her, I think. Hareth used to say that I smell like whatever is calling to me at the moment. Warm drinks with cinnamon in them, usually.”

Elrond laughed despite himself, though it came out watery. He couldn’t verify that, his brother smelled like his brother, plus whatever else might be clinging to him. He smelled like the only consistent home Elrond had ever had, and it did not change. Not as far as Elrond was concerned.

“I certainly never noticed, but that would explain why I’m always hungry around you. You I swear you smelled like mussels our entire childhood.”

Elrond had just tacked that up to the lingering effects of dealing with food scarcity. Frankly, he still thought that was the case. He couldn’t remember what his mother smelled like, after all.

“Mussels,” Elros scoffed. “No, no, I think the dead-fish smell was just from washing in dirty rivers. You know, I look back now, and I think they might have been lying to us about those blockages in the river being natural. I think they might have been orc bodies.”

They had been. Elrond and Elros had had that conversation once before, after the war, while they were still in Gil-galad’s care. They’d been drinking Mannish draughts and trying to list all the lies Maedhros and Maglor had told them. Everything, some of Gil-galad’s people insisted, had been a lie.

Elrond and Elros hadn’t really counted that many.

Like he did back then, Elrond said, “That would explain why Maedhros got so upset about us almost drinking the water. He cuffed me for it.”

Unlike back then, though, Elros drew in a quiet breath.

He didn’t say anything more, but Elrond knew. His brother’s memory was fading, becoming patchy and hazy and selective, in some ways. Elrond had noticed that Elros remembered the good things better than the bad. Probably for the best, but it did make Elrond- and his memory that had only become sharper and better with time and Elvendom- feel lonely.

“He could get angry,” Elros muttered, “I know he could but I can’t remember when… why. I-”

This time it was Elrond who reached for his brother’s face. He cupped Elros’s wrinkly cheek and made him look down.

“Mostly he got angry at Maglor,” Elrond said slowly. “Or some of his commanders. He only grew angry with us when we did something dangerous, or intruded.”

Even then, even when Elrond and Elros went pawing through their dead brothers’ things, Maedhros had just walked away. He’d looked angry enough to kill- looked like he did at Sirion, Elrond’s mind always reminded him- but he’d walked away.

The occasional cuff or yank or painful grip had been reserved for danger, even though Elrond now understood that didn’t make it okay. It was a strange dissonance, what he felt then versus what he knew now. And he couldn’t even ask Maedhros to explain himself.

It probably made it easier. Maedhros was a memory now. Maglor haunted Elrond.

“Do you think about them often?” Elrond asked, drawing his brother from wherever he was lost in thought.

Elros hummed and said, “Which ones?”

“Both.”

Elros sat back and Elrond’s hand fell away. His brother grabbed it, though, held his young hand in his old, waving their fingers back and forth absentmindedly. Hand-in-hand, hand-in-hand, their whole lives. If you believe Cirdan, they were born holding hands.

“Yes,” Elros finally said, “Yes. The letters I have exchanged with Mother and Father, they are not enough. They could never be enough. And they say they understand my choice, but they are grieved, and I am grieved that they are grieved. And you. I am sorry to grieve you.”

“We made our choices together,” Elrond insisted, as if he had not just been sobbing in Elros’s lap about how painful and frightening this all was. How much he wished this didn’t have to happen.

“That we did,” Elros soothed him gently, as if Elrond were one of his children. It made him bristle and but quieted his beating heart at the same time. “But there is still grief. You need not grieve alone, you know. They are still waiting for you.”

So Elrond was told every time Elros received a letter. Elrond had yet to send one. I have more time, he’d always cheekily tell him, putting off that meeting- written or otherwise- off indefinitely.

“I will not sail,” Elrond mumbled petulantly.

“Peace, you do not have to. It’s just an option. Hm, they are waiting on you, but you are still waiting on Maglor. You’ll be waiting a long time.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Elrond said, looking up with a sharp glare. Elros just laughed.

“It’s fine, it’s not a judgment. I am waiting on him too. I’ve said goodbye to everyone else, after all.”

Elrond’s breath stuttered. He did not like that, he hated Elros speaking about his coming… coming death so calmly. He did not want to think about that long, lest he start weeping again.

He sat up.

“I’ll go fetch him,” Elrond insisted, still gripping his brother’s hand tight and leaning in close so that he would understand how serious he was. Elros grinned broadly.

“If I was a younger Man, I’d join you. Perhaps I still will. These old joints aren’t worth much, but I can still stroll a beach. Maybe Maglor will take pity on me and make himself known.”

“I’ll wring his neck if he doesn’t,” Elrond said, and he didn’t know what he was doing. Elros was old, and dying, and did not need to go on a journey to hunt down the singing wraith that allegedly haunted the western shores, from the very top to the bottom. But by Eru, Elrond was selfish and he couldn’t give up the chance for just a little more time.

Just a little more time with the family he had left.

“What do you say then,” King Elros decreed, grinning like the mischievous little brother Elrond knew so well. “Fancy one last adventure?”

[the-last-kenobi]

you can thank my bsf for this one

He hadn’t even noticed at first.

That was what burned him, aching inside long after the stages of grief had passed, which in itself was the process of months and years.

He hadn’t noticed.

He couldn’t pinpoint exactly when it had happened — how it had happened.

They had been fighting together.

Out of step, out of sync, the recent debacle on Naboo straining them to the breaking point. He had been worried about his friend, about the things he had been keeping inside, and he was also angry on his own account.

They had moved forward side by side anyway.

Mere meters apart.

They could have reached out and held hands if they had tried.

He was always just on the periphery; blue lightsaber streaking through the air, blue eyes narrowed in concentration, tunics accumulating burns and tears but the man wearing them never faltering.

So close.

But he hadn’t noticed.

Hadn’t felt it.

Had gone on fighting, ignoring the shouted words over the comms, utterly focused on breaching the Separatist lines.

Never seeing the empty place by his side.

Never feeling the absence of that warm light, made distant by time and by the anger between them.

Not until the dust had settled.

He had brushed dirt off his palms and holstered his saber before making the rounds to his men, checking in on Ahsoka on the other side of the continent.

“Master,” she had said, ignoring his questions. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” he had asked, alarmed. “Are you hurt? Did something go wrong?” Picturing crashes and lost men and risky maneuvers and broken lightsabers.

“No,” she had said thickly, bewildered. “I meant... can I see him? Where is he?”

“Where’s who, Ahsoka?”

And she had cried.

Ahsoka never cried.

Not since that one time, mere weeks ago, kneeling in a dark alleyway with a pale figure slumped in her arms—

I’m sorry.

Where is he?

I’m so sorry.

But it couldn’t be. Ahsoka was wrong. She had been wrong last time and she was wrong now.

But when Anakin Skywalker finally turned his attention to the 212th, he saw it.

Saw them gathered around, Cody and two medics kneeling on the ground around a prone figure, Cody’s helmet discarded as he bowed his head so low over the still form that their foreheads nearly touched.

Heard whispers. A few soft, stifled cries.

A farewell chant in Mando’a.

Anakin moved in, and they stood aside slowly, their eyes dark and anguished and deeply mistrustful of him, and how could they not be?

With Obi-Wan dead on the ground, curled slightly in on himself, one arm pressed tightly over a red stain on his abdomen, his face still twisted in pain.

Blue eyes empty and unfocused.

His lightsaber clutched against his chest like a comfort object, his comm still active on his wrist.

When Anakin looked down, he saw his own comm lit up.

Obi-Wan had been trying to reach him.

Was still trying to reach him.

He’d had time, before he died, to call for his brother, to beg for him to come to his side, and Anakin...

He hadn’t been there.

Anakin had done worse than abandon him.

He’d forgotten he was there at all.

Anakin fell to his knees beside his friend and placed his hand in Obi-Wan’s, threading their fingers together like he hadn’t since he was ten and lonely and this man had been his only and truest friend.

Stripped of his home, his mother, his understanding of the world, and even the man who had saved him from slavery and offered him a home.

At nine, at ten, Anakin had thought his loneliness would never leave even as he stood in the shelter of a blue-eyed young man who had held his hand so very gently.

In this moment, Anakin felt lonelier and more bereft than that ten-year-old could ever understand.

[solinarimoon]

Moonlight

This is my first entry for @emilyhufflepufftlk​ 100 follower challenge.  Congratulations Em!  You’re writing is simply wonderful and you deserve all the praise!  My prompt will be in bold below.   This was a different character for me so please let me know what you think!

A/N: Valhalla was not the only place that Danes and Vikings could be brought to in glorious death. Odin chose warriors but Freya did as well. Her chosen men/women can with her to another hall. I took a bit of liberty with the idea but google some more info about it if you are interested.

Warnings: canon character death.

Word Count: 752

The fire from the pyre was still alight casting flickering shadows over Uhtred’s face as he sat.  His eyes staring but unseeing. 

Tear tracks still sullied his anguished face.

Finan’s eyes had finally closed in slumber some time before, his back resting against a tree, head lolled to one side.  

Hild had said her goodbyes, knowing Uhtred would need time alone. Time to grieve.

The smoke from the smoldering fire rose and drifted on the wind.  It carried with it all of the anguish of a broken heart.

Uhtred dropped his head, rubbing the heels of his hands against his eyes and taking a ragged breath.  He could feel fresh sobs breaking their way through his body.

Suddenly, a noise of snapping twigs and rustling leaves seized his attention.

Rising to his feet, Uhtred drew Wasp’s Sting from her scabbard, eyes searching and scanning the surrounding forest. 

Something stirred, moved away into the darkness through the trees to Uhtred’s left.

Slowly, taking careful footsteps, Uhtred followed the shadow as it moved along the moss carpeted floor of the wood.

After some minutes, his path brought him to the edge of a small glade.

The moon shone softly onto the night.

Just as softly, like mist floating through the branches, a figure emerged across the clearing.

Draped in a billowing cloak, as blue as the pale light of the moon, she walked.  Her bare feet made no sound as they moved forward on the soft forest ground.  

The figure crossed the clearing to stand before her husband, her pale hand rising to caress the line of his jaw.

Uhtred’s eyes filled with tears at the feel of her hand upon his cheek. He stood frozen for a moment, a man bereft and broken.

And then Gisela smiled.

Silently weeping, Uhtred crashed against her, his tears dampening her hair as he buried his face against her neck and wrapped his arms around her.

Gisela rocked him and sheltered him in his sorrow.

“I cannot be without you, wife.  The moon has set on my life and the dark is a suffocating weight.”

Uhtred’s words came out ragged and broken.  

“Your destiny is not complete yet, my love.”

Gisela pulled herself back to look at her husband's face.

She took his face in her hands as he brought his forehead to meet hers.

“You have more to your story.  And your men need you.  Our children need you. The world is still in need of Uhtred of Bebbanburg.”

Uhtred pulled back to meet his wife’s eyes and memorize the lines and curves of her face.

“When you leave here, where will you be?  Where must I go to be with you?”

Gisela brought her hand to gently ease the creases in her love’s forehead as she spoke.

“The Valkyries have brought me to Freya.  She has taken me to Folkvangr to dwell in Sessrumnir.  You are destined for Valhalla, my love.  And when you meet Odin in his hall, we will meet eternally on the fields between.  There will be feasting, fighting, love-making, and laughter.  And we will be together, my love.”

“But I do not wish to stay in this life without you at my side.”

“I know, Uhtred.  But my love, take your time.  I’ll see you on the other side.  When your time is right, when it comes to you I will be there waiting.”

Uhtred caressed the face of his wife, running his hands down to grip her shoulders then wrap her in his embrace.  He held so tight to her, knowing what was to come next.

“I love you, Gisela.” Simple and honest.

“And I you, Uhtred. Even in death, I love you.”

Gisela kissed his forehead and slowly removed herself from his arms.  Turning, she walked away towards the far side of the clearing.  But before she disappeared, back into the shadows and mist, her face peered over her shoulder, back towards the moon of her life.

“Take your time, Uhtred.  I will see you on the other side.”

And then she was gone. Fog rising on the wind.  Moon light caressing the night in her slumber.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the morning, Uhtred woke, slumped against the tree with Finan.  He raised his eyes to the sky, peering at the light of day.  A sliver of moon was still visible in the early hour.  It was his Gisela.  The moon of his life, reminding him that he was not alone.  And that she was waiting.  He would take his time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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[allyvampirelass29]

A Different Kind of Fix

Patrick’s Apparition Part 4

A Patrick Melrose Fanfiction  By: Allyssa J. Watkins

Patrick hastily fumbled through his dresser, cursing himself for having lost it. If ever there was a night for bad judgement, and illegal substances, this was it....... He felt his fingers shake, the full-bodied chill creep its way down his spine, that dread, that desperate anxiety, of a man possessed. Frustrated, he knocked everything off the top of his dresser, in one violent sweep of his arm, including a painted vase full of white gardenias, and it shattered, flowers scattering everywhere, with blue and yellow bits of broken glass, cast across a pool of fresh water. Good. He'd always HATED that dreadful vase. Heirloom or not, whatever distant relative to whom the hideous art deco thing belonged, should have had the good sense to be buried with it. He felt the trembling in his shoulders as he hunched them, staring down at his shaking hands. Ahhh yes, withdrawal, my old friend. How fiercely you, and sweet, sweet addiction quarrel to claim my soul........ He chuckled to himself at his own cleverness, feeling out of his head, as he knelt down to touch the pool of water, and its coolness soothed his feverish fingers. How odd, to at first merely desire the peaceful oblivion that only drugs could bring, and then need it, anguished, where it feels like death should you be thus bereft. Luxury becomes necessity. Much like with a woman.......

Shut up. Don't think about her. Patrick bit the corner of his lip, imagining the curve of Ally's shoulder, a flash of curved leg, her long pale neck....... She's not real! His mind scolded, and he bristled, as if struck, as if insulted, toying with a broken piece of blue glass between his slender fingers. She felt real. She felt so real, it bloody terrified him. She knew him, understood him like no one ever had. Obviously. Because you invented her! Hardly. She was too innocent to have come from a crass rake like me, the blushing virgin, and the womanizing junkie? Why do I see her? Isn't it painfully transparent........? His chest hurt, and he felt just as shattered as that God awful vase, just as broken and vitreous. Innocence. How long had it been, since he had anything akin to innocence in his life? The endless string of raucous parties, the way he could work women up into a frenzy with just one look, the champagne fountains, juxtaposed with the scathing abuse at the hands of his bastard father...... Drugs to drown it all out, needles like life saving IV's, breathing cocaine, just any way to get it in, so that the rest of his dreamy nightmare world would be forced out. Innocence, that elusive chase. A fix of a different kind.

It was then he noticed the serrated edge of plastic, partially hidden, taped under a larger piece of glass, and he snatched it up like a treasured gem exhumed from the sand. THERE you are, Gorgeous. God, how I have missed you. I guess you could say....... you're My Heroine. He chuckled to himself, and his substance-starved body practically growled for the cure. He always thought it funny how anyone could call it a, "fix." Nothing was fixed, not for long. Drugs didn't "fix," him, they were a band-aid, a balm, a temporary solution to a permanent brokenness. Nevertheless, a right now fix, as it were, was better than suffering through it, this hateful, cruel and unusual punishment called life.

Patrick flinched then, startled as a noise came from the washroom, and his triumph soured. "Damn it, Jameson, you'll get your thieving payment at that insufferable ballet tomorrow, we agreed!" In a huff he strode into the washroom, expecting to see his smug friend lounging in the doorway, with outstretched, greedy fingers. It was rather expensive to alter your own reality.

What he met with, however, was an empty washroom and a full tub, teeming with an absurd amount of bubbles. Odd....... he didn't remember running himself a bath, and he'd have to be cracked to EVER use this much bubble bath. He got closer, peering down with squinted eyes, and saw one single dark curl, that the foam had failed to conceal.

He smiled to himself, and gently tugged on the curl with one hand, still clutching his bag in the other. A disturbance beneath the frothy water, and a frantic splash as a sweet, reddening face came up, gasping for air.

Patrick's mouth fell slightly open, as he noticed the bubbles sticking to her slick, wet hair, which fell across her utterly bare shoulders, and he caught the slightest glimpse of the indent of a pleasing swell, before she sank further beneath the soapy surface, clearly mortified.

"PATRICK! What are you doing back!? I thought you had plans, dinner with your friends tonight? Oh my God, oh my GOD!"

"Define friends.......?" He uttered with breathy astonishment, wondering if maybe he'd already reached his high, and therefore, would have no further need of his little bag. "I really was in no state, but I'm especially glad I stayed in now that things have gotten so.......interesting- I'm sorry, not trying to be rude, just want to get this sorted, but are you naked, in my bath?"

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be." He felt another rare smile play with his lips, as she sank further down, the water just grazing her bottom lip.

"Do you think you used enough bubbles, Darling?" He teased, sarcastic, still trying to catch his breath from the shock of it all, while also trying not to search out her form, beneath the foamy haze.

"No, I definitely don't think I did now........" Patrick could hear that her unusually quiet voice was rife with shame, and she quivered, as he set his free hand atop her wet head.

"Come now, Ally, it's only fair, after all the times you've drifted in on me, naked and vulnerable. It was due time you returned the favour. Did you use the bubble bath from the champagne bottle? Somebody's nasty trick, filling a 94 Dom with bath products. Idiots."

Ally bit her lip, and then froze, looking at him with accusing eyes, when she saw what he had been clutching so tightly.

"What's in the bag, Patrick?"

"Freedom."

"No."

"Would you believe me, if I said I nipped over to the neighbors, to borrow a cup of flour?"

"Patrick!"

"Alright, but it does rather look like flour, doesn't it? Now all I need is some...... sugar to be properly baked." He chuckled with a smirk, but Ally was unamused.

"Don't do it, Patrick. Please?"

"Ally, you don't understand, I'm convulsing, and not in the way I like. I need it."

Ally looked at him with pleading eyes, and he stared back even more pouty, trying not to look at the bare knee that had just popped up.

"You don't need it, Patrick."

"What do I need then?"

"A distraction."

"Get out of the tub, and we'll talk........" He said forcefully, with a bit of an edge to his voice, scrunching the bag in his fist. What have you done to me?

Ally snapped at him, indignant. "I didn't do this for your benefit."

"Didn't you?" He countered with a raised eyebrow, misbehaving and searching again for that pleasing swell. Damn whoever had given him that bubble bath. Terrible excuse for a present.

He watched her breathe in, but whether it was out of anger or intense attraction. he couldn't tell. Ally, lovely innocent Ally, naked and upset, so clearly in need of some company.

"I'll make you a deal........"

"No."

"You can't say no, you don't know what the deal is."

"I can guess."

"No. You really can't." He eyed her tenderly, feeling sick. "I'll delay delighting in my confections from the uhh Bake Sale, and you let me do one thing.........."

Ally glared at him sharply, and Patrick realized it was the most cross she'd ever looked at him, and even more disturbing, he found he quite liked it. That fire from so soft a place.

"No, not THAT thing! Now, who's being naughty. Shut up, I just want to wash your hair."

Ally's fuming emerald eyes quelled with a gentleness that no one had ever looked at him with. "You want- to wash my hair?"

"Yes."

"And you won't........ gorge yourself on the sweets?"

"Which ones?"

"Patrick!"

"Sorry, couldn't resist, no, not tonight, even though I'll crumble to pieces from the shaking."

"And you'll be a perfect gentleman, and not touch anything but my hair?"

"Promise. Best behaviour, you have my word."

Ally looked at him warily. What was she doing? Asking an addict not to touch his beloved drugs, and a playboy not to...…. play? This just screamed disaster.

"Deal. Drop the bag."

Patrick reluctantly felt the smooth plastic and the life-saving medicine inside, slip from his fingers, and skid across the laminate floor. He felt woeful, like a starving man that had just thrown away his last bit of bread. Sorry Gorgeous, he thought hungrily. As badly as I want you, I might just want this a little bit more.

Patrick, hands still atremble, picked up the green bottle of jasmine shampoo that he'd bought by accident, and had yet to return, fighting the urge to just yank her from the tub, and let loose his lustful fingers, give them a real reason to shake. No one had ever touched her, but him, and that thought was almost too much temptation in itself. Her innocence was all the drug he'd ever need.

He slowly poured the thick, fragrant jade liquid into his hand, and began ever so gently massaging it into the long, wet curls on the back of her head.

"Tell me this, why does a ghost need a bubble bath hmm?" He asked with a growing curiosity, needing to talk, to say anything to distract himself from her pleasurable little murmurs, as he worked his fingers through her wet hair.

"The same reason you do, Patrick. Escape." She answered, breathlessly, and unbeknownst to him, she was fighting very similar thoughts, along with the requisite embarrassment.

"Escape? Please, your whole existence is an escape. You don't have to do anything, but what you want, there are no failings, no shortcomings, because there are no expectations for the future. I hate you for it. I envy you." He hissed, scrunching her hair in his palm.

"Why? Why do you envy me, when the same could be very much said of you too? You've got the world on a string! You can have anything you want, do anything you want! Go anywhere!"

"Clever girl. As much as I appreciate the sentiment, you're severely mistaken. My life's not just one big party...… it may look like heaven from the outside, but I assure you, I am in hell."

Ally looked at him with big, sad, green eyes, and he mussed her hair with both of his hands wildly, hating that he'd let anyone in this close, even so pleasing a figment as she was.

"I'm in hell too."

He coughed on his sharp intake of breath, aghast upon hearing those words from her delicate lips, and his heart ached with the thought, and then, guiltily, he wished it was true, because that meant they had something in common, and he wasn't in hell alone.

"Shut up, no you're not. They don't let angels into hell." He snarked, splashing water onto her head, so angry that he couldn't just pull her hair, yank her head back, and kiss her wet, upside down mouth.

"I am though, Patrick. I have only the semblance of a life, trapped on the other side of the glass, where I can see and hear it all, but not partake in any of it."

"You forgot the depressing addition that the only one you can talk to is me," he added bitterly.

"No! You are the one light in my darkness, Patrick. The one person I look at, who sees me too........."

"You don't know anything of darkness."

"Maybe not. But you know more of light than you let on."

"Don't be funny, when I'm being serious."

"I'm serious."

"That's funny."

They both looked at each other then, and he ran his hands down the length of her wet tresses, with great relish, as he'd never allowed himself before.

"I'm not real," She whispered, and it broke him entirely.

"Shut the HELL up, yes you are! Do you think I could have thought up any of this!?" He released her soaked strands, gesturing wildly. Look at you! Damn it! You're...….. divine."

Ally felt the tears spill down her already wet face, and burn her eyes. "Really?"

"Obviously. You think as muddled a mind as mine, could think up THAT hair, that voice, those eyes!? This complicated, infuriating, deep-feeling young woman!?!? I don't know what you are........ but you're real."

Ally rested her head against his hand, and she sobbed harder, thinking about how much she wished those words were true, and how badly she wanted to kiss him, and let him have his way with her, no matter how wrong it would be. It was wrong.....…. wasn't it? But, why? Why was it so wrong?

"Stop crying, shhhhh," He cooed, holding the curve of her cheek. "It's alright. I'll never leave you behind that glass. I'll carry you with me everywhere, every place you want to go, I'll take you. Venice, Paris, Milan. Tell me and we'll go."

"To Elysium," She let out in a single morose breath, and he felt that full-bodied chill, certain he'd heard her wrong. That meant something entirely different to him...….. Something he'd only ever said in his mind, never once out loud.

"You're tired," He whispered, as he finished off with the conditioner, scrunching it through each curl, letting them spool in his cupped palms.

He held her nose, and dunked her under the water, like she was a child, fingers threading through her hair, washing out the product, before pulling her back up to the surface.

"No more tears tonight. I feel helpless when you cry, and I don't like feeling helpless. No more talk about not being real, understand?"

Ally nodded and he caught her dazed gaze, unnerved by the way she was looking at him, the drug addict with the shakes, like he was her saviour.

"I'll get you my robe," he mumbled, clumsily making his way toward the washroom closet, noticing a pink nightdress on the floor, distracting him from his poor neglected bag. He fumbled for the doorknob, wondering at what the hell had just happened, when he saw it.

Hanging next to his plush, grey robe was a long midnight blue nightdress, still wrinkled and damp, and the second he glimpsed it a whole string of memories that couldn't be his were triggered. Flashes of Ally kissing him, both of them nestled impossibly close in the bath, dripping wet, Ally unbuttoning his shirt, Ally giggling and cradling the back of his head as she beamed at him. Ally watching him, devastated as he passed out. Ally crying...... Why was Ally crying? He scrunched his eyes shut, his mind racing faster than he could understand it, followed by the words that he had never heard a living soul say.

I love you, Patrick Melrose.

It all came flooding back, and Patrick didn't know what the hell they were going to do now.

"Holy Shi-"

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

[jemej3m]

Idk if I said this already but Romeo and Juliet au where Nathan makes sure Neil doesn’t marry Andrew and Neil and Andrew are a little smarter than the original Romeo and Juliet

how much smarter, though

*

Red gown, drawn above his waist. The sleeves fell from the elbow, sweeping the floor with a slit for his forearms. Atop of his fire-lick curls was a golden circlet, glistening in the candlelight. 

It was rumoured that Mary Hatford’s son was the most beautiful thing in a world. Unfortunately for Andrew, he wasn’t just Mary Hatford’s son: he was also the heir of Nathan Wesninski. 

Though the Wymacks and the Wesninskis had once shared Palmetto peacefully, the tragic murder of David Wymack’s wife, Kayleigh Day, and the kidnapping of his son, had not been forgiven. Equally unforgiven was the suspicious death of Riko Moriyama, allied to the Wesninskis under ancient laws. 

And so: they all hated each other. 

War is profitable, Aaron always said, when Renee insisted that perhaps they negotiate a ceasefire rather than another duel. Nobody wants peace.

And whilst Andrew knew that to be true, a traitorous corner of his heart wished that, just for one moment, the two families weren’t constantly at each other’s throats. Only then would Andrew allowed to be with him: the Wesninski son. 

Most knew him as Nathaniel. As his father’s shadow. 

Andrew knew him as Neil. Neil Abram, the flame to Andrew’s shadow. A man loathesome of his father and anguished over his dead mother. 

He was, undoubtedly, the most brilliant thing on Andrew’s horizon. Everythnig else paled in comparison. 

Even now, with the top-half of his face obscured by a golden mask, he was stunning. 

And even though Andrew wore a mask of his own - to be seen on Wesninski grounds as one of Wymack’s proteges would be certain death - Neil gravitated towards him. 

“Why,” Neil said, voice low. He was trying not to smile. “You don’t look like you’re from around here.” 

“I’m simply a travelling merchant,” Andrew bowed. “Seller of souls and blades.”

“Would you, by chance, be selling a moment of your time?” 

Andrew offered his arm. 

It was dangerous to dance with him, when his father was sitting at the banquet table and waiting for Neil to dance with Ichirou Moriyama instead, but Andrew didn’t care. He had a knife up his sleeve and boundless wit: if he was questioned, he’d escape. The only reason that he wasn’t knifing everyone in the room was for Neil’s sake: he’d seen enough bloodshed in his life. Andrew didn’t need to contribute to it. 

“Abby has a plan,” Neil whispered. His apothecary was his only ally and confidante. Andrew had received many a correspondence via her aid. 

“What is it?”

“You need to trust me.” Neil squeezed Andrew’s hand as he was spun around. “Alright?”

“I hate surprises.”

“I know.” 

The tune acquiesced. They stepped back from one another to bow once more. 

“Be at Eden’s Chapel at noon on Sunday,” Neil whispered as they brushed shoulders. “No matter what you hear. Okay?” 

“Neil,” Andrew tried, but he was gone, swept up in a crowd of gathered velvet and silk. 

*

Wymack had many a protege, most of which he considered his own children. Of course, he did also have Kevin, his genuine son, but in his absence he’d procured the strangest mix of deviants and created a family. 

Wymack rescued Andrew and his family from certain peril and poverty. It was the only reason Andrew willingly sat at his large dining table every morning for breakfast: he owed Wymack his life. 

It was Sunday morning: they were all dressed finely to attend the service. Andrew would be departing early to meet Neil at Eden’s chapel, a church way up on the hill. He would have too come back and retrieve a horse to make it there in time for Neil’s arrival. 

Since the masquerade of Friday evening, Andrew had been bereft of all knowledge about Neil’s plans. He could only hope that it would work, and that they would finally find peace and sanctimony. 

Amidst his thoughts, he did not notice his cousin barrel into the room like a rather tenacious tumbleweed. Panting, he gripped the back of Aaron’s chair, eyes lit up with glee. 

“The Wesninski heir!” he announced. “He’s dead! That old bastard is childless and his name will die with him!” 

Every hair on Andrew’s body stood on end. No. No. They had been so close to freedom. Neil could not be dead. He couldn’t.

“Andrew,” Renee said. Andrew had stood up with a sharp jolt: now the whole table was looking at him, shocked he had such a vicious reaction to Nicky’s news. 

“I must leave.” 

“But -” Nicky blinked, confusion. “What about mass?”

Andrew grabbed the first horse he could find and hitched himself onto the saddle, galloping Wesninski-bound. The noble family had their long line of sons buried in a mausoleum on the edge of their land, facing over the cliffs. Beneath their rocky faces were raging waves, smashing themselves against the unforgivable stone. 

The wind was cold but Andrew was colder: the burial grounds were all but abandoned. He threw the reigns over a thinning branch of an olive tree and stumbled towards the stone monolith. 

The door was heavy but desperation was Andrew’s fuel: he shoved it open and shivered as he entered the tomb. 

And there, in the centre of marble coffins, laid Neil. 

Andrew had never seen his skin so pale. A cloth was pulled up to his shoulders, but his head rested on a pillow of rosemary and satin. His hair was pushed back, eyes closed. Between his brows rested the gold pendant of his circlet, the one that fated him as a Wesninski. 

With trembling hands, Andrew reached out for his cheek. He was cold to the touch. His chest neither rose nor fell: his heart was still. 

Agony. Andrew was pretty sure that was what he felt: pure, unadulterated agony. His chest ached. He couldn’t breathe. Neil said he’d had a plan. Neil said to trust him, and now he was dead.

“You,” came a cold voice. “You.” 

Andrew turned around. 

If Neil was beauty, his father was all brutishness. He was sharp and stiff, his face etched with anger and sadism. Andrew felt the pain in his chest rise to his throat. 

Nathan Wesninski pointed a finger at him. “You are one of Wymack’s spawn. You sullied - ruined - my son. The one at his window. The one in his ear. You turned him against me.” 

“You did that yourself,” Andrew said. “And I will kill you for what you’ve done.” 

Nathan drew his sword with a feral roar, but Andrew was faster. Smaller, faster, angrier. It was, retrospectively, an unfair fight: the man was older, with a renowned capacity to inflict pain but none of the finesse. 

Andrew feinted and shoved his blade between one rib and another: the man dropped to the floor with a furious wheeze, eyes rolling back into his head. 

As he dropped, a new figure stepped into the tomb. 

Abby wasn’t much to look at, narrow and cautious. She had her hands held close to her chest, looking at the body of Nathan Wesninski with wide-eyes. 

“Andrew,” she whispered. 

“He’s dead,” he said, hoarse. “How could you let this happen?”

“He’s not dead,” she stepped closer. “He drank a tonic that makes him appear dead.” In her palm rested a small bottle. “I have the elixir to wake him.” 

He snatched it from her grasp and ran to Neil’s side. There were only three droplets: Andrew watched them coat Neil’s lips, grasping onto his hand and praying under his breath. If Renee could see him now, he thought absently, pressing his forehead into Neil’s shoulder. 

With a gasp, the man woke up, colour rushing to his cheeks. He choked, coughing and spluttering. Andrew held his shoulders. 

“Andrew?” he mumbled, weak-voiced and bleary-eyed. “What are you doing here?” 

“You fool,” Andrew snapped. “How did you think I would react when I heard the news that you were dead?” 

“But I wasn’t,” he said, petulant. “I told you to trust me!” 

“I told you we should have written to him,” Abby chided. “Now your father is dead.” 

Neil’s eyes went wide as he looked at his father’s corpse. His head whipped back, gazing up at Andrew. “Did you do that?” 

“It was him or myself,” Andrew responded. “I cannot live without you, Abram.” 

Neil’s lips were still bitter when he pressed them to the corner of Andrew’s mouth. “And I, you."

*

it was short because I'm tired lol 

[errabundus-nox]

Hello, I wrote a ficlet dealing with my fav daozhang (XXC). The idea of Song Lan fearful of touching XXC after his revival because of his brute strength as a fierce corpse popped into my head while conversating with someone.

Canon Divergence. XXC Revives!

Song Lan / Xiao Xing Chen

Angst(y), T rated.

Biblichor

Song Lan succeeds.

He feels the infinitesimal shift of the pale, still man beneath him. His ears pick up the tiny flutter of heartbeats, the twitch in his fingers.

The breath of air exhaled.

Song Lan swallows a hard lump down his throat, eyes - Xiao Xing Chen's eyes - unblinking. Afraid that this would be the ruin of the phenomenon unfurling before him.

How much time has he spent? Unsleeping and fasting, piecing together Xiao Xing Chen's spirit in this dingy, abandoned shack he had placed his coffin in.

Where demonic talents had failed, and righteous teachings have all but set him up for an unfeasible task, he succeeded.

“Zichen – “his voice like sandpaper rasps.

Beside him, Song Lan’s fingers curled against the edge of the coffin in a knuckle white grip, splintering wood. Seeing eyes zeroed in on the man that had just roused, a white bandage sitting on high and delicate cheekbones, face bereft of color. Xing Chen’s skin was parchment thin and looked so fragile, almost translucent in the glowing embers of dawn. His all-white robes casting an almost distant and ethereal quality to him.

Song Lan fears that he might just break him with a single touch.

“Zichen,” Xing Chen’s raspy voice tries again, a slight edge of firmness to it that washes relief through Song Lan. Xing Chen struggles to pull himself up, joints stiff and body uncoordinated from a prolonged period of disuse.

Song Lan reaches over to his back and helps Xing Chen sit up, with barely any pressure behind his touch. Xing Chen couldn’t help a small shiver as the air moves around him. It wasn’t a cold day, with the rising sun emitting its warmth. Song Lan doesn’t hesitate to remove his outer robes and drapes it across Xing Chen’s shoulders. He reaches out and puts a cup gingerly against cold lips.

Drink this first, Song Lan voices out mentally.

He feels the ghost of his breath pass through his fingers, a soft gasp escaping Xing Chen’s lips.

“Can you – “he sputters, fingers slowly reaching towards his right ear, to confirm his senses where his eyes could not.

Song Lan shook his head before he could stop himself.

No, was his answer.

Xing Chen could still feel the cup pressed on his lip. His fingers moved to grasp it, brushing against Song Lan’s. He takes a tentative sip, feels the prickling discomfort of liquid down his parched throat, and tries not to cough. The second sip is easier, and he empties the contents of the cup on the third.

Song Lan spent trudging up the path to the celestial mountain for many days.

He realizes, quickly, how much the world has changed during his absence.

The war was over, its demonic cultivators quelled all thanks to their heralded heroes but at the price of many. Even the fierce corpses that once plagued helpless villagers seemed to thin and disperse.

He spent days at the foot of the mountain, with each passing moment confirming his denied entry.

But in its silence, he found the answers.

This is the way of the world, that we seek to understand on common ground. To leave, would akin to finding your own answers and give meaning to matters once not understood.

Song Lan stood up, bowed deeply thrice, and made his journey back again.

He finds an abandoned wooden shack tucked just under the foothills, on the outskirts of a small town where the population was sparse. He makes quick work of setting up wards to keep spirits and living beings away, and continued onwards.

Song Lan never feared death. Just like Xing Chen in their ideologies – if they could turn their views into a positive force, to something tangible and of aid, then it would be this very ethos that would keep them immortal in the minds of men, surpassing their physical bodies.

Death was an irony to Song Lan at first. The stench of it made his skin crawl, intensifying the impulse to carve away the spidery veins that marked his skin, making him bear the stigma of something he once fearlessly cut down without a second thought; to cleanse the world of its impurities. Leaving behind wounds that would never heal, never close, yet never fester.

He returned to Yi City once again, knowing that bringing Xing Chen back to life in this forsaken city of dust and corpses would be cruel, and unfair.

It would remind him of Xue Yang’s manipulation and betrayal.

Of A-Qing’s demise.

Of their deaths.

Through actions not by his own hand, Song Lan could never bring himself to blame Xing Chen for the tragic role he had to play.

The villain had been rid, yet the friend he so wished badly to apologize to and atone for was not standing by his side.

Such was the determination of a man who toiled relentlessly, forgoing sleep and sustenance.

Not that these physical needs were needed for a reanimated corpse, no less.

Such were the efforts he took as he labored day and night into bringing the coffin on the back of a rickety cartwheel to the drab and dilapidated shack. The single goal burned into the back of his eyelids as he sat next to Xing Chen’s body lying in the coffin, the almost nothing weight of his soul in a brown pouch scribbled with red insignias between his hands.

The words of an apology repeated in his head over and over again, but failing to come out of his very own mouth.

Song Lan would achieve what others before him could not – by weaving his own consciousness and stitching Xiao Xing Chen’s soul back together again. The price he had to and was willing to pay.

They spend the next month not quite touching – Song Lan fearful of his newfound strength he struggled to control, vicious scenarios conjured at the back of his mind circling around causing unintentional hurt towards Xing Chen and his seemingly fragile state.

Xing Chen ripped from the claws of his self-imposed punishment and coming to terms that his death was not a resignation, but a chance for forgiveness given by others.

Those four walls weren’t quite home, but it sufficed for the both of them who wanted nothing much but only each other.

Song Lan would tend to Xing Chen’s gradual recovery and Xing Chen turned to weaving baskets, working the dexterity back into his fingers. Eventually, they found a pattern together, similar yet completely opposite of what they were accustomed to in what felt like another lifetime.

Nights when terror seized Xing Chen through nightmares, Song Lan would slide into the bed that he had built for them (Xing Chen, mostly) and hold him so tenderly. Xing Chen would wake with blood run tears soaking through his bandages, clinging tightly to the front of his robes, pressing kisses as light as a butterfly flitting through the flowers onto cool, thin lips.

I’m here, Song Lan would soothe repeatedly, a mantra that calmed hiccupping sobs broken by shuddering breaths into deep, even breathing.

In the darkness only illuminated by full moon, laid Song Lan and Xiao Xing Chen in a tender embrace. Separated only by the planes of existence - one, a dead man who walks amongst the living. Another, who's alive but borders so close to death. Song Lan finds it easier to shake off the dread that twists at his guts, that one day Xiao Xing Chen would traipse over the fine line between living and a place where he could barely follow after. Xiao Xing Chen gradually learns to overlook past his mistakes, turning the endless compassion he once had for others onto himself.

Eventually, they would make their way back to A-Qing’s grave. Song Lan was never fully certain if Xing Chen had the capacity to handle his grief right in front of her small, marked gravesite. However, he gave him privacy and a wide berth to grieve alone; knowing that Xing Chen’s newfound purpose would give him the strength to tide through soft anguished cries and blood-soaked bandages.

They take a small piece of rock surrounding her grave back with them, as a memory in honor of the brave girl that so relentlessly tried to seek justice for her Dao Zhang, back to a rightful place where they could settle and finally call home.

[codedredalert]

no lead nor steel shall reach him so [Golden Kamuy, Ogata & Yuusaku] -- gen oneshot

Ogata character study || 1705 words

A good marksman could swear blind that he knew a good shot before his bullet left the barrel.

Ogata was a good shot. The moment he pulled the trigger on Yuusaku, he knew he'd made a mistake.

Warnings: canon-typical violence, character death, Ogata is messed up and regrets nothing, this is not a nice softe redemption story.

A/N: written for @narramin​ 

(On Ao3)

===/\===

.

      1.

Ogata knew the rumours.

Second Lieutenant Hanazawa Yuusaku is the eight virtues personified, they said. No wonder he was promoted so young. No wonder he had the honour of bearing the flag.

Perhaps Ogata knew the rumours best  because they were spoken carefully around him— whispers like prey rustling the grass, catching his attention whether he willed it or not.

He's  that Ogata's brother, they said. No, reliably came the disbelieving reply. Can't be, no way, you've got to be lying, is it true? It's true, the Second Lieutenant said so, though Ogata tries to keep it quiet. Ah, well it makes sense,  he's the bastard after all, isn't he? Hah, in more ways than one…

Sideways glances between himself and their vaunted officer, not nearly as discreet as the men of the 7th Division believed themselves to be.

Have you heard? asked First Lieutenant Tsurumi in a conspiratorial whisper when he had Ogata alone. They say the Second Lieutenant is very principled.

Yes, Ogata has heard.

Shall we see for ourselves? proposed the First Lieutenant, hand outstretched, an offer.

.

.

      一.

"Life is a long road."

Grandmother taught this to him in a voice that was light to mask the weight of wisdom in those heavy words. After Mother's death, Grandmother had never faltered in her duties though she grieved, going through the funeral proceedings with head held high, and seeing to Ogata's every need with reliability that Mother had never managed, though she had tried.

"The longer one's road grows, the more places to stumble, and for impurity to rest on the soul. With time, every person falls to the suffering of existence."

She used one of her wrinkled, gnarled hands to smooth back Ogata's clipped-short hair, soothing and pleasant.

"It is just the way life is," she said.

.

.

      2.

Ogata approached Yuusaku for the first time since the young officer had first called him brother, and the younger man lit up with such unadulterated delight that it sent a shudder of disgust down Ogata's spine.

He had to be faking. No one got that excited about a night out with their bastard half-brother. But as long as the Second Lieutenant wanted to play the good brother, that suited Ogata just fine.

Ogata led Yuusaku to the pleasure district, watching with amusement as the younger man's delight turned to discomfort, to embarrassment, to distress.

"Brother… I'm terribly sorry," he said, bowing. And he  sounded sorry too, as if it physically pained him to refuse Ogata's first tenuous offer of brotherhood. His sincerity grated, as did his refusal. In one move, Yuusaku had both undermined Ogata's objective, and plainly made the grave insult that— however much he claimed to want Ogata for an elder brother— Ogata's wants and ways were beneath him.

With the trap now useless, there was no choice but to let him go, and Yuusaku walked out of the establishment as free and upright as ever.

But Ogata could be patient. As the war went on— as the acrid gunpowder, piss, shit, and anguish seeped into them all— Yuusaku would stumble. Ogata just had to bide his time and try again, try better.

.

.

      二.

His mother was beautiful in death. She had hundreds of admirers from the peak of her career, and many a swooning painter had captured her likeness. A portrait of her had been gifted to them, and it smiled bright-eyed and gentle upon Ogata from the family altar as she never had in life.

"It doesn't look like her," he remarked, as he stood side by side with his grandmother and offered incense. He remembered his mother's back as she stood in the middle of a room for long stretches of time, silent and unmoving. Her profile, as she stared out the window, watching for a man who would never come.

The joss sticks burned down to ash, and Grandmother lifted her head from her prayers. She bowed and turned away, gesturing for him to follow. He followed suit.

"People see what they want to see," she said, once she had closed the door behind them. Grandmother was very different from Mother, in that way. She always paid attention to him, even if she was silent at first. He just had to be patient.

"Men wanted her beauty, so they took whichever parts of her they found beautiful and painted over all the other parts to suit their tastes. They did not know her character, the hardship she went through. The  geisha, the  maiko… they suffer greatly for their success. But it was our hope that she would have a good life, a better life than the one we could give her. Not..."

Heartache. Deep despair. The delusion that roused her from bed only to make the same dish, day after day: a desperate, futile offering to a love that didn't realise.

Ogata understood.

.

.

      3.

"Superior Private Ogata. It appears that Yuusaku is a more gallant soldier than we imagined. He's won over the hearts of all the other men."

Ogata let out the breath he'd been holding for his shot and lowered his rifle. He could read between the lines and take the orders the First Lieutenant preferred not to say explicitly. Plausible deniability and all that. It's why the First Lieutenant liked him.

"So you're saying we're better off not killing him, sir?" asked Ogata, reloading and already looking for his next target. He didn't need an answer. "Understood."

Ogata led Yuusaku wraithlike over the fields where gunfire and screaming had reigned earlier that day. The night was quiet but far from silent, the sighing of the wind an unearthly substitute for the dead and dying soldiers' groans. Yuusaku's boots scuffed the earth as he followed. He made enough noise that Ogata could have shot him at fifty yards, blindfolded.

"I want to see you kill him," Ogata said earnestly, pressing his knife into Yuusaku's hands. Yuusaku flinched and his eyes slid away, looking for escape, looking anywhere but Ogata's eyes, anywhere but the Russian soldier gagged and bound at their feet.

"Father said I have to keep my hands clean," Yuusaku begged off, as if the word 'Father' could invoke more authority than 'Lieutenant General' or 'martial law'. Ah, but Yuusaku was a beloved child, Ogata remembered, and this was him trying to appeal to the filial respect that Ogata never had the chance to develop for the man.  

Something must have shown on Ogata's face.

Yuusaku embraced him and Ogata's blood swarmed like locusts in his veins, eating him alive with irritating discontent and a curious, persistent thought.

.

.

     三.

Mother's death was Ogata's first. A lot of customs went with it, though Ogata didn't really see why. When everything was over, Grandmother paid a priest to come bless the family and sprinkle salt at him.

"It's for your own good. Death is an unclean thing, we don't want its shadow over you," Grandmother explained when Ogata grumbled about some of it getting it into his eye. Her voice wavered ever so slightly, as she smoothed the front of her kimono. "Remember to do this after I've passed."

Ogata buried her the year he was conscripted. He didn't get the priest afterwards. There wasn't much point, on the way to a war.

.

.

      4.

It was so easy to find Yuusaku on the field, even in the chaos.

Gallant Yuusaku, leading the throng of soldiers eager to kill and die for the emperor and their nation. Ogata could frame them in his rifle sight like a painter drafting a standing screen. Yuusaku, marked by the rising sun.

It was so easy that it was a wonder how the enemy snipers hadn't gotten him first. The waving flag begged to be targeted. Did the Russians dismiss him for having no gun? For never drawing his unblooded sabre?

It was so easy to line up the shot.

What would happen if— ?

Ogata pulled the trigger.

.

.

      四.

Birds scattered as he missed, taking to the peach-pink sky above the fields behind the family house in Ibaraki. Ogata took aim for his second shot, but the timing was already so far off that there was no point. He lowered his grandfather's rifle instead of wasting another bullet.

He'd been over-eager, moving too much, and too fast. The light was gone now, and he would have to return home empty-handed.

.

.

      5.

Yuusuke's distant silhouette crumpled. His corpse joined the hundreds of bodies on the battlefield, lost in the chaos of the regiment as he went down, the bright white and red and gold tasselled flag falling slowly after him before it too disappeared from sight. Ogata lowered his rifle with a strange sense of frustration and ran his hand through his regulation cropped-short hair.

There was a strange absence of something he thought would be there, and with that... Disappointment. Profound disappointment. Like the shot when he was a child in the fields behind the family house in Ibaraki and learning to hunt, the birds scattering as he missed.

Yuusaku crowned by the sun, beloved.

He'd been overeager and now gallant Yuusaku would be forever gallant, forever pure. The impurity of death didn't seem to stick, and now Yuusaku was an immortal nuisance and Ogata still had no answer to the discontent crawling on his back.

Ogata's hand clenched on the butt of his rifle, white-knuckled with cold. This was the first time he felt  bad when he'd made his shot, bereft of something out of reach, which could have been his but never would. It was a pricking irritation similar to missing a shot. Even though he hadn't.

There were no answers here. There were no answers in the dead. Not in his mother, not in his grandmother, not in this man who called him brother.

Ogata turned and First Lieutenant Tsurumi was there. The First Lieutenant smiled in understanding and nodded in approval, as if knowing Ogata's thoughts before Ogata himself.

The father who only had enough love to raise one virtuous son. Yes, Ogata could just ask him directly. There was no point thinking about Yuusaku any longer.

Yuusaku was dead. That was the end of it. Ogata couldn't reach him anymore.

Time to turn to the living.

===/END\===

(On Ao3)  ( patreon ) ( kofi ) ( paypal )

[eirian-houpe]

The Pawn Shop On Main Street - Chapter 1

Fandom: Once Upon a Time (TV)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Mad Hatter | Jefferson & Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold

Characters: Belle (Once Upon a Time), Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Mad Hatter | Jefferson, Grace | Paige, Evil Queen | Regina Mills, Widow Lucas | Granny, Red Riding Hood | Ruby, Jiminy Cricket | Archie Hopper, Grumpy | Leroy, Blue Fairy | Mother Superior, Emma Swan, Prince Charming | David Nolan, Snow White | Mary Margaret Blanchard, Henry Mills (Once Upon a Time), Sneezy | Tom Clark, Merida (Once Upon a Time), Cloe, Mother Trude, Dove (Once Upon a Time)

Additional Tags: Cursed Storybrooke (Once Upon a Time), Angst, Romance, Eventual Smut, Will add more as apropriate

Summary: Gold is suddenly awakened from the curse, not by the fail-safe that he programmed into his mind, but by the unexpected presence of his long lost maid, with whom he fell in love well before Regina cast his Dark Curse, Rumplestiltskin must now find a way past Belle's disbelief and fear. She is still under the influence of the curse. With the help of his dear - his oldest - friend, Gold seeks a way past obstacles so that he can rekindle the love which he rejected back in the Dark Castle. 

The story is set in the same 'verse as The Library Beneath the Clock Tower, and could be considered a sequel of sorts.

Chapter 1 - Old Friends

He felt drawn to her. He could not look away, his gaze transfixed as her eyes took in the fireworks bursting overhead. They paled by comparison. Nothing could compare.

…a brief flicker of light in an ocean of darkness.

The thought caught him off guard, as if he were standing on the edge of a fall, with a gust of wind buffeting him toward the edge. He felt suddenly thirsty - the earth waiting for the cloud above his head to burst like the sparkles and fizzles overhead.

All this time she had been right there, within reach, the meaning that had been missing for as long as he could remember - as long as he had been in Storybrooke. It made sense of everything he’d done, but at the same time made no sense at all.

Suddenly afraid, for no reason he could understand, he took a step closer, right behind her, caressing her fingers softly, before taking her hands, slowly, into his own. Their fingers entwined.

It flashed through him in a pulse; bright, vibrant, burning away the fog of years and realms.

She mocked him.  Regina mocked him - how dare she, and yet, he had no energy, and even less will to react to her impudence.

“Is this about that girl I met on the road?” She laughed and stalked the room, her hips swaying in exaggerated sensuality. It reminded him of Cora, and that did little to change his mood… the reminder of other betrayals, other… abandonments. Regina glanced his way. “What was her name? Margie? Verna?

Rumplestiltskin barely breathed her name. “Belle.”

Suddenly business-like, this evil queen he had created, said matter-of-fact as she fixed herself some tea - uninvited, “Right. Well... you can rest assured I had nothing to do with that tragedy.”

He stopped idly spinning the wheel and turned to walk toward her, all but willing pox into the cup she was stirring, “What… tragedy?”

“You don't know?” Regina asked as though scandalized, then chuckled as she cleaned the spoon with her mouth and set it down.  “Well, After she got home… her fiancé had gone missing.” He feigned innocence, but Regina knew. Her expression told him so. She took only a few steps away before turning around. “And after her stay here, her… association… with you, no one would want her, of course. Her father shunned her, cut her off, shut her out.”

Hope flared in his heart, and in an unguarded moment, he let the words slip from deep within that hope. “So she needs… a home?”

Regina laughed cruelly, though whether at what had happened, or at him for his weakness he was uncertain, then went on, “He was cruel to her. He locked her in a tower and sent in clerics to cleanse her soul with scourges and flaying. After a while, she threw herself off the tower. She died.”

She spoke the last two words with such careless triumph that the urge to throttle the life from the conniving bitch almost choked him… murdered his hope.

“You're lying,” he growled.

“Am I?” she countered, leaving him cold and dead inside.

He wanted to be angry now, to rail against the lies Regina had told him, blatant fabrications, right to his face, and yet… Here was his light.  Hale, whole and…

“You’re real,” he breathed. “You’re alive!”

He moved closer yet, moving his fingers again in a soft, quiet caress.  The curse was lifted, he remembered. Everything, and oh, how beastly he had been when they had last seen one another. When he had sent her away.

”I’m not a coward, dearie. It’s quite simple really… my power… means more to me than you.”  

She pulled herself up to her full, diminutive height, and looked him full in the face. “No. No, it doesn't. You just don't think I can love you. Now, you've made your choice. And you're going to regret it.”

His heart broke as her voice quivered - a roar of pain that almost drowned out her following word, “Forever.”

He curled his hands into fists. His hard, pointed talons left wheal marks in his palms, but he couldn’t allow her to see how much her words affected him.

“And all you'll have... is an empty heart,” her voice broke, and she forced herself to go on, “and a chipped cup.”

Her eyes were filled with tears, but she held his gaze, and he had to push his own rising tears deep inside lest he belie his words.  Not until she had turned, and walked away, out of the cell, and out of his life… forever… and he could no longer see or hear her, did he move - and then only to close his eyes.

Was she feeling this too? Did she remember?  A part of him hoped not; hoped that fate had delivered him a way to right the wrongs of his past; to woo her, to love her as she deserved to be loved, and yet, the Dark One knew that ‘loopholes’ was another word for lies. Gold wanted no more lies.

For a moment, one sweet, sharp moment she leaned against him, tightened her fingers around his, and he knew… he knew without any doubt that she remembered. At least in that moment, she remembered.

“Belle,” he whispered.

Then, like the icy fall of rain that dampened even the hottest fire, she snatched her hands from his, and he was suddenly frozen, bereft. Helpless to do anything other that watch with mounting fear as she turned to face him; tried with all his heart to let her see that she had been right all along - that she had the measure of him, and not only that - but now, in the face of seeing her again, though he wanted nothing more than to reach out and draw her into his arms, hold her forever - protected, loved - he was still a coward.

“Belle,” he whispered again, reaching too late to catch her as she picked up her skirts and fled.  He cried out for her, as he should have done then, in the Dark Castle - called her back, “Belle!”

His cry was echoed a moment later and he registered a familiar voice behind the calling. His friend, Jefferson. A Storybrooke friend, yes, but the Dark One’s only friend through all the ages. How could he not have known?

He stared. He stared after Belle, who stopped at neither of their calling, and he stared toward Jefferson, meeting the horrified expression that mirrored his own.

The Hatter seemed torn, glanced away as if to find Belle in the crowd, but ultimately turned his steps and hurried to Gold’s side.

"You knew!" Gold almost sobbed, and reaching out, grabbed Jefferson by the lapels of his flamboyant, silk tailcoat and pulled him closer, almost shaking the man. "How could you know… know me and yet say nothing?"

Jefferson’s long fingers closed around his wrists, not to prevent, but to anchor, as if the Portal Jumper feared to let go and needed to hold him close as he spoke.

"The man you are here and I said that?" Jefferson said, pained, and only then Gold saw the tears that were gathered in the other man’s blue eyes. "How could I, and not have you cast me away?"

For all that he saw, for all that he felt, still Gold gave vent to his own pain. "But you were my… we were friends!"

Instead of words, Jefferson answered with cry, almost of anguish, and suddenly releasing his wrists, clutched Gold close.

"We are friends," he sobbed, clinging tightly. "We are!"

At first, startled, Gold struggled, tried to push Jefferson away, but as the present melted away leaving just the two of them alone on the rise above where the other revelers were lost in their drunken celebrations of the night, Gold… Rumplestiltskin missed his friend, and already held tightly in Jefferson’s embrace, pulled the man closer still, and held him through the maelstrom of all that he was - pawnbroker, landlord, deal maker, sorcerer, master, Dark One, killer, father, husband, lover… coward - all of it, every little piece of him returning in a rush, he clung to Jefferson like a man drowning.

Eventually, both spent, they each slumped, exhausted to the ground, mute and panting for breath, though as he looked across at Jefferson, Rumplestiltskin saw that silent tears still ran down Jefferson’s face. Intuitively he knew the cause.

“I didn’t know,” he said, and Jefferson raised his face to look at him, incomprehension in his wet and shining eyes. “Grace,” Gold offered. “I didn’t know what Regina planned.”

“I know,” Jefferson whispered, before finding his voice. “I have always known it was her doing, and hers alone.” He reached out for Gold’s hand, and he took it without hesitation, listening as Jefferson continued. “For all that we didn’t see things the same way much of the time; for all that we fought, I knew and never once doubted that you’d ever do something like that to another man, another father. I saw what you did for Baelfire and—”

“Bae,” Gold interrupted. His voice hoarse and rasping. He felt Jefferson’s fingers tighten around his own, and he took a breath. “If I had the power,” he said, “to undo what she did.”

“No!” Jefferson sounded alarmed, almost terrified, then went on more calmly, “No. Not until we can be together. Not until I can be sure she won’t hate me for abandoning her. She can’t know.” His voice cracked as he went on. “Cloe’s her mother here. She knows nothing about a foolish man who made a promise and then broke it; who abandoned her to ignominy and hardship.”

“Jefferson…”

The other man blanched, and releasing his grip on Gold held up both hands in surrender, as if he thought he’d just delivered some kind of terrible insult.

“That wasn’t your fault,” Gold murmured quietly.

“Then whose?” Jefferson shook his head; argued. “I can recite a whole litany of ‘if I hadn’ts’ going all the way back to before we first met. Who else’s fault can it be?”

Gold fixed him with a level, uncompromising look.

“No,” Jefferson said firmly. “You are not responsible for all the ills of every realm.”

Gold was silent for a long time. He knew Jefferson well enough to understand that when he had his mind fixed on something - especially something self-deprecating - there could be no moving him; not until he saw the truth of it for himself.

Both men sighed, almost at the same time, and that made Gold chuckle just a little, with a good deal of his own self-deprecation, before he said, “And that… that, my good man, is why you are the Dark One’s only true friend.”

Jefferson let out another sigh, then offered Gold a smile through half-pursed lips, and then started to push himself up off the ground where they had both fallen.

“I’ll find her,” he promised softly. “Make sure she’s safe and gets home all right. We can fix this. We’ll find a way.”

“Ever the optimist, Jefferson.”

“Hardly,” the Hatter said dryly, before turning, ready to begin his descent from the hill. He stopped after just a few steps, and turned back. “Rumplestiltskin?”

Gold looked up, his head tipped to one side. “Hmm?”

“How long?”

Gold looked skyward, as if the position of the stars could give him the answer to Jefferson’s question, and they might well have - had time not been motionless in Storybrooke these past…  He shook his head. He knew the answer. It was written into the fabric of the Dark Curse, into the single drop of ‘True Love’ he had dripped onto the parchment; The single drop that would herald the arrival of The Savior.

“Twenty-eight years,” he answered quietly. “Twenty-eight years.”

[tessiete]

Armed With a Burning Patience Obi-Wan Kenobi may be back from the dead, but Satine isn’t sure she’s ready to forgive him.

The post-Hardeen reunion smut fic I had to get out.

She hears the truth from the mouth of some holostar.

Whom, in particular, she cannot say;  where  is unimportant, and even  when  blurs and shifts in her mind. She was in her rooms. No, she was in her court. She was sat upon her throne. She was among the masses. She was there, in the audience, when the interview occurred. 

 None of it is very important.

 The important thing is this: High General of the Grand Army of the Republic, and Jedi Master, Obi-Wan Kenobi...is not dead.

 She has been lied to.

  “Have you heard the news from Capital City?”

 The news of his death had been more kindly delivered than that of his survival, and  that , she feels, means something she hasn’t the wherewithal to parse. Not now. 

  Then , Ahsoka had commed her. Her slight shoulders hung heavily, the slope of them narrowed and hunched, streamlined, as though the eddies of anguish and upset might slip over her, like wings in a windstream.

 “I...I know you were close,” she said. “And I know Master Skywalker should to be the one to tell you this, but he’s...Master Kenobi has -”

  Now,  she hears it as the set up for a punchline.

  “Have you heard the news from Capital City? They say a Jedi has come back from the dead.”

  “Kriff! I wish I could say the same for my career!”

 There are so many Jedi, and so many deaths. But only one has come back. And it has to be hers.

 She waits for him to call. She keeps her commlink open to all signals, and on her person. She keeps it in her hand. But no such message comes through. 

 At night, she asks Maia if anything has been sent to her personal padd.

 “No, ma’am,” she says, her eyes so round and sad that Satine can see her own pitiful reflection in them, and she turns away in contempt.

 “No, of course,” she replies. “A silly question. I’m only very tired tonight.”

 And Maia peels away the layers of her gown until she is paper thin, and quite translucent as her satin nightdress. She sleeps. She wakes. She waits, and hates herself for it.

 Ahsoka calls, just once more. It’s short because she’s in the field, and her master needs her.

 “I just wanted to make sure you’d heard,” she says. “I should have called, but things - Master Skywalker...I don’t understand why he would lie to us.”

 She hangs her head, and Satine remembers how young she is. She thinks of Korkie, off at school, tucked safe and out of sight, and of the way he bowed his head and wept the day she told him he could not come home. 

 “It was his duty,” she tells the girl, smiling, her shoulders thrown back and her hands clasped so tight she can feel the bones grind together. “We all do what we must.”

 “Yes, Your Grace,” Ahsoka murmurs, but her voice is fraught with resignation, not acceptance, and resignation is something Satine cannot countenance.

 “You have a duty, as well,” she reminds the girl. “To your men. To your master. To your Order. Do not forget that. We  all  do what we must. This is the way. You are a  Jedi , Ahsoka Tano. You are a Jedi. Do not give up. ”

 “Yes, sir,” she says, and Satine sees some determination ratchet in the hinge of her jaw before she ends the call.

 That same determination buttresses the sagging arch of her own spine, lifting her bearing in proud defiance of gravity’s grief, and with this scaffolding in place, she is able to survive the day. And the next one, too. She thinks of him, but she is disciplined, and he is silent, and so she is able to put him somewhere out of sight. He is like a fleeting shadow in the corner of her eye, but she keeps herself facing forward. 

 Until, one day, sometime later - sometime, when she has become so practiced at denying him, his presence comes as a shock - she sees him standing outside her room, a pair of her Guard flanking him.

 She looks at Vi’Tolan, and though she doesn’t speak, her protector can hear her disquiet.

 “I granted his landing clearances,” she explains. “You said -”

 Satine shakes her head, exhaling to clear her muddied thoughts.

 “I did,” she confirms. “Thank you, Vi’Tolan. Please, if you would -”

 “Of course, my Lady,” she says, and with a curt nod of instruction, she, and the two guards leave her alone with Obi-Wan.

 The hall is empty, and their audience as private as anyone can expect, and he is standing there before her, alive, and well, and breathing, and she realises that she has nothing to say.

 Nothing at all.

 And by his silence, it seems that he has nothing either.

 She sighs, and presses a hand to her face to cover her eyes. Perhaps, a moment out of sight will grant her the peace necessary for wisdom to come. She can still feel the weight of his gaze. His expectation has a near physical presence, as though he has manifested desire and restraint into some looming beast that stands just over her shoulder. It hunts her, and haunts him. Yet no solution comes in the privacy of her thoughts, and so, she straightens her shoulders and crosses into her room, knowing that, of course, he will follow.

 Maia waits.

 “My Lady Duchess -” she says, her shock at Satine being accompanied by such a man sending her to her feet at attention, but Satine dismisses her as easily as she had Vi’Tolan. Her mind is made up. Her voice is firm. Everything that happens from here on out is her decision.

 “I should appreciate a quick attendance tonight, Maia,” she says, setting herself down at the wide vanity.

 Maia’s mouth closes, and she hies swiftly to her mistress’ side. Deft fingers unclasp, and unpin, collecting the stiff rods into the palm of her hand. She works until the headpiece slips sideways over the Duchess’ brow, then catches it as it falls away. This done, Satine is free to pull off her rings, and remove her earrings, dropping them all with neither haste, nor care upon her table. They are heavy, and she is glad to be rid of them, though she doesn’t feel much lighter for their absence. Maia brushes her hair forward over one shoulder to undo the ribbon at the waist of her thick surcote, letting it hang forward, and as Satine pulls her arms free of this layer, Maia is quick to loosen the catches of the next. Her fine cherrinwork kirtle covers a loose smock but these are easy enough to doff on her own, so she shifts forward, away from Maia’s hands.

 “Thank you, Maia,” she says, leaving the girl bereft. “That shall be all for this evening.”

 She may be uncertain, but she is well trained, and demurs easily. “Yes, ma’am.” 

 Her shimmerflax train murmurs softly, following her out the door, and then they are alone.

 The mirror looks at what Satine cannot, and tells her that Obi-Wan remains just inside the door. He is tucked against the wall, his hands folded in his robes. He looks small. Diminished. Drowning in swaths of coarse fabric. This is not the glorious warrior she has seen on the holonet. This is not the shining ambassador of freedom. He wears none of the armour she has seen him in before - and why should he, when he is so inured to death as to be immune?

 She sighs, and he catches her eye in the glass. It isn’t in her to break first, so she waits until he does, the resumes her ablutions. A single claricloth is sufficient to remove her makeup, but the face that emerges from beneath the paint is sallow and haunted. It shows nothing of how she feels, and so she scrubs at her cheeks until they are pink once more. Her eyes are cold, and her lips stay bloodless no matter how she bites at them.

 Accepting that there is little she may improve upon, she rises to take off her dress. From the corner of her eye, she sees him step forward as well.

 “No,” she says, and her voice is the same as her eyes - as distant and as cold - and he freezes.

 The discarded pile of clothing is heaped upon the bench, out of sight of the mirror, and she walks to where he stands, shoulders back, and bare. She does not flinch, and at least he has the grace to meet her gaze and hold it. She stops when she is close enough to feel his breath upon her face. 

 And it does not matter, but she thinks it is she who moves first.

 Their mouths meet, open but empty of any thought, and her lip, already punished with her own worry, splits against his teeth. His hands are on her shoulders, then braced against the back of her head, while the other slides down the curve of her spine, falling like rain, coursing over the swell of her flesh. He grabs at her fiercely, and she yields to his grip, bending against him, swallowed by his robes, but the cloth tangles at his wrists, and he shakes them, as though desperate to be free of the web of some great terror.

 She pulls back to push the cloak over his shoulders, to fumble at his belt as he throws the robe aside. Together, they tear off his tabards, and she lifts the fitted sark over his head, while he stares up at her, dazed, his eyes starry and she looks away to see the tunic adequately tossed aside. She kisses him again, before he can speak, though he doesn’t seem inclined to. Instead, he leans in, his tongue slipping over hers to trace the roof of her mouth, even as he stumbles forward caught in the shackles of his trousers, and his boots. They, too, are eventually lost, and they are left trying to peel the skin from each others’ bones.

 She claws at his waist. Her fingers catch in his hair, and she surges forward, hungry, even as the weight of his desire drives her back, until at last, overcome, he lifts her from the ground, her legs flying up to cling at his hips, his cock hard and aching below her thigh.

 The bed is before them in an instant, and he staggers forward as his legs slam against it. His arms fly out to brace for a fall that cannot happen, but which his body fears, nonetheless, and seeks to save him from. But she does not let go.

 He comes down hard upon her. The softness of the bed gives way at her back, while his chest, stained with the heat of his desire, presses down on her. She pulls him closer, holds him tighter, eager, hopeful that he might crush her completely. He cannot be too close to her, and it does not take much to persuade him to relent. He is nothing if not obedient. 

 She gasps, and he - still devouring - moves to kiss her neck, nipping at the skin, and licking a wet stripe along the line of her jaw to the point where it meets at the lobe of her ear. His teeth are sharp, and his beard coarse. Together, they leave red marks against the pallor of her flesh, and they are blushing together. Then, he rises again. His hands frame her face, sweeping aside her hair as he seeks to touch the fragile arc of her cheeks with the tips of his fingers, and his palms. He presses a kiss to her brow, and it is almost tender. She desires no such reverence.

 And so, while his lips are still upon her, in an address far sweeter than she thinks he’s ever tendered in negotiations before, she reaches between them to take his length in hand. A rough sound is wrenched from his lips, and for a moment the heel of his chin digs in against her scalp. If she had thought him willing before, now he becomes absolutely pliant beneath her touch. His head falls to her shoulder, and his breath is loud in her ear. 

 “Hush,” she murmurs, and again he obeys.  So good , she thinks, and her praise is expressed in the glide of her hand over the length of his cock. His reward is in the pump of her fist, but for all that he is dutiful, he is also bold, and though he chokes back his cries in the curve of her neck, he brings his own hand up to cup her left breast, taking that pleasure for himself.

 And she gives it. She forces it upon him.  Take it  , she thinks, as she arcs up against his hand.  Take it,  she thinks, as she draws her hand down, then up, then down again. “Take me,” she says, low, in his ear. There is something feral in her voice. She feels savage, and wanton, and full of rage.

 Whatever wildness is in her, he must hear it because he turns to look at her. His eyes glitter in the dark, his mouth swollen, his lips glisten with the sheen stolen from her own mouth, and she draws him closer to take it back. His lower lips catches between her teeth, and she tugs. She drags her thumb over the head of his cock, tracing the swell of sensitive skin, feeling her fingers slick with precome, hearing him keen and fight against his own voice while wanting more, and she bites down until she tastes blood. This time, it’s his, and with it spilled on either side, she thinks of war and fury, and how they are now bonded in battle. This is the way, and though it is not  her  way, she still owns the path. By title. By right. By blood.

 His hand tenses over her breast, and she will bruise, she knows, but that thought is almost as delicious as the bite of his fingers as he pinches her nipple between his thumb and forefinger and rolls. 

 “Stars!” she says, the word torn from her by force. She releases him only to clutch him close again, pressing his head to her collarbone, pressing him down. Soft strands of hair stick to her hands, wet with sweat, wet with him, clinging to the crevices of her body like she clings to him. 

 This whimsy, while sweet, dies swiftly upon the awn of the next moment as his tongue darts forth to tease at the rosy bud of her tit. His mouth, hot and wet, closes over her a moment later, and he suckles, while one hand drift low over her hips, and lower still to dip between the hot folds of her sex.

 He touches her. First, there are just gentle strokes, and he moves from the hood of her clit, outward to her thigh grazing his clever fingers just barely across the skin of her inner thigh. Closer, then further away, then returning again, and it teases her like the sunlight of a breaking dawn. He slips the tip of one finger into the velvet grip of her entrance, then withdraws, dancing away to compass her centre again, and she knows that his confidence comes from memory, not practice. This is  her  body he recalls. This is  her  desire he stokes, and there is a greedy, vengeful part of her that delights in the fact that he has thought of no other, for none of  their  preferences are painted on her skin with his hands. 

 She grins in triumph, and urges his head lower still. And so he goes.

 Her thighs fall open to greet his arrival, and his tongue replaces the rough ministrations of his fingers. Here, there is a feast to sate his hunger, and she welcomes him to take as much as he desires. With such a bounty laid bare before him, he does what all the wisest diplomats have done: first, he surveys the land, and then, with the guidance of an educated palate he tastes of every morsel that he might find the ripest fruits, and savour the richness of their flavour. He licks, and tastes, and as her breaths grow fast, and fall to frantic, he consumes her utterly. And as she feels the pinching crest of pleasure build, she looks down to admire the sight of this man, framed in the crescent of her legs.

 He is with her, and looks up to watch as he takes her over the edge. She never swore obedience, and she will not be silent, the guttural cry of release still clinging to her lips as he creeps up over her to silence her with a kiss. She can taste herself upon his tongue, and she wonders if he thinks she tastes as sweet - but he must, for he is just as covetous of her essence as she. 

 And then, her hand tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, she draws him back to issue her final command.

 “Fuck me,” she says.

 He slips into her in a single thrust, sensing her impatience. His next is more tentative, gauging depth as though afraid  he may have misjudged her readiness or his position. But she is certain. She slides herself downwards against his length before he can press again, meeting him halfway and breaking the rhythm of tempered consideration he’d intended before he can even commit. 

 “Hard,” she urges, driving him deeper. “Harder.”

 And once again, he obeys.

 “Harder,” she pants out with every thrust.  Hurt me , she thinks with every beat of her racing heart. 

 His pace increases, urged forward like an unbroken fathier, and she the bit and bridle which gives fashion to his lust. He wraps a hand over her hip, leaving marks, and beats his desire against the bones of her pelvis, and that too will leave her bruised and aching tomorrow. It is what she wants - to be stained purple with the evidence of his existence, to be rubbed raw by his hair against the rash of her skin, to mirror the blue of his thirsty eye, to taste his blood, to feel that once he wanted, and she was there to grant him all she could. She needs to know that this is real. She can’t simply  believe  it.

 So she pushes him to go faster, to take her harder, to drive deeper, until her arms are braced against the headboard, and he cries out, spilling hot and thoughtless inside of her.

 And then, when he is spent, she wraps him in her arms, and presses him to her chest, the salt of their sweat mingling with the salt of his tears, but she does not cry. Instead, she whispers cold comfort in his ear.

 “I missed you,” she says. “I mourned you. I think I always will.”

 And he, his eyes red and blue and black, his hair falling thick across his brow, lifts his head to look at her.

 “Please, don’t,” he says, an orison so soft it leaves a mark upon her skin.

 But that is only yet another proof for her to keep, and think on when he leaves. 

[slashyrogue]

AU-gust Day #14: Vampire AU

“You’re certain you don’t need any special donors?” 

Will didn’t look up and his fangs ached. “No.” 

He shivered as Dr. Lecter ran hands over his pregnant belly. “Your son is growing very well. It’s quite rare to see this much progress on synthetic blood.” 

Will wanted to snarl but didn’t say a word. 

Pregnant omega males weren’t rare, but pregnant omega male vampires were. He hadn’t been quite so honest in the origin of his pregnancy, or the reasons for his son’s good health. If Dr. Lecter learned about the VPD would have his child forcefully taken from him and make it so he could never have one again. 

“I guess I’m lucky.” 

Dr. Lecter met his eyes. “Yes, I suppose you are.” 

Will watched Dr. Lecter’s eyes flash yellow, and his wolf scent that should have raised all types of fear did nothing of the sort. He knew Dr. Lecter was not a threat to him or his son. 

“Is that it?” 

Dr. Lecter blinked, seemingly dazed, and moved away from Will. 

“Yes, I apologize. I’ve been...out of sorts lately.” 

“It’s alright.” 

He wrote something down on his chart and Will saw that his claws were out. 

Just how out of sorts was he? 

“Dr. Lecter?” 

He looked up at Will with yellow eyes still. “Yes, Will?” 

“If I needed a special donor....” 

“The government takes special care in cases of extreme need but they would take samples of your blood to determine if you’ve been...” 

Will’s hand shook as he held onto the exam table. “Oh.” 

“But, if you’d like I could offer a solution.” 

He shook his head, looked down again, and knew tonight he’d have to kill another innocent person or his baby would starve. “No, it’s...fine.” 

Dr. Lecter reached for Will’s chin and lifted to make him meet his eyes.

“There’s no need to lie, Will. I can hear your heart beating faster already,” he ran his finger across Will’s skin and he shivered at the touch, “If you’re not against my donation, I would gladly help your child’s progress.” 

Will had never drank werewolf blood before, nor had many other vampires after The Blood Wars. His eyes were wide as he stared at his doctor. “You...you barely know me.” 

“And yet, right now I offer you something not freely given outside of war. I feel very strongly about helping you reach your final trimester and I know you do as well.” 

He let out a shaky breath and his fangs ached. “What’s...what do you get?” 

“Besides a lovely vampire biting into my neck? Absolutely nothing but your time and company.” 

Will shook his head. “I can’t.” 

Dr. Lecter took Will’s hand and put it to his cheek. The warmth of him made Will’s whole body thrum with need and the sound of his blood flowing brought tears to Will’s eyes. 

“Sooner rather than later they will catch you, Will,” he said, looking anguished, “Please allow me to help you.” 

He closed his eyes. “Dr. Lecter...” 

“Please, Will. Please.” 

Will opened his eyes, let his fangs out, and hissed. “Why? Why are you doing this?” 

Dr. Lecter got down on his knees, took Will’s hands, and put both to his cheeks now. 

“Because from the moment you walked into my office I knew you were my mate. I will not let my child go hungry, not if I have any means to help.” 

Will blinked. “Mate? How can...I’m a vampire.” 

“It’s not entirely normal, I understand, but I know without a doubt that you are.” 

Will put his hands on his belly. “And this isn’t your child.” 

Dr. Lecter put his hands over Will’s and leaned in so close Will could smell his werewolf scent even stronger. He wanted to drown in the comfort of the aroma, and his fangs ached to taste him. “The baby inside you, is yours. You are my mate. I would protect you both with my life.” 

He looked up at Dr. Lecter. “This...doesn’t feel real.”

“It’s very real, Will. I apologize for...keeping this to myself. I did not want to cause you undo upset but when I realized you were killing and taking blood for your son, I felt I had no choice but to offer myself in exchange.” 

Will licked his lips. “You would....go through the proper channels?” 

“Of course.” 

“How long?” 

Dr. Lecter smiled. “You believe I would require a time limit?” 

“Werewolves...they’re not...” 

He shivered when Dr. Lecter touched his cheek. “I would drain myself dry for you. Donor registration requires no time limit, just...check ins. The VPD would wish to monitor my safety. Just as the WPD would monitor yours. I will, of course, resign my position here and become primarily your doctor only for the remainder of the pregnancy.”

Will stared at him with tears in his eyes. “I can’t let you do that.” 

“You aren’t letting me do anything, Will. Finding my mate is the most glorious thing to ever happen to me. I am...overjoyed. I will be even more so if you agree to my proposal.”

His heart beat wildly in his chest. “I...” 

A knock interrupted them both and he stood fast just as the door opened. A nurse stuck her head in, and eyed them with worry. “Is everything alright, Doctor? Your seven o’clock is waiting in the lobby. Are you almost finished?”

Dr. Lecter looked at Will again. 

“Yes,” he said softly, barely a whisper. 

The happiness in Dr. Lecter’s eyes made Will oddly happy himself. 

“Yes, Nurse. I do believe we are.” 

She closed the door and Hannibal’s hand shook when he touched Will’s cheek again. “Thank you, Will,” he whispered hoarsely, eyes brimming with tears, “I only hope that this...proposal will endear you to me enough for...a potential mating.” 

Will’s teeth ached so much he could barely speak. “Th...ank you,” he whispered, “Doc...t...” 

Dr. Lecter rolled up his sleeve and Will’s eyes flashed. “Take, Will. Please. I can see you’re in pain.” 

He shook his head. “S...” 

The quick cut he made had Will hissing, and the drop of blood that ran down his arm made Will groan. “Feed, Will. Please.” 

Will grabbed his arm eagerly, biting down, and Hannibal moaned as he fed. 

“It feels....heavenly. I....” 

Werewolf blood was the most delicious Will had ever tasted. He wanted to drain him dry and yet the idea was unthinkable to him. Two more deep tastes and he pulled back to look at Dr. Lecter again. 

His eyes were glowing as well, and Will could smell his desire. 

He ran his finger across Will’s lip. “How do you feel?” 

“Amazing. Thank you, Doc...” 

“Hannibal,” he whispered, licking the blood from his finger, “I think it’s about time you called me Hannibal.” 

Will felt his cheeks flush. “Thank you, Hannibal.” 

“Now,” Hannibal said, staring at the wound Will had left, “I will do first aid on myself before my next appointment and...call you tomorrow.” 

He blinked. “First aid? Don’t werewolves heal instantly like vampires?” 

Hannibal smiled. “They do if they want to, yes,” he said, pulling out a bandage, “But I wish to keep this reminder of our first...time.” 

Will touched licked the remains of blood from his fangs. “Oh.” 

“Thank you for this, Will,” Hannibal said, wrapping his bite, “I...I am very happy.” 

He felt oddly bereft when Hannibal moved to leave the exam room and raced to block his way. “Wait.” 

“What is it? You can calm yourself here when I depart. I will give my next examination in the other room so there’s no need to...”

Will reached out to touch his cheek, leaning in. “I...can I?” 

“Whatever you desire the answer is yes.” 

Will pressed his mouth to Hannibal’s and they both shivered at the touch. He felt fangs that rivaled his own and wanted to feel them in his skin. The growl that Hannibal gave made his cock twitch, and slick began to drip down his backside. They pulled apart, gasping, and stared into each other’s glowing eyes. 

“Goodnight, Hannibal.” 

“Goodnight, Will.” 

He left Will alone to contemplate what just happened. 

An alpha werewolf mate who is also his doctor. 

Will smiled as he touched his belly, despite the worry that bloomed in his chest. 

This would be a hard road, he knew, but it felt so good right now he couldn’t seem to care. 

“Alpha,” he whispered, licking his fangs again. 

Tonight he would go home for the first time in months and not worry about where his next blood would come from. 

And tomorrow, he’d get to taste Hannibal again. 

His cock twitched at the very idea. 

“Mmm....” he sighed, smiling as he started to dress, “Mate.”

Will dressed quickly and bypassed the other examination room. He could hear Hannibal speaking as he moved by, and the sound of his heart beating. 

“...and you’ll be just fine.” 

He smiled as he went out to the lobby, and walked up to the window. 

“Have a good exam, Mr. Graham?” 

Will smiled. “It was...perfect.”

[alottanothing]

Left to Ruin: Chapter Twelve

Summary: Nouke struggles with the broken heart Ahkmenrah left her with. When he shows up on her farm days later, she fights to keep him from breaking it further.  

Previous Chapters

Word Count: 7224

Warnings: SMUT Y’ALL. GOOEY, OH SO SOFT, SMUT. (18+ only), also brief mentions of blood and injuries

Tag List: @xmxisxforxmaybe​, @r-ahh-mi​, @theultraviolencefan​, @hah0106​, @rami-malek-trash​, @diasimar​, @sherlollydramoine​, @flipper-kisses​, @ivy-miranda-2390​, @txmel​, @sunkissedmikky​, @concentratedsassandcandy​, @babyalienfairy​, @edteche2​ (Let me know if I missed you, or if you would like to be added to the tag list)

A/N: @xmxisxforxmaybe​ gets an extra shout out for this chapter because this was the first time I’ve written explicit smut and she kept me from breaking down into a panic attack, while also giving me pointers. She’s a superb writing buddy and I love her. With that said, I did my best and I’m no longer cringing when I go back and read this, so that has to count for something right? Anyway, I hope you enjoy! Again, as a disclaimer, I am not an ancient Egyptian expert and google only knows so much. So yeah, I took so historical liberties while writing this to make my life easier, but tried to keep it as “authentic” as possible

Having her heart broken proved to be useful. With it left in such ruin, Nouke was never more dedicated to her chores; she poured all of her focus on the farm and the more arduous tasks that were often left abandoned—Nouke did anything to keep from thinking of the ache in her chest.  Plowing the soil from dawn to dusk helped distract from the gaping hole that her once sweet prince tore in her heart. She planted more of the land; fields that were left to weed since her father had passed were now ready to sew. When there was no more to be done in the fields, Nouke made repairs to the stables and wove baskets to store the surplus grain. That all worked for a while. 

Despite her efforts, the dull ache of heartbreak always crept through her resolve.

At first, all Nouke felt was deep-seated anger coupled with a sense of betrayal; it writhed and festered until it plagued every recent memory of him with a veil of black. The mere thought of her king set her fists into a ball and her teeth against each other—grinding with resentment.

But anger was exhausting to hold on to. By the second day, her discontent faded altogether, leaving only hurt. Even the shroud of darkness that tainted every memory of her friend disappeared when her anger subsided. The pharaoh had bewitched her—not in the latter moments they’d shared but in the ones long before his crown heavied his head. In those moments of play and adventure during their youth: every game, every story, every sweet smile he'd lent as a child had worked into her heart and refused to let go. 

His love never failed to trickle through every moment their eyes met, or how he always brought food to share when he knew she often went without. That love shone brightest the day he’d asked her to follow him throughout Egypt, and it was she who had taken that glimmer of fleeting hope and snuffed it out. He had offered her his world, and she denied him. The gods had presented her with almost every desire she had ever wanted—for a second time—and like a fool, she rejected their gift again. Surely the ache in her chest was penance for being too greedy.

On the third day, Nouke was certain she would carry the miserable heaviness in her heart forever.

It wasn’t until the fourth day that she actually missed him; missed his smile and his kindness. She missed his kiss and his gentle caresses; the way he drew his bottom lip between his teeth just before dazzling her with a grin. All of it was lost to her, and the notion made her laden heart too poignant to ease with distraction.

The only joy her spirit could cling to was the increasing wellness of her mother. Every day she ate a little more, walked a little farther, and smiled a little brighter. 

In those few days of anguish, Maketaten only asked once what it was that cast her daughter with such sorrow. Nouke could, at most, manage a frown and a shake of her head, but it was enough for her mother to know it was a broken heart that afflicted her daughter.

The fourth evening Nouke worked tirelessly, doing whatever she could to steal away the notion of missing the man who broke her heart. Her mother felt well enough to help with some of the easier chores around the farm, and while Nouke was grateful for her mother’s help and company, she feared that she was not particularly affable company in return. For days, words were too difficult an obstacle to maneuver without provoking a wave of tears, so she said nothing.

The quiet air of the stables was filled with her mother’s soft humming: lullabies Nouke recognized from her childhood. To a degree, the gentle melodies fostered a warmth her cold heart was desperate to find. Even the corners of her mouth quirked into a content smile finding enough ardor to hum along—an elusive moment of peace.

“Don��t work too much longer, my love,” her mother cautioned a time later as the sun sank below the horizon.

“I won’t, mother,” Nouke promised, struggling to hold a genuine smile longer than a second or two. “I’m just going to finish, then I’ll be up.”

Maketaten kissed her daughter's cheek before venturing out of the stable.

Nouke watched her fondly as she went; thankful to still have her. She would always be grateful to her king for giving back her mother’s health no matter how much he’d hurt her heart.

A bereft sigh worked through Nouke at the thought of the pharaoh; how much she missed him, and how much she hated that she missed him. All those years of forgetting—learning to live without him—were suddenly tainted. She wanted that ignorance back. 

Nouke let her mind roam as she finished her chores, searching for a memory that wasn’t somehow tethered to the man she loved. She held to thoughts of her mother and father, the few years their farm thrived and the three of them were genuinely happy—a time that seemed so long ago. She dwelled in the tranquility of those memories; recalling every sound and smell when they were new and exciting. For a moment, Nouke found peace there in the illusion of her past, wishing she could spend the rest of her days lost in that dream, until a hooded shadow appeared on the back wall of the stable jerking her back to reality.

She gasped as she turned with a jump, quickly reaching for the nearest tool to protect herself. Almost instantaneously her fear faded, exhaling a shaky breath as she found a pair of familiar, wide eyes locked with hers under a hooded robe. Her mouth felt suddenly dry, and her heart pounded as Ahkmenrah slid the cowl away before carding his fingers through his hair.

A different sort of fear worked over her, muscles growing tense to prepare for any more damage he could throw at her heart. Nouke watched him, watching her. He seemed frightened, almost lost, when his mouth hung open but no words came out. 

“Your majesty,” Nouke bid him with a bow, glad to have managed words before him—her tone cold.

The pharaoh winced, and pain twisted onto his frozen features hearing her icy bravado, causing him to hang his head shamefully. Nouke wanted so much to find satisfaction in hurting him, to do to him what he had to her, but the anguish tugging at his handsome features only made her feel worse.

It took him several minutes to build up the courage to approach with cautious strides, but he stopped a little more than an arm's length away, too afraid to come closer. Without a word he carefully removed the satchel slung around his torso and offered it, keeping his eyes fixated away from hers. 

“Fresh dates and figs—some of the sweetbreads we used to share as kids,” Ahkmenrah explained. “Medicines too, for your mother.”

A stitch came lose in her tightly bound façade when her eyes fell to the leather satchel before following the length of his arm to his face. He still wasn’t looking at her, but his grief was more real than the moon and all the stars in the heavens. Ahkmenrah was hurting too, just as much as she was.

“A peace offering,” he added, his tone almost pleading.

Several more of her stitch's burst, sensing the gravity of his own quiet misery. The look on his face and his listless posture was a mirror of how she had fared since leaving his chamber. Ahkmenrah had been carrying his hurt with him exactly as she had and the notion helped to combat some of her own despair.

With a hesitant gesture, Nouke took the bag, and when her errant glance caught the purple and yellow knuckles of his hand, dried with blood and split open, her brows creased with query. 

“What happened to your hand?” she asked gently, in an attempt to coax out the Ahkmenrah she knew and loved. The unspirited husk of a man before her was not the sweet prince her heart yearned to have.

Confusion flashed across his face as he studied the injury, eyes darting wildly over each wounded knuckle as though he had no recollection of its existence. He flexed his fingers and pain flickered throughout his features, prompting a quiet hiss to escape his lips.

When he offered no explanation, Nouke realized whatever had happened to cause the ugly bruise was enough to shake him.

“Go to the roof,” she instructed softly, suddenly overcome with the need to help. “I’ll bring a bowl of water and bandages. It’s the least I can do.”

A faint look of shock flashed in his eyes, as though he could not fathom her want to help him, then he nodded.

Ahk left as silently as he’d come and Nouke exhaled a deep breath like she’d been holding it, making her almost dizzy. The smarter thing would have been to take his offering and bid he leave her sight forever. However, every time she looked at him, her mind went blank and nothing in the world seemed as important as him.

It took minutes for her to calmly restitch the hole in her composure he’d split simply by being near. She would return to him one last time with her heart completely protected. It was safer that way. 

Nouke stalled for as long as she could, wanting to delay another evening of Ahkmenrah’s profoundly intimate glances; something she wasn’t sure her heart could weather. She checked once, twice, three times, that her chores were done before collecting as much courage as she could and gathered supplies to tend to Ahk's injuries. She ventured upstairs into the quiet living space finding it empty, her mother already asleep in the other room. Nouke emptied the satchel slung on her shoulder of the gifts inside and refilled it with rolled linen strips, a vial of medicinal honey, and a clay bowl.

Lastly, she grabbed the oil lamp from the table as well as a pitcher of water. It was a precarious task, balancing the lamp and the pitcher as she scaled each rung of the ladder with a single hand, but she managed it without starting a fire or spilling a drop.

Ahkmenrah was seated among the cushions and woven mats in the furthest corner of the flat roof. The sight caused her heart to flutter finding him so doleful and pensive while the wind swept through his curls as he looked out over his city.

He had broken her heart, but he would always have it.

The pharaoh stood in silent greeting when he noticed her, a woefulness dulling his usually crystalline eyes. 

“Sit,” Nouke told him, every manner of cold resolution gone from her tone; her stitches already threatening to pull loose.

Just as she feared, he watched her with reverence and a cautious intimacy that was almost too much to bear, though she did her best to ignore it, placing herself across from him. Nouke kept her eyes trained on the supplies she removed from the satchel, laying them before her in the dim light flickering from the oil lamp.

“Let me see,” she said gently, holding out her hand, waiting for him to take it.

He was hesitant, but he obeyed. Nouke mindfully studied the abrasions, still curious as to what had caused them. She filled the bowl with water and tore a small piece of linen. Ahkmenrah’s attentive eyes weighed lightly on her as she cleaned the cuts, gently scrubbing until the dried blood no longer stained his skin.

“So, are you going to tell me how this happened?” Nouke asked easily, glancing to hold his gaze only a moment before settling her focus back to his injury. Any glance longer would have a negative effect on the resolve she was fighting to keep tightly laced.

“Or would you like me to guess?” she added in a jesting tone before she could think better of it.

He mustered a slight smile, and a puff of air through his nostrils that was more or less a chuckle.

“I struck my brother,” he said finally, in a timbre that sounded as though he could hardly believe he could do such a thing.

“You did?” Nouke had never known him to be violent or lay force to anyone. Although, Kahmunrah did have that effect on people.

Ahkmenrah nodded, and his eyes fell back to where she continued to wash his bruised knuckles.

“He hurt Setshepsut,” he murmured.

Oh—Nouke had difficulty combating the twinge of jealousy that bit into her, and the influx of envy secured those stitches a little tighter. Of course he would fight for his wife.

With a sigh, she kicked that specific thought out of her mind. It didn’t matter who he did and did not fight for; he was a pharaoh and she was no one. He would always do as he pleased.

“But…” Ahk said, and Nouke could almost hear him sifting through his thoughts by the way he spoke. “I think that’s only part of the reason…”

All at once, his words were whimsical, almost breathless; as though he’d just stumbled upon some grand epiphany.

“What’s the other reason?” Nouke husked out, fighting back hope she knew was dangerous.

The moment his blue-gray eyes locked with hers, free of the grief that had resided in them all evening, hope planted itself far too deep in her to root out.

“You,” he said with enough conviction to make several of her emotional stitches tear.

“Every time I look at him, I remember what he did to you, and I’m overcome with...” his voice trailed off as his eyes glanced at his bruised hand.

Ahkmenrah swallowed and exhaled deeply before he found the nerve to continue, “What he did to my sister was finally enough to fight back, so I struck him. For her, and for you.”

Nouke bit her lip to keep from smiling. Her heart was yearning again, pulling free the strings of her control, wanting to jump out and embrace the king with enthuse. But her mind valiantly fought against her wistful heart. Nouke's focus remained on her task, the cuts clean and scabbed over, leaving only the marbled bruise across his knuckles. With another strip of linen, she dabbed each cut with the salve of medicinal honey to ensure they healed properly.

“What did your brother do to Set—er—the Queen?” Nouke asked in an attempt to feed her curiosity and deter the deepening desire in her heart.

“Set ran away.”

Nouke looked up to meet the pharaoh’s eyes, her features contorting with question and shock.

“She did?”

Ahk nodded, and a trace of sadness returned to his blue eyes.

“That was why I was not truly myself the night you came to me,” he explained.

He felt responsible, she could tell from the slouch in his shoulders and the downward curl on his lips. The pharaoh felt guilty and more of her stitches frayed seeing his sadness.

“Why did she run away?” Nouke asked, stopping her task a moment to listen.

“Because I was a fool. She miss took my words—reading them as though I intended to break a vow I made.”

“What vow?” Nouke’s heart was racing, feeling as though a crescendo was building with every word they spoke; surging them closer to some unknown divine manifestation.

His eyes were reverent on her again, smoldering in the dim glow of the burning lamplight.

“The vow that once I found a second wife, I would free her of our union—free us. That way, she could be with the soldier she loves, and I can be with—”

Me—she didn’t say it when his words trailed off again, but she felt the trajectory of the sentence and knew it had to be true. Nouke’s heart was pounding, fighting to rip the stitches that remained. Hastily she looked back to his hand and meticulously began winding his injury with fresh linen, counting her breaths to keep herself calm.

Joy rushed through her, but Nouke refused to let it surface until Ahkmenrah said the words outright. She needed to be sure. Pressure built in the silence between them, and she stalled as long as she could, twisting and tucking the fabric strips over his knuckles until all she could do was meet his gaze.

“I am so sorry, Nouke,” Ahkmenrah said with such profound sincerity, she could feel it in her bones. “The moment you asked for an explanation I should have told you—I should have fought.”

“Fight now,” Nouke demanded, breathless as her head started to spin.

Pressure continued to build with every beat that passed with silence, and for a brief moment, she feared he wouldn’t fight. Then, Nouke caught the twinkle of sparks in his eyes. It was a mix of awe and hope and he took both of her hands in his when he spoke.

“I have only felt joy—true joy—when I have been with you. Never have you been second to anyone. You, Nouke, are my only one. Now and forever.”

Nouke's breath caught on a gasp as the barrier protecting her heart frayed completely. Tears welled quickly, filling her eyes and blurring his handsome face; but she could still make out his sweet smile. Nouke prayed he wasn’t a mirage, a cruel trick from the desert sent to break her heart completely, but Ahk’s soft fingers brushed along her jaw. They wiped gently at the tears staining her face, reassuring her that he was no illusion.

“I gave you my heart years ago.” He leaned closer with every word. “It is yours from that moment, until my dying moment, and evermore. Should you want it.”

Tears were shining in his eyes too, overcome with what his own heart felt. 

His words rang like music in her ears; sweeter than any sound produced in song or with an instrument. Her reply was not with words—words were far too trivial. Actions spoke more profoundly than any utterance she could think up, and as a smile slowly unfurled across Nouke’s lips, she chose to show him exactly how his declaration made her feel.

Her tears of joy paved the way for her desire to blossom freely—her heart uncaged at last and filled to the brim with euphoria. In a series of lithe movements, Nouke moved into his lap, cradling his angular jaw, pulling his mouth to hers in a searing kiss while her legs wound around his waist.

The sudden intimacy took Ahk aback, his delighted shock manifesting in a low hum that vibrated from his chest and to his lips as she kissed him, his arms weaving around her. Nouke ran her tongue over his top lip, feeling the quirk of the pharaoh's smile as his mouth opened to capture it. His palms fanned open against her lower back, persuading her closer, drinking in every nuance of her kiss slowly, savoring every second of the intimate exchange.  

When they parted, their shaky breaths danced across each other's skin in heated puffs, radiating like the glow from a dull flame. The black of Ahk's eyes was blown wide, and his parted lips intensified his expression of lust and adoration. Nouke’s gaze only surrendered his to marvel at every angle and shadow of his face until she became transfixed with the succulent sheen of his kiss swollen lips.

The sight worked through to her core, and she couldn’t quell the need to draw the pad of her thumb over his full lips—an act of wonderment and praise. The notion those lips would forever be hers to kiss and admire prickled her flesh with goosebumps as passion spread through her like fire.

When Nouke kissed him again it was with zealous haste and a sensuous yearning. And yet, there was a trace of hesitance to the play of his mouth against hers—a caution that only made her more ravenous for him. It was in the still too chaste way he kissed her back that Nouke realized his fear. Before, she ran when his advances grew too brazen with desire, but the circumstances were different: it was finally okay to want him.

A wave of determination surged and Nouke parted their kiss so suddenly, Ahkmenrah’s dark eye shrunk with sobering fear and his hands fell away—abruptly over cautions. 

“What?” he whispered; eyes unblinking and earnest.

Nouke smiled, allaying some of his fear. Her heart was racing as she straddled his crisscrossed legs, rising above him enough to make a proper show of sliding her garment from her shoulders.

In a whisper of movement, the warn linen fell down her torso, pooling at the slight flare of her hips. Nouke gasped as the cool night air of the desert tingled over her bared skin causing her nipples to harden.

Ahkmenrah’s trained eyes never left hers, still too guarded to ogle her bared breasts, but his eyes smoldered once more into inky pools. The stars in the heavens glittered in their black mirror, and Nouke was certain the sky was never more beautiful than when it was reflected in his eyes. His breathing had all but stopped, his body completely still. Ahk swallowed, and the slow bob of his Adam's apple was somehow inherently a display of his own desire.

Without breaking their trance, Nouke found his hands with her own and laid them upon her naked flesh in an act of unbridled consent.

“Touch me, Ahk,” she murmured. “Please.”

She didn’t have to ask him twice. 

His eyes drifted with wonder to where his fingers began to map her skin; the gentle friction of his hands was like striking a match inside of her. Nouke was powerless to the fire of his touch as it blossomed and spread. She could think of no words eloquent enough to describe the sensation of Ahk’s soft fingers venturing to explore every bit of her flesh. How many times had she indulged in the fantasy before that moment? Nouke couldn’t recall, but the reality was so much more profound than she could have ever imagined.

She whined in the back of her throat when he tentatively brushed the sides of her breasts, his thumbs sweeping over her sensitive nipples. Every ounce of Ahkmenrah’s hesitation evaporated as he read the language of her body, and the sounds his caresses coaxed out from deep in her throat.

As their eyes met again, Nouke found only exuberant desire and a thoughtful adoration free of hesitation in her lover's eyes, causing affection to swell in her breast. The grin that twisted onto the pharaoh's lips was impish; dripping with enthusiasm and a possessive pride that drove through her very nerves in a wave of molten desire.

Ahk drew her against his chest, luring her into a bruising kiss that filled her eyes with stardust. The play of his mouth and tongue was hungry and strong; overwhelmingly intoxicating paired with the way his blunt nails bit into the flesh of her back as he pulled her impossibly closer. She purred invitingly when his mouth left her to lay wet kisses down her neck and the center of her chest. 

Nouke leaned into each nip—craving more and more of his lush ministrations. His mouth skirted along the globe of her breast, dragging his tongue over its curve before swirling the sensitive peak. She rejoiced the sensation with a sharp inhale, her body wantonly arching against him. Ahk’s responding growl reverberated through them both; a sound, deep and guttural, escaping into the air as he moved his focus to her other breast with the same fervor.

Nouke’s fingers tangled in his hair, tugging as she hugged his face against her chest. All manner of rational thought was rapidly clouding over with a fog of desire, allowing her the mind only a moment to ponder which felt better against her skin: the pharaoh’s teeth or his tongue. Regardless, Ahkmenrah’s mouth was divine wherever he sought to put it.

Gradually, his kisses ventured in an upward trajectory; nipping and sucking and licking all the way from the swell of her breast, across the rise of her collarbone until lingering at the hollow of her neck. The warm silk of his lips pressed against her pulse as he laved the single spot, suckling a possessive mark until he cajoled a soft, wanton whine from her.

Nouke could feel the curl of his smirk against her flesh before he smoothed the bruise he’d left with his tongue. His mouth worked to hers again, capturing it with the same possessive pride—his tongue flicking across her lips causing her mouth to fall open with a sigh.

Ahk broke away long enough to shed the servant's tunic he wore, yanking it over his head in a single, swift movement that did little in the way of hindering their pace. Nouke bit her lip to keep from smiling too foolishly as she drank in the sight before her; his lean torso and sculpted shoulders smattered with freckles. Her pharaoh was a vision so beguiling; his physicality alone sent heat rushing between her thighs.

Before she had eloquently taken in the play of the muscles in his arms, they came to wrap around her once more, squeezing her, and the newfound friction of their naked skin elicited a shared moan. Nouke's arousal was dripping; aching to feel him inside her for the first time. 

Ahk’s mouth moved against her’s as he masterfully cradled her waist and shifted them, laying Nouke amidst the nest of woven mats and cushions. He rocked back onto his haunches, eyes half-lidded and twinkling, as he drank in the sight of her with an open-mouthed expression of wonderment. Nouke did the same, propping herself on her elbows.

In the dull glow of the dying lamplight and the spill of Khonshu’s silver rays, her mighty pharaoh looked ethereal. The rise and fall of his proud chest, glittering with a light sheen of sweat, and the disheveled curls on his head were a sight she would hold forever.

Akhmenrah wet his lips as he crawled over her—the flash of his tongue utterly tantalizing. He buried his face in her neck, kissing the skin tenderly, the hot fan of his breath fostering a wave of goosebumps and she sighed. When he spoke, Nouke could feel the brush of his lips against her ear, and it made her toes curl.

“Will you allow me to worship you?” The base note of his voice dropped lower than usual, dripping sweet and sinfully and she almost moaned on account.

“Yes,” Nouke breathed out, one hand moving to tangle in his scalp, the other anchoring and digging into his shoulder as he laid across her. 

The grin that Ahk met her with was absolutely lascivious; an expression so affectionate and salacious, warmth rippled through her body with an impassioned tide, causing Nouke's toes to curl and her mouth to fall open with a sigh because of it.

The pharaoh wasted no time trailing his deft lips down the middle of her torso, tasting the stack of her ribs—kissing them each tenderly as he went. Even the dip of her waist he lavished delicately with enthuse as though every part of her flesh was the sweetest nectar. His hands moved in tandem: trailing to knead each breast and laying light scratches down her sides before pressing into the soft swell of her hips.

In the stillness of the air, Nouke was almost certain the rapid beat of her heart thrummed louder than a parade of drums when Ahkmenrah gathered fistfuls of the garment hiding her center. His eyes skated up to meet hers, asking silent permission and she responded with an anticipatory gasp, raising her hips so that he could slide the bunched fabric off, leaving her bare before him.

As Ahk knelt between her thighs, his eyes exploring every dip, curve and swell, heat rushed to color Nouke's cheeks. Never had her few, heedless rendezvous' made her feel as profoundly exposed as she did then. It was a new level of intimacy that made her both acutely nervous and overwhelmingly excited.

Even so, a thread of apprehension stitched into the features of Nouke’s face, suddenly aware that Ahkmenrah was a king, and accustomed to only the finest things. She was no glittering princess. She was just the servant girl who loved him with all of her heart.

An unbridled look of awe consumed the pharaoh’s features as his mouth drew into an affectionate grin, bottom lip caught between his teeth.

“I have traveled across Egypt and never looked upon such profound beauty,” he promised with enough conviction it was able to combat her blush, and her lips quirked into a grin of her own.

“Have you not seen yourself?” Nouke's eyes danced down his flawless torso, lingering on the hard line of him straining the fabric of his shendyt.

Ahk beamed all white teeth and full lips, sending butterflies to occupy her stomach.

“Your loveliness is beyond comparison," he assured her.

Her heart swelled and pounded rapidly as she held his gaze, her every breath long and slow. For all the apprehension she felt moments ago, all that remained was wanton need and affection.

His fingertips swept over the tops of her thighs—feather-light—as his wide smile softened into a gentle smirk.

“Lie back,” he instructed, gingerly urging her legs further apart. 

Nouke did as he asked, locking her eyes with the stars as she reminded herself to breathe—the sensation of Ahk’s hands brushing closer to her heated center so distracting to all of her senses.

Without warning, a single, thick finger drew a swift line threw her center and he hummed, pleased at how wet she already was.

The surprise and the teasing way he only just swept over the bundle of nerves hidden in her core inspired a surge of pleasure so grand it manifested in the form of a gasp Nouke was both unable and unwilling to smother. Ahkmenrah purred again, a satisfied and lewd note, rumbling from deep in his chest that, itself, strove to finish her.

Ahk had only begun to touch her where she’d longed to have him, and already her body was begging to accommodate him. The desperate need to passionately tangle herself with another soul—with Ahk—was more than just a heedless play of the flesh. Nouke surrendered to it, bliss encompassing her entire spirit.

An unabashed and playfully arrogant smile played on Ahk's beautiful lips when she risked a look his way. The sight of the pharaoh Ahkmenrah nestled between her legs, looking so pleased, fixated warm knots in her stomach. Teasing kisses burnished the skin of her thighs; each closer to the hidden part of her, making the knots pull tighter with the ache of anticipation. Nouke whined feeling his impish smile against her skin.

Before Nouke could utter a verbal complaint to protest his playful lips, Ahk dropped his mouth to her; drawing his tongue up and flat through the center of her folds, stopping to curl around the bud of her clit.

Nouke’s hips bucked to chase the sensation of his mouth, her head falling back as her eyes fluttered shut, a moan rumbling from her throat. 

"Oh...Ahk..."

Aptly, and without relinquishing his task, Ahkmenrah guided her legs to moar over his shoulders, her heels falling to dig into his back. A shudder shook her when the rush of his hot breath puffed against her quim, and the stars spinning in her eyes barely had time to settle before he swept his tongue through her silky folds a second time.

Ahkmenrah’s mouth worked her with all the confidence of a virile king—a notion that spurred a lusty haze to consume her— prompting his name to spill from her lips in awe and praise. Nouke welcomed the pleasure, letting every distinction of his ministrations kindle and feed the fire engulfing her. She willfully drowned in a bliss she had never known the like of before, wonderfully powerless to swim the current of his love.

Nouke arched to get closer, her body springing with abandon, brazen and greedy as she wove her fingers into his hair—tugging. Ahk stiffened his tongue, running it out to flick against her before sliding between her folds, avidly sampling the nectar within, and Nouke rolled unashamedly against his face. She was drawing tight around him, the beginning of the end finally in sight, and Ahk flicked against her in quick, delicate strokes until she keened and shuddered, yanking his hair.

Her hips swiveled again when his tongue brushed over the sensitive bundle, causing Nouke's vision to blur as that swollen bud became the focus of the pharaoh's ministrations. The heat pulsing through her began to coil tighter until she was tense and trembling—skirting the edge of her release. Every rapid hammer of her heart was muffled by every wanton moan that escaped upon every breath she took.

Ahk’s shoulders started to roll as his tongue slid and pressed and flitted to taste her, lapping up every ounce of her arousal with glee. He added a finger, then another, both hooking perfectly inside her causing Nouke's hips to buckle and her hands to tug his curls, finally tumbling over the peak of pleasure with a long moan.

All at once, Nouke’s breath caught as a flush spread across her chest. Her vision tunneled, graying the haze as he nipped the swollen bud, wrapping his lips around it and sucking as she came. She cried out, her body shaking, ears ringing, and wonderfully at the mercy of her climax. 

Ahkmenrah slowed to delicate sweeps, carrying her gently through every tremble of her orgasm until she laid still. He waited until her fluttering stopped, sweetly kissed the juncture of her thigh in parting, then rocked onto his haunches to suck his fingers into his mouth, groaning happily while licking his fingers and glistening lips clean of her essence—obviously pleased with himself.

She smirked seeing his playful arrogance, and she implored him to kiss her with the peak of her tongue wetting her lips. Ahk’s grin grew; the puckish quirk of his gorgeously plump lips enough to work another wave of want to pool low in her belly.

He moved up her torso slowly, laying kisses to every inch of bared flesh, each spark sent to refuel her fire. When his mouth found hers, there was a musty undertone coating his lips that she quickly realized was her self, and Nouke chased the new tang with her tongue and ample curiosity.

Ahk shifted his weight, pressing his body against hers, kindling a euphoric friction that coupled deliciously with his dominating kiss, stirring a moan to spill from her lips. The hard line of his cock pressed against her hip evoked the familiar heat of desire and urgency to build rapidly. All at once, Nouke was overcome with the primal need to have him buried deep inside her.

“Ahk?” she bit out on a heated breath, breaking their kiss as her fingers moved to fumble the waistline of his only remaining garment.

Ahkmenrah grinned as a shiver shook him from the feel of her eager fingers toying with the fabric. Tenderly, he tilted their foreheads together, locking his eyes with hers, and she almost gasped seeing the affection swirling amidst the colors of blue and gray.

“Are you ready for me, my love?” he asked in a low bravado that made her shiver.

His hand snaked down every curve of her body before sliding a digit through her wet folds, causing her to exhale sharply.

“Yes,” she husked out just before Akh’s deft finger dipped inside, curling and making her body shake. 

With a whine, she mourned it’s sudden loss while Ahkmenrah adjusted to make quick work of his shendyt. As he tossed the garment aside, Nouke took a moment to mentally thank all the gods responsible for creating someone as breathtakingly ethereal as her pharaoh—especially when she could marvel at all of his perfect assets properly.

Nouke half expected him to say something witty or charming when he returned her devilish grin, but instead, he surprised her by claiming her mouth, tenderly pulling her beneath him. In a swift, delicate thrust, he filled her, fixing them together as one being as her name tumbled from his lips in a guttural groan.

"Oh..fuck...you feel so good."

A shudder worked through her whole body as her legs wrapped around his waist, arms twining around his neck—relishing in the feel of him.

"So do you," Nouke gasped. The sensation was delightfully more profound than she previously thought possible. She savored every second, fearing the high would never truly be as grand as the initial time he sated her.

When her eyes fluttered open to share that moment with her magnificent king, his eyes were slits, his bottom lip caught between his teeth—the incarnation of pure ecstasy above her.

A slow undulation took to her hips, imploring him to move when he stayed still to savor her warmth around him as long as he could. Ahk hummed as she moved against him in search of friction, and he kissed her sweetly, carding his fingers through her hair.

"Make love to me, Ahkmenrah" she begged, rolling her pelvis against his, causing him to moan.

The pharaoh kissed her as he withdrew himself almost completely, then gently pushed back in teasingly slow, provoking a sigh past Nouke's lips. He set a firm, but unhurried rhythm that built the pleasurable pressure they were both starving for perfectly. 

Nouke’s hands drifted from their place around his neck, raking her nails along his sculpted shoulders and down the muscles of his back, digging into his flesh in a gambit to hold her pharaoh against her. She was hungry to feel every inch of his body grinding with her own. When his thick fingers twisted and tangled into her hair, tugging firmly to tilt her head back, exposing the column of her throat, she sighed only to moan as his lips blazed a trail of sloppy kisses down her neck.

Ahkmenrah smiled at the sound he stirred and suckled with a little more fervor as he went, leaving multiple marks of his affection over her pulse and along her collarbone. She whined when his hand left her hair and rediscovered the globe of her breast, the soft pad of his thumb dancing over her nipple. They tingled to a point, and Ahk made an approving sound low in his chest.

The stimulation of his capable lips and hands, while his hips thrust into her with slow intimacy, was altogether otherworldly. Ahkmenrah worked her body with masterful finesse, able to conjure any noise he pleased with skillful ease. And she was lost in it. He loved her; she could feel it in every tender push of himself into her. Every move he savored as much as she did—her heart was unimaginably full.

Nouke’s hands fell to the curve of his flexing ass, nails sinking into the firm muscle. Ahkmenrah’s moan carried into the air, sweet and wonderfully obscene against the quiet; and Nouke captured his lips with a hungry kiss to muffle it.

Her enthusiasm prompted his tender rolling movements to give way to sharp, shorter thrusts that were delightful. Nouke was close; every hurried thrust and kiss tightened the coil in her abdomen, and the strain on Ahk’s face told her he was teetering on the brink too.

With another thrust, she crested, back bowing, and the rush of blood in her ears muffled her own cries: his name breathless on her lips and tangled in a string of other deities. Ahk’s hands cradled her, twisting behind her back to carry her through every moment of utter euphoria. 

“I’ve got you, my love,” he murmured next to her ear—his voice low and smokey. “I’ve got you.”

His thrusts slowed to their previous gentle pace as she trembled and rode the rest of her release in his arms until she stilled. When her eyes opened, Ahk’s were on her’s, captivated. 

He was still unsatisfied inside her, heavy with need, but he laid just as still as she did, awe twinkling in his eyes. 

“Your turn,” Nouke husked out in a heated breath, her lips quirking into a smile as she traced his jaw with the tips of her fingers.

He smiled before they kissed, and she could feel his affection bursting from the meditative draw of his lips.

The roll of his hips gradually reached a frantic rhythm, desperate to find his own release as an animalistic sound rumbled past his lips when her textured walls tightened around him with every thrust.

Nouke’s devilish grin was hard to quell as she took in the sight of her king; the sheen of sweat glistening on his furrowed brow, lips swollen and wet, his eyes shut tight with concentration. Ahkmenrah had always been breathtaking, but seeing him wrapped in the throes of passion painted him in a new light that had her mouth watering.

Another wanton sound tumbled from his mouth when Nouke guided him close enough to draw her tongue over his Adam’s apple—suckling and teasing his neck to leave her own mark for the world to see. He shuddered, and his desperate thrusts grew even more erratic as she worked him to the peak of his passion every way she knew how.

Ahkmenrah came with her name spilling sloppily from his mouth in a flurry of sounds that swiftly molded into throaty moans. She felt him twitch inside her, a hot splash filling her with his seed, then he went still.

Nouke watched his half lidded eyes slowly drift to her while she gingerly toyed with the curls on his head, lulling him gradually back to reality.

“I love you,” he murmured, eyes sparkling down at her.

Nouke was certain her smile was absurd and telling of her affection. Her heart was pounding hearing him say those little words.

“And I, you. Now and forever.”

He matched her grin, kissing her once more, and maneuvered to lay next to her. Nouke fit herself to his form—he was warm in the cool air of night—resting her chin on his chest.

“Stay,” she begged gently, not wanting their time together to ever end.

He met her marveling eyes with a softness that wrapped around her heart and mended everything to have ever broken it.

"I wouldn’t dream of ruining this moment in any way.”

Tears threatened to prickle her eyes, but Nouke fought them. Instead, she kissed his chest and nestled herself there, where the thrumming sound of his heart could lull her to sleep as she hugged him to ensure he never again left her. 

Moment by moment, the weight of the world faded around them until all that remained was the weight of the other tethering them to reality. 

Next Chapter-> Chapter Thirteen: Love Over Duty

[lowritesthings]

Resonance

Part 6 of ?? (Part One) << Previous // Next >>

In the hours before it comes down, you shower and change back into your own clothes before washing Tifa’s loaner clothes. Next you sit down to examine your new weapon. There’s materia already slotted into the gun’s grip, two green orbs that radiate a healthy glow. Healing and wind materia, you see once you’ve examined them more closely. You vaguely remember how to tap into the materia’s power and hope you won’t need to until you get a refresher course in that, too.

You take the day to rest up, but as night sets in you decide you’re still too tired to cook and head out to find dinner in one of the food stalls along the main street. That’s when you hear the rumors around town.

“Yeah, some merc beat up a Turk at the church—”

“Nah, he beat up the Turk near the Leaf House. He had a huge sword—”

“Have you seen the blonde guy with Aerith, helping people out?”

“I think he used to be a SOLDIER? Oates knows more…”

It’s got to be Cloud. Your heart leaps in your chest at the idea, and your first thought is that you need to tell Tifa he’s alive. Your second thought is that she’ll be on her way to Don Corneo’s tonight, probably before you can reach her with the news.

Maybe if you can find Cloud and send him over to Seven, he can stop her in time and the team can come up with a better plan. But no one you ask knows where he is. Some say he’s gone into the scrapyards, but most seem to think he’s on his way out of Five already. Oates shrugs when you find him.

“He was here doing odd jobs with Aerith, but he kept saying he was in a hurry.” 

You consider going to Aerith’s house before deciding that you’re just looking for an excuse to go back to Sector Seven. Plus you’ve been walking around town for a while and haven’t caught a glimpse of either Cloud or Aerith, so perhaps he has already made his way out of town.

Then you spot the first helicopter.

It’s a long way off, but you can see that it’s headed for Sector Seven. The dread you’ve been feeling all day starts to rise again, making your stomach feel like a pit of snakes.

You stop trying to justify your desire to return to Seven and just move, stopping only to grab your emergency medical bag from home. Then you’re heading toward the chocobo carriages at a jog. Normally you’d never spend so much gil on something as trivial as a drive over to Sector Seven, but tonight you don’t even flinch.

“Hurry,” you tell the driver. Then there’s nothing to do but wait with a stomach full of wriggling eels for the ride to be over.

—

You can see muzzle flash and hear gunshots long before the carriage stops. You dive out of the back and hit the ground running, shoving past The Shinra guards at the gate trying to keep the panicked Sector Seven residents from leaving the slums. You ignore their shouts and head directly for the pillar and they let you go, too busy securing the main exit to bother chasing you. There are crowds of other residents in the streets, confused and afraid, and more than once you have to shove through or swerve around them as you press onward.

You skid to a halt at the gate surrounding the bottom of the towering structure, your eyes searching through the members of the Neighborhood Watch and Avalanche as they make their way up the stairs. You can hear Barret a few flights above you, shouting orders and shooting up at the helicopters they swoop in to drop off Shinra ground security.

Suddenly you spot them. Biggs, Wedge and Jessie are preparing to head up the pillar themselves. It’s Jessie that sees you, eyes widening as she takes in your rapid breathing and flushed face.

“Did you run the whole way here?” she asks, beaming at you when you scowl at her. She winks and slings an arm over your shoulders, hauling you over to Biggs and Wedge by the neck.

“Hey, good to see you again so soon,” Wedge says with a jovial smile. How he can be so cheerful seconds before charging into battle is slightly baffling to you, but part of his charm. It certainly helps you gather your own courage.

You glance at Biggs and find his eyes already locked on to your face. His brow furrows as he searches your expression.

“The whole idea of dropping you off today was to keep you out of trouble,” he says. You ignore the disapproval in his voice.

“Hard to do that when all my friends are about to run right into it,” you reply, trying to sound casual. You almost nail it, but your voice wavers a little at the end, and the arm Jessie’s thrown around your shoulders tightens in a comforting gesture.

“Don’t worry, we’re not public enemy number one for no reason. They’re the ones that just picked the wrong fight,” she tells you with a wink and a predatory grin. “I’m gonna go, see you two at the top,” she says to Biggs and Wedge. Then she kisses the side of your head, gives the guys a jaunty wave, and takes off up the steps.

Your eyes move up the pillar, catching a glimpse of Barret as he continues barreling up the metal stairs toward the top. Dread creeps higher, like an icy flood pooling in your belly.

Wedge wraps you in a hug. “It’s gonna be okay,” he murmurs in your ear. “We’ve been through tougher fights than this.”

He lets go and gives you a confident smile, then shoots Biggs one last significant look before following Jessie up.

As soon as he’s disappeared around a bend in the stairs, Biggs is on you in a flash. He grabs your arm, his eyes burning into yours.

“You can’t be here,” he says in a low, urgent voice. There’s panic in his eyes, you think...panic because of your presence here? “They’re trying to drop the plate. You can’t be anywhere near here when that happens.”

You’d already guessed that, but horror still flashes through you like lightning when you hear it confirmed out loud.

“What I can’t do is leave when you’re about to run up those stairs and make some kind of heroic last stand,” you reply, your voice sharper than you mean it to be because of your own rising panic. “Biggs, we should be evacuating, not—”

“Evacuations have started, but the guards aren’t budging and people are having to go the long way, through the sewers. We’ve got to hold these guys off long enough for everyone to get out,” he tells you.

Your heart clenches painfully. “You don’t think you’re coming back down,” you say in an odd, flat voice you don’t recognize as your own.

He doesn’t answer but his throat bobs as he swallows hard, and you know you’re right. Tears fill your eyes and you give them an angry swipe with the back of your free hand.

“I’m staying,” you tell him, firm and uncompromising.

“No way in hell—” he starts, but you glare at him and say, “I can help the ones that get wounded. Or I can help with the evacuations. But I can’t just run off and save my own skin, and you know me too well to think that was ever really an option in the first place.”

“You got to,” he says, a pained sort of helplessness in your voice. “Damn it, I thought you were safe. I’ve got to know you’re getting out of here in one piece before—”

“No. If you’re staying, so am I. So you and Barret and the others had better win, do you hear me?”

You hadn’t noticed you were doing it, but now you realize that your hands are on his chest, fingers curled tight in the fabric of his shirt, and you give him a shake. His hands are gripped around your arms now, just above your elbows.

“You come down or I’m going up after you.” The tears are back and you grit your teeth and fight them down, along with the huge lump in your throat.

“You crazy, stubborn—” He chokes off and yanks you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you in a desperate embrace. “When this is over, I’ll find you,” he promises. You bury your face in his chest, feeling your tears dampening his shirt.

“You’d better,” you reply. He pulls back, just a little—just enough to look down into your eyes again. Then his jaw clenches. He cups your face, tilts your head back and kisses you. It’s hard and anguished, both of you gripping each other like the universe itself is trying to drag you away from one another...and then you’re both forced to break apart to gasp for air. He closes his eyes and rests his forehead against yours.

“I had to do that,” he says after a moment, lifting his head from yours, “just in case…”

He trails off and you surge up on your toes to kiss him again. “I know,” you say. “I’m glad you did. Now get up there and stop them and save us all.”

“Will do,” he says, trying to flash his usual, roguish smile. It doesn’t quite work, but you attempt your own smile in return.

“See you soon,” you tell him. It comes out like an order and his smile turns into a bit of a grin.

“Soon,” he promises, giving you a gentle squeeze. Then he presses one last, lingering kiss to your forehead before he lets you go and turns, charging up the stairs before you can stop him.

You stand there feeling utterly bereft for a couple of seconds. Then turn to a small group of Neighborhood Watch members trying to keep the area at the base of the pillar clear.

“I’m a medic,” you tell them. “Where can I set up?”

—-

The night passes in a blur after that. Barret’s shouts can be heard from above, though it’s not long before he’s too high for you to make out his exact words. You push out everything but the work: you patch bullet holes and treat burns from flamethrowers. When burning debris falls from the sky, you start having to treat civilians as well as combatants.

Wedge falls from the tower, but you don’t get a chance to help him. You see him limp off with Aerith toward the gates and realize that Cloud must be here too. The fighting intensifies above you. A chopper goes down, then another.

Then Wedge is grabbing you.

“What are you still doing here?” he yells. “You’ve got to get out!”

“People still need my help—” you start to say, but he shakes you hard.

“We’re losing. Even with Cloud. Tifa sent someone to get Marlene. It’s time for you to go too.”

“But Biggs—”

“That’s why you’ve got to go. You know he’d do anything to save the people he cares about. You’re the only one left he can keep safe. Don’t let him fail,” Wedge says, and you’re forcing down sobs because you know he’s right even though you can barely stand the thought of escaping while your friends are still here fighting.

“Go.” Wedge shoves you toward the gates. You stumble another step forward on your own, then hesitate and turn back.

“GO!” he roars, and you turn and run.

You make it to the playground at the border, start to help pull other people out of the tunnel and direct them deeper into Sector Six, but you’ve only been there for a few seconds when the plate begins to fall out of the sky.

You watch, stunned, as huge chunks of city rain down into the slums, accompanied by giant explosions with shock waves that knock you off your feet. Someone reaches out and drags you under some playground equipment: later you’ll find out it was Wymer trying to protect you from any falling debris here at the edge of the sector.

You huddle under cover and watch, frozen and horrified, as one eighth of the city—upper and lower—is completely annihilated. Then you curl up around your knees and bury your head in your arms as the grief crashes into you like a train.

No one else notices. No one comes to comfort you. They’re all grieving too.

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