#injuries like that typically can’t heal that quick

[bb-donghae]

Eunhyuk injured himself the other day but I’m not sure if he’s healed yet cause he’s rolling around on his rideable suitcase.

[aerynwrites]

Losing You

Halsin x GN!Reader

A/N: based on these three requests! Halsin would definitely flip out if you were injured in battle - so here’s a little insight into that scenario. Hope you all enjoy!

Word Count: 2.6k

Warning: canon typical violence, blood, injuries, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort.

You knew the shadow cursed lands were going to be a completely new trial all together, but you weren’t prepared for this. 

The first ambush by the shadow creatures when you first arrived hadn’t been something to cause you great worry. But after reaching last light and venturing out once more, another ambush had taken your group by surprise. 

You’d all been doing fine, Gale and Halsin’s spells holding the most of them off and Shadowheart keeping you all safe and healed. You’d just managed to take out one of the shadows before a panicked call of your name reached your ears. 

You turn just as a creature materializes in front of you, its clawed hand swiping upwards in a flash. 

You don’t even register the pain at first, the creatures strength sending you flying through the air until you land harshly against the cold ground. 

The wind is knocked from your lungs, and it’s then, as you struggle for breath that the pain washes over you in an agonizing wave. 

You faintly register the way you cry out Halsin’s name on instinct, and you hear the way he calls for you in kind. 

But the only thing you fully recognize is the pain. It’s all comsuming, starting in your abdomen and radiating outwards as you try in vain to sit up and turn yourself over to asses the damage. 

Your futile efforts are stopped by a gentle hand on your shoulder, slowly helping you to roll over. 

“My heart…” Halsin’s voice is calm at first, but even in your dazed state you don’t miss the way his words pitch upwards as you finally settle into your back, the sudden movement making you gasp as another wave of pain shoots through you. 

“Shadowheart!” Halsin calls for the cleric, and you can faintly hear Gale telling her to go while he deals with the few remaining enemies. 

Halsin hands are on you now, flitting over your body worriedly as you finally manage to raise your head enough to try and take in the damage. 

Your heart leaps into your throat as you see the damage done. Or rather what you can’t see. There’s so much blood. It runs in thick rivers from the deep wound in your stomach, and seeing the wound just makes the pain elevate. 

Your can feel yourself start to hyperventilate, panic settling in full force as Halsin hovers over you, pulling out what little healing supplies he carries in his pack. 

“Oh gods…” Shadowhearts gasp meets your ears as she finally appears your side. You watch through bleary eyes as she shakes her head. “We have to get them back to last light I…my magic is sapped - I - I don’t have enough power to heal something like this-“

“Then help me with whatever magic you do have,” Halsin barks, voice unusually panicked. “They won’t make it to last light like this I-“ he pauses, eyes flitting over your form. “We must stop the bleeding.” 

“Halsin…” your voice is weak as you call out for you lover, but he is quick to respond, his gaze turning to you as he reaches to take your hand in his bloodied one. 

His eyes look panicked as he gazes down at you and you can see the apology before he utters it. 

“My heart, we…We must stop the bleeding before we can move you. This is going to hurt, I’m so sorry-“

You don’t even have time to question anything before you feel a firm pressure on your wound, the action sending fire through your very veins. 

A scream tears from your throat, hands scrabbling for purchase against the assault. Your fingers finally find Halsin’s familiar form, pushing uselessly at his arms, tears now streaming down you cheeks. 

You can register nothing but the pain, your mind clouded with it, your muscles locking down against the waves of it. 

You feel the pressure shift, another wave of agony pulsing through you before Halsin face is hovering over your own, brows pulled together, eyes glistening with worry. 

You reach up for him then, hands landing on his shoulders as your fingers dig into him, anything to try and relive the pain. 

“It hurts,” you whimper, fear now creeping into your hazy mind. 

He reaches a hand up, cupping your face, and you notice his hands are shaking as he wipes the tears from your cheek. 

You can feel the way your lower lip wobbles as you speak again. 

“Am I going to die?” 

Halsin’s lips set in a firm line then, eyes full of determination. “No, you will not die this day, or you any day I am by your side.” He pauses for a moment, and you see the moment an idea comes over him. 

His eyes slip closed before the familiar golden glow of magic envelops his hand as he reaches it up over you. “I will take your pain away, my love. Then I will be at your side when you wake.” 

You don’t protest as his magic flows through you, pain ebbing away almost instantly as darkness clouds your mind. 

The last thing you feel before unconsciousness consumes you is the gentle press of lips to your cheek.

———

You wake to weak candle light and, surprisingly, little pain. 

The room you’re in is dimly lit by various candles littered around the space, and as it has been since you’ve arrive in these cursed lands, the sky outside remains dark. 

You recognize the last light inn, even in your bleary eyed state. You take a deep breath and close your eyes again, trying to ground yourself. 

The air is cool but not uncomfortable. Your fingers twitch against soft sheets atop an even softer bed. Though you suppose anything is softer than the bedroll you’ve been sleeping on in the last weeks. 

It’s also quiet. Much quieter than your used to for the only safe haven in the shadow cursed lands. Which means it must be well into the evening, everyone having retired to bed. 

You only open your eyes again when the gentle rustle of fabric meets your ears. You turn to the source of the sound, only to be met with the familiar sight of a certain Druid sitting by your bedside, his hand clasped loosely with yours as he leans back in his chair, eyes closed in what you assume to be the trance he falls into at night. 

You squeeze his hand in yours instinctively, seeking out that familiar comfort as the memories from before come slowly back to you. 

Halsin’s eyes open the moment your hand stirs against his own, hazel eyes widening as he takes you in. He lets out a small sigh, lips tugging upwards ever so slightly. 

“You’re awake,” he says simply, scooting closer to your bedside. 

You nod and move to sit up, a sharp gasp escaping your lips at the pain that shoots through your abdomen at the action. 

Halsin is reaching out immediately, hand on your shoulder as he urges you to lay back down. 

“Careful, my heart, your injuries are still fresh. You must not move too much until Shadowheart or I are able to heal you further,” he explains, voice gentle. 

You give him a small nod as you rest back into the pillow, grimacing at the pain now blooming in your abdomen. 

“Gods…” you whisper, “It landed a solid blow, didn’t it?” 

Halsin’s lips fall into a frown, brows drawn tight. He says nothing at first, instead standing to turn to the table near the bed and grab a small cup. 

You watch in silence as he mixes something into the cup before moving to the small fire in the hearth and the pot hanging over it. He dips a ladle into the pot before transferring the contents into the cup and stirring it before returning to your side. 

The cup is steaming, and you catch the faint smell of medicinal herbs and something slightly sweet. 

“Here,” he says softly, holding the cup out as he reaches for you with his other arm. “It should help with the pain. I will help you drink.” 

Halsin slides one arm under your shoulders slowly, delicately lifting you up just enough so you can drink comfortably. The small movement bring no more pain, so once you’re sure you’re secure in Halsin’s hold, you reach up for the cup. 

It’s warm in your hands, and it’s then that you realize just how cold you are. Even with the blankets draped over you, a persistent chill nips at your skin. 

You blow on the still steaming liquid before taking a tentative sip, expecting it to be too hot and also not pleasant in taste. 

You’re surprised on both accounts. 

It’s the perfect temperature, not too hot at all and it actually tastes pleasently sweet. It tastes like…

“Is there honey in this?” You ask, eyes flicking to your lovers only to see his lips twitch upwards. 

“There is,” he smiles now. “I know the taste can be unpleasant and you already know of my penchant for the particular treat…I thought a little something sweet couldn’t hurt.”

You smile at him in return, already feeling the affects of the drink. “Thank you.” 

Halsin continues to support you as you finish off the concoction, and then he takes the cup from you before slowly helping you lay back down. 

The blankets shifted with the small movements, and you can’t stop the shiver that runs down your spin as the cool air kisses your exposed skin. 

“Are you cold?” Halsin asks, concern lacing his words. 

Nodding, you pull the blanket up to your shoulders again, silently taking note of the banded covering most of your torso. 

“It is a little chilly in here,” you admit softly, trying to hide another shiver. 

Halsin turns to look at the fire, the flames dwindling and embers glowing softly. 

“I’ll stoke the fire,” he tells you, turning back to face you. “I need to change your bandages, so I’ll try to make it warmer.” 

He squeezes your hand gently before turning to his new task with you watching on in silence. He pokes the burning logs already in the hearth before adding a few new ones. The flames lick eagerly at the new fuel, and you can feel the room rise in temperature just from that. 

Once Halsin is satisfied he walks to a table across the room and washes his hands in a large bowl of water sitting atop it. 

You watch silently as he goes through the motions, and despite your silent admiration of your lover, you can’t help but notice the stiff set of his shoulders, or the way his lips stay pressed in a thin line. 

When he finally returns to your side, his hands are full of supplies. New bandages, a small bowl that once again smells of something medicinal, and several other items. 

He sets them all down on the small side table next to your bed and gestures to the blanket covering you. 

“May I?” 

You nod, “Of course, Halsin.” 

He nods and folds the blanket down to your waist neatly, finally giving you a clear view of what hid beneath. 

Bandages span from just below your chest all the way below the waistband of your pants. You briefly realize these are not the pants you were wearing when you got injured - the leather armored pants being replaced with simple cotton ones. At least the fact that Halsin was probably the one to change you nullified any embarrassment you may have felt otherwise. 

Neither of you speak as Halsin begins unwinding the old bandages, the white cloth getting more discolored the more he unwraps. When it’s finally fully removed, you’re able to see the full extent of the damage. 

By all accounts you should probably be dead. 

There’s four red, angry claw marks coming from your left hip all the way up and across your stomach to the right side of your ribs. The blood has been cleaned off, but a flash of the pools of crimson liquid pooling on the ground makes you tear your eyes away from the stitched up wounds. 

“H-how…” you trail off, unable to voice the question. 

How am I still alive?

Halsin is quiet at first, focusing instead on cleaning your wounds and gentle applying what you assume to be a healing poultice. 

He lets out a quiet sigh as you flinch against his minstarations, even his earlier concoction not enough to numb the pain from direct touch. 

“In truth…” he pauses. “I was afraid you were going to die on that shadow cursed battlefield.” 

He doesn’t look at you as he continues his work, being even more gentle this time. 

“I…I do not feel fear often. Having had centuries to master that specific part of myself, but…” his words die on his tongue, and you can see the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows thickly. 

“I have not cared so deeply for someone in many years, and the thought - the thought of losing you was more than enough to bring that unfamiliar fear to the forefront of my mind.” 

His words settle into the quiet room, the fire crackling the only sound to penetrate the silence. 

Finally, he speaks as he begins wrapping the new bandages around your middle, hands moving slowly as not to aggravate the wound. 

“Shadowhearts magic was depleted, mine was about to be as well. We used what little magic we could conjure to stabilize you, and then Gale managed to open a portal here to the inn,” he focused on his work as he continues. “I was afraid you were going to die, my heart. And there was little I could do about it.” 

He secures the final piece of cloth before his hands fall back to the bed, fingers digging into the sheets. 

“I would not have survived that.” 

You let out a shaky breath, reaching out to take his hand in your own, unfurling his fingers from the covers to lace them with your own. 

“Hey…” you whisper, gaining his attention enough to tug him towards you. “I’m here. I am alive because of you. I’m okay.” 

Halsin shakes his head, eyes falling closed, “But you could have-“ 

You shush him softly, tugging on his hand more intently. 

“Lay with me?” You ask. “Please?” 

Your lover hesitates, eyes opening to look down at your bandages before looking back up to your pleading eyes. 

You pull him closer again, his thighs now pressed against the edge of the bed. “I’ll be fine I just…” you trail off. “I want you close.” 

Halsin sighs, but not in anger or disappointment. In fact he sounds…relieved. Like the fact that you are alive and no longer on deaths door has finally settled in. 

He nods, helping you adjust to the other side of the bed before he slips in beside you, pulling the covers up around your waist once you’re both settled. 

You want to roll over onto your side and curl into him, but you know you can’t. So you settled for the way Halsin lays on his side instead, his arm draped carefully over your hips, thumb rubbing soothing circles onto the unmarred skin of your right side. 

“I’m not going anywhere, you know,” you whisper, one hand falling to cover Halsin’s. 

You turn to look at him when he doesn’t respond. Leaning in to press a chaste kiss to his lips. He responds in kind, lips molding against yours before pulling away to rest his forehead against your own. 

“And I won’t let you,” he promises. 

You smile as Halsin captures your lips again. The action is full of so much. So much love and care and affection. 

And most importantly, promises to keep you safe. 

A promise you know he’ll fulfill. As many times as it takes. 

[slayingfiction]

Writing about body pain

Body pain happens all the time in real life. When writing your story, you want to bring your characters to life. By creating characters and an environment that is immersive and realistic (as possible), it helps your readers relate to your characters. This is a quick guide to body pain, that is especially useful for all those adventures your characters will be going on. No one survives a dragon attack or war without some kind of injury. At the very least, some muscle soreness.

3 stages of healing:

1st stage: Acute This is the start of the process after getting hurt. Depending on the severity, often lasts up to a week. Characteristics: severe pain, inflammation/swelling, dark bruises (red, black and blue), muscle weakness, muscle spasms, reduced range of motion.

2nd stage: Sub-Acute This is when your body is starting to heal the tissue by creating scar tissue to replace or repair damage. Can last several weeks Characteristics: reduced swelling, bruises are clearing (yellow, green, brown), range of motion is starting to improve,less pain than before.

3rd stage: Chronic This is the final stage of the healing process. It can last months, if not years. Your body is finally adapting to the changes. Pain is no longer associated with the injury, but instead how the body healed. Characteristics: no bruising, little to no swelling, mature scar tissue (usually tough, and harder to move than other tissue), pain is more of an ache, not sharp. If not taking care of, mature scar tissue can cause muscle tension and reduced range of motion. Pain mostly comes on at the end range of a movement, or with stretching.

Visceral Pain:

Visceral pain is organ pain. When one of your organs are causing problems, or are in pain, it typically feels more like a dull pain, or a pressure. The pain is usually vague, so it’s hard to tell where it’s coming from. Thankfully, visceral pain usually follows typical pain patterns, and you can easily find charts online. Example: Lung and diaphragm pain is usually around your neck and shoulders.

Nerve pain:

Nerve pain happens when the nerve is being pinched, compressed or was directly injured. Characteristics: shooting, tingling, zaps, numbness, stabbing or burning. Numbness is not like an analgesic. It can be a reduced sensory feelings, meaning you may not feel it if someone touches that part, but it can be very painful. Nerve pain will follow the length of the nerve.

Bone and joint pain:

These pains are directly associated with a trauma. Pain is localized to the specific bone or joint. Characteristics: Usually described as a sharp pain, especially with movements involving the painful area.

Muscle Pain:

Muscle pain is extensive. Muscles work hard to protect your body while injured. Muscles will tense when the body is in pain, which usually results in more problems. This pain can be caused by overuse, injury, emotional and physical stress, or compensation for other injuries. Characteristics: deep steady aches, sharp, shooting pain, soreness, burning in muscles, spasms. Muscles will have two main problems if not injured: tension and trigger points. Trigger Points (aka knots) happen in very tense muscles. Trigger points follows specific patterns in each muscle. Example: a trigger point in the upper traps muscle is felt in the head, neck and shoulders. Pains and tensions like these can often be the cause of headaches.

Pain priority:

Your brain processes pain in a specific way. Most often, your brain is so busy running everything, when it comes to experiencing pain, it can’t do it all at once. Thankfully. This means, if you have pain in your neck, your back, and your feet, there will usually only be one as the most painful while the others are background pain. The worst pain will usually be associated with your activities, and which part of your body you’re using the most. When getting rid of one of these pains, the next most painful one will be most noticeable. Have you ever had pain on one side of your body, then had it fixed with physio or a massage, then all of a sudden you notice pain somewhere else? It may not be new, it’s just that your body wasn’t focusing on that problem.

Let me know if this was useful to you, or if you have any questions or comments. Please let me know if something I wrote is wrong.

Follow for more writing tips :)

Happy Writing!

[thefreakandthehair]

we feel a little warmer now.

rating: teen & up | wc: 1.1k | tags: canon-typical injuries, pre-relationship, getting together, fluff, light hurt/comfort | prompt: love is a fire that never goes out @steddielovemonth & a happy birthday gift for @henderdads! title from the woods, by hollow coves.

February in Indiana is still the dead of winter— cornfields are barren, trees sway in the wind without their leaves, and the sky seems to have a sheer layer of grey even on the cloudless days.

Eddie’s always loved winter. The shorter days followed by longer nights, snowy Sundays, watching the smoke from a joint or cigarette dance in the freezing air, and excuses to do donuts in the local abandoned grocery store parking lot. He’s always loved winter, or at least he did until his world shattered at his feet, leaving him with injuries that take ages to heal and scars that leave him perpetually cold.

It’s been difficult to explain, even to the people who’d lived it with him. He can’t fully enjoy winter anymore because the cold seeps into his bones, maybe through the scars, maybe just because of the nerve damage. He’ll never know for sure because Hawkins General doesn’t exactly have a Demobat Specialist on staff so he just keeps it to himself.

Well, mostly. Steve knows.

Hiding anything from Steve has proven impossible. His constant chill, his frustration with the new but still-improving limp, the grief, the guilt, the confusing simultaneous euphoria of survival. The only secret he’s managed to keep is the big fat crush he’s harbored, probably since Steve helped find him in the woods.

Maybe earlier. Maybe since high school. He tries not to think about it too much.

The point is, Steve knows and even if Eddie hasn’t said that it breaks his heart to lose the quiet winter nights smoking on the porch or the hood of his van, Steve figures that out, too.

He must, because Eddie nearly jumps out of his freezing skin when knuckles rap on the front door of his and Wayne’s new trailer. There’s a system these days: check the peep hole, crack the door with the chain still attached to confirm, and only then does Eddie open the door completely. An unfortunate system, but he’s far from the town hero that Steve’s been hailed as, albeit against his will.

Speaking of, through the peep hole, he sees Steve standing on his porch wrapped in what looks like a thick hoodie and winter coat.

“Who goes there?” Eddie asks, cracking the door and peering out with one eye.

“It’s me, you ass. Let me in, I have a surprise.”

The door chain unhooks with a metallic click and Steve enters the trailer like he belongs there.

Because he does, Eddie thinks.

“A surprise? For me? Oh, do tell.”

Steve stands in the living room, a live wire if Eddie’s ever seen one. His hair is a little messy, as though he’s been raking his fingers through it. His nose is pink, complemented by his frosty cheeks, and his eyes are wide and wild.

“If it’s overstepping or whatever, we can pretend I never mentioned it but I know how much you miss winter nights. And I uh, I built a fire pit at my house?” His voice pitches up, as though it’s a question.

“You built a fire pit? Today?”

Steve nods. “Yeah. It was a lot easier than I thought it would be honestly, time consuming but, yeah. I built a fire pit. And I was thinking that maybe with the fire and some blankets and a good jacket— a real winter coat, not just your leather jacket— you might be able to get some of that back.”

Eddie tries his best not to think about Steve lugging brick pavers and forcing them into place, thinking about Eddie and his stupid broken internal thermostat. Wanting to give him back something the Upside Down took. Worrying Eddie would somehow see this as overstepping.

It’s a quick Yes and even quicker drive to Loch Nora, a drive that Eddie’s always found hilarious. How can two neighborhoods exist so close together but feel like different worlds?

The whole way there, Eddie keeps Steve talking. If Steve’s talking, there’s less room for Eddie to spill yet another truth inadvertently, the only one left to spill. Instead, he asks questions about work, and Robin, and if he’s heard from his parents.

(“It sucks,” “she’s great,” “nope”. In that order.)

Pulling into the driveway, Eddie hops out of the car as best he can in one of Wayne’s old winter coats and follows Steve to the backyard. His jaw drops when he sees exactly what Steve’s done. More than a simple circle of bricks, there’s a pit made of concrete blocks in the center of a larger circle filled with wood chips and grey pavers marking the perimeter. Wood logs are already split in a pile off to the side next to two lawn chairs and dear God, Eddie really hopes that Steve bought that already split. He’s still not over him swinging on demobats with his bare hands, and the image of him with an axe is enough to put him down for good.

“C’mon, I’ll get it started,” Steve nudges their shoulders together and walks through the pit to the stack of logs.

Steve gets a roaring fire going, the kind that cracks and burns both red and blue, and passes Eddie an extra blanket. Flames dance beneath the clear sky, speckled with stars that do little to distract him from how unbearably warm he is for the first time in months.

People don’t just do things like this for him, not without expectation or out of obligation. So much of Eddie’s life has felt like a spectrum spanning from pity to transactional with very few exceptions in between.

Then again, Steve feels like an exception to a lot of things.

“Why?” Eddie eventually asks, exhaling a puff of cigarette smoke like a kid seeing his breath.

Steve shrugs and tosses the butt of his own cigarette into the flames. “You lost enough down there, and I know how that feels. If there’s something easy enough to fix, I want to. You deserve that.”

Eddie turns and sees Steve smiling, just a soft upturn of his lips as he looks up at the sky. His face is flushed and Eddie wants to think it’s not from the flames.

“You’re really something, you know that?” Eddie says, scooting his chair over close enough for the arms of their chairs to nearly touch.

Steve looks back from the sky to Eddie, long lashes and the scar on his neck on full display.

“That a good thing?”

Eddie nods. “Oh yeah, definitely. Maybe the best thing.”

They sit outside for hours, eventually sharing a blanket draped around their shoulders and a first kiss that lights him up from the inside.

Eddie’s warm long after the fire burns out.

[caspersickfanfics]

Weathering the Storm

AO3 | Ask | Rules

Warnings: vomiting, migraines, discussions about death in hypotheticals, discussions about life threatening illness (Eleazar), arguments, anxiety, grief, nausea, fear, one (1) awful pun

(it sounds scary but no one dies, I promise)

Takes place shortly before all the stuff with Azar and the archon quest!

Fill for @monthofsick Novemetober Rescheduled day 27 (Head pain/injury/ache). Cyno gets to be in the caretaking role for once for his birthday ! :D

It feels like the sky is bleeding.

Water splashes heavily onto the ground, softening it so that Cyno’s steps fall almost silently. His pace is quick, even as the muddy earth seems to cling to his bare feet. There’s no deadline; only his own desire to be home is urging him forward. His last mission had gone well, but it had been longer than Cyno preferred or had planned for. It’s not the first time he’s gone weeks without sending word to Tighnari. By now, the forest watcher has his own ways of gathering intel. Cyno knows that, regardless of direct communication, Tighnari will have reached out to his contacts. A necessity to calm his ever present and very valid fear for Cyno’s wellbeing. Still, something about Tighnari's lack of recent communication makes him vaguely uneasy. As he nears his destination, his steps pick up speed. The clouds continue to pour.

Gandharva Ville, when he finally reaches it, feels subdued. The rain drops onto the rooftops, a blanket over the town, drowning out every other sound. The hazy mood reminds Cyno of his own weary bones, at odds with the itching, restless energy that buzzes beneath his skin.

Through the darkness, he realizes that Tighnari is waiting for him. He’s momentarily impressed that his partner could hear, let alone recognize, his footsteps through the storm. Something inside him settles. Then, almost immediately, Cyno reverts to a state of high alert, picking up on subtle indicators that all is not well.

Tighnari’s ears are turned backwards and pressed against his skull, his posture rigid. Years of practice mean that Cyno can read Tighnari easily. He’s disgruntled, high strung, and upset; entirely in contrast with his typical laidback demeanor. As soon as Cyno is within reach, the forest watcher drags him inside with an expression that stings to look at, almost akin to a snarl.

Cyno nearly relaxes again when Tighnari begins to look him up and down, clinically, assessing for damage. His body is begging to unwind, and this is their normal routine. And yet, even as he yearns to turn off his mind, he can’t help but notice that while Tighnari is as gentle as always, he’s notably less steady. Rushed, and also… clumsy. When his hands start to shake, Cyno grabs them.

“Stop. Tighnari. I’m fine.”

His partner scowls. He pulls away, and then returns to his initial task without a word. He pushes and pokes and prods, grumbling unintelligibly under his breath, and although Cyno wants nothing more than to smooth the wrinkles between Tighnari’s brows, he doesn’t think it would be welcomed. He maintains as much stillness as he can, the way one might freeze in an attempt to avoid startling a skittish animal. Tighnari only seems to become more agitated. Cyno is still sopping wet, trying to rack his brain for what might have caused the other man such distress.

“Did I wake you up?” He asks. It’s only 8 pm.

Tighnari scoffs. “Of course not.” He manages to look even more annoyed at the question.

Cyno flounders. This was not at all how he’d imagined his return home. He mourns his hopes for a warm welcome and suppresses a very physical urge to shiver. When he speaks again, his throat is tight and his voice sounds small. “Nari?”

Frown deepening, Tighnari remains silent, frantic in his movements. His breathing kicks up its pace as he putters about. He’s finished assessing Cyno’s state and begins the process of cleaning small cuts and slathering salve on bruises that would be just fine to heal on their own. Cyno hadn’t even noticed them; compared to the last time he was here, the damage its negligible. Cyno has shown up on Tighnari’s doorstep poisoned and dying in the past, and the extent of his emotional response then had been an eye roll and an exasperated (albeit fond) sigh. To see Tighnari this frazzled now, without knowing why, is concerning.

The rain outside continues, relentless and loud on the rooftop. Cyno’s chest prickles. His brain strains for some kind of explanation for Tighnari’s strange mood, and he feels a cold fear shoot through his veins at the answer his brain supplies.

Cyno starts scanning Tighnari’s body wherever he can see exposed skin. He’s pacing now, and his movements do seem oddly stilted. Cyno catches his arm, breaking the rhythm of his strides.

“Are you injured?” He can’t see any bruises or blood, but that kind of thing could be easily covered by the casual cloak that blankets most of Tighnari’s body - not to mention the possibility of internal injury. The thought causes a sharp, stabbing sensation just below his collarbone. “Are you sick?”

“Don’t be silly,” Tighnari hisses. He turns away, seemingly looking for some other way to heal Cyno’s near non-existent wounds. The matra’s jaw tightens.

“Something’s wrong, Tighnari. Tell me.”

Tighnari’s shoulders hike up with a jolt, tension evident throughout his whole body, and he whirls around looking about ready to shake Cyno by the shoulders. He doesn’t, but his hands curl up into fists at his side, spine gone rigid.

“You! You’re what’s wrong, Cyno. You’re never around and— and why are you such a mess every single time you show up here, always injured or exhausted or ill, why– why can’t you take better care of yourself?” Of us, he doesn’t say, but Cyno hears it anyway, because this isn’t the first time it’s been a problem.

Tighnari is trembling.

Cyno thinks he should probably be more worried about the venom in his partner’s voice than he is. He’s only ever heard Tighnari speak with this tone during discussions about morally corrupt institutions and the people who reinforce them. Probably, Cyno should be much more worried about this and the fact that it is now directed towards him. And yet… His gaze zeroes in on Tighnari’s unsteady, balled up fists with the highest degree of intensity.

Tighnari is trembling.

“Let’s sit down,” Cyno suggests, biting back his fear and finally moving away from the entrance of the hut. He reaches for Tighnari’s arm out of habit only to see it snatched away. The forest watcher whirls around, tail snapping back and forth behind him.

“You’re dripping water everywhere,” Tighnari seethes as Cyno moves to settle in the chair near his desk. Cyno is quiet; he doesn’t bother to mention that he would’ve dried off had he been offered a towel. He’ll clean the mess later. He can feel his body flagging, having been traveling nearly the entire day, but he forces himself to focus so that he can study Tighnari carefully.

The other man sits on the far end of the bed, practically on the opposite side of the room to himself, arms crossed, ears flat. He’s still grumbling about Cyno’s belated visit and lack of self-preservation, and Cyno feels his frown deepen, more confused with each passing second.

“Tighnari—” He has to interrupt to get a word in. “I’m sorry. I know my work is… inconvenient.” Tighnari scoffs at the word choice, thunder crashes, but Cyno presses on. “But— I want to make sure you’re okay. You don’t look well.”

In fact, Tighnari looks remarkably worse for the wear. With the storm's most recent roar, the fight seems to have drained out of him, and he rubs a hand over his frighteningly pale face. “I’m tired, Cyno. Let’s just… go to sleep.”

It doesn’t sit right.

Cyno complies only because he has no better suggestions, and because a small, hopeful voice suggests that rest may be just what they both need in order to clear up this mess tomorrow. Tighnari says nothing when Cyno stands to clean up the water. The forest watcher readies himself for sleep without a word, and stays silent when he slips into bed. He turns so that his face is nearly pressed against the wall of the hut.

“Goodnight,” Cyno whispers, trying to ignore the hurt in his chest when he receives no response.

They’re not the kind of couple to fall asleep angry. They never have before - Kaveh and Alhaitham’s ability to do so repeatedly and maintain any kind of relationship stability is utterly baffling to Cyno. Indeed, he’s even had conversations with Tighnari about it.

But this isn’t that. Cyno doesn’t even feel mad. He probably should be, he thinks - he and Tighnari have both gotten upset at each other in the past, often for good reason. Tonight, though, he just feels tired, worried, and confused.

He gets into bed and doesn’t move. He doesn’t sleep, either, and hours of the night pass slowly. Cyno isn’t known for his patience, but he has a great capacity to endure. He’s restless but still, making use of meditation skills he’d learned as a child.

He smiles at the memory, recalling how Cyrus, who’d taught Cyno, had given up on his own attempts at meditating soon after. He'd been all the more proud that Cyno had taken so naturally to it. It’s a comforting thought, and he allows his mind to wander. It drifts easily this way and that until settling upon an adjacent recollection - Tighnari, many years later, managing to guide Cyrus through a successful meditation, seemingly as easy as breathing air, just weeks after they’d first met.

“Anyone can learn,” he said when Cyno thanked him for his help. “It’s a simple matter of clear communication and mutual trust.”

His chest tightened. Clear communication and mutual trust. It could just as well function as the motto for their relationship over the past five years. What could have possibly happened in the time he’s been gone?

Cyno catches himself gnawing on his lip, relaxes his body, and takes a deep breath.

Reset.

Breathe.

Relax.

Repeat.

With more difficulty than he’s had in many, many years, Cyno allows the thoughts and feelings and fears to wash over him as he slips back into a silent and deliberate meditation practice.

———

It’s similar to waking up, in some ways, when a gentle touch pulls Cyno out of his meditation. He opens his eyes. He reconnects his body to the material world around him and peels himself away from a more comfortable state of being.

Unlike waking up, there’s no moment of confusion over where he is or who’s lying next to him. There’s no fear from lingering nightmares, but there is an immediate anxiety over the sound of his partner sniffling. Cyno blinks into the darkness. His eyesight hasn’t yet adjusted and the moonlight isn’t quite enough to make out anything other than shadowy forms. Tighnari is whispering something, so quietly that it’s hard to comprehend, even with their proximity.

“Get up… Cyno… please…” Distress drips from each word.

“Nari?” Cyno sits up, taking his partner’s hand in his own. The next thing he hears sounds suspiciously akin to… a sob. He squints, to no avail. “What’s wrong?”

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Tighnari mumbles. He’s pushing away, now, although one hand lingers on Cyno’s chest, near his heart, as if he can’t bring himself to move it. When he finally does, Cyno has just enough vision to see him wipe his cheeks.

“You’re crying…” Cyno’s voice trails off. He can count the times he’s seen Tighnari cry on one hand. The forest watcher immediately moves to deny it, shaking his head, only to wince. “Tighnari, if you’re injured—”

His partner laughs, and it’s strangled, wet. “Not injured, just a headache.” He shifts a bit and looks away. “You weren’t sleeping.”

The night air hangs in the space between them, humid and heavy. Their conversation is framed by sounds of the storm, and Cyno can’t help but think how loud it must be, for Tighnari, who can tell based off of breathing alone whether he’s dreaming or meditating. Still resting above Cyno’s heart, Tighnari’s fingers curl slightly. He clears his throat, and just like that, the crying stops, the vulnerability in his expression hastily hidden away like windows shuttering closed.

“It’s my fault, right? For treating you so horribly.” Tighnari's voice is resigned, having regained its usual stable cadence, but when he pulls his hand away, it shakes as he holds it to his own chest. “I’m sorry, Cyno. It was wrong of me.”

“I forgive you.” The words come quick and honest. Tighnari sighs and trembling fingers pinch his nose.

“You really shouldn’t forgive people so easily.”

“You shouldn’t doubt forgiveness given freely.” Cyno switches a lamp on and sits up, arms crossed.

Tighnari is avoiding his gaze, a sure sign of lingering guilt. Observing him closely, Cyno notices dark bags under his eyes, which, when they flicker to him briefly, are uncharacteristically bleary. His breathing has grown ragged throughout their short conversation. A loud boom sounds - more thunder - and his skin takes on a greenish tint.

“You should sleep,” Tighnari rasps. His arms are crossed, hands gripping his elbows, in a tremulous and incomplete hug.

“… Will you?”

“What?”

“Will you sleep?” It’s a quiet question, as the words leave Cyno’s mouth, but it’s a straight shot to Tighnari’s final, sorest hurt.

He crumples. His head drops into his hands, which scrub angrily across his face. His body shakes with sobs.

“Oh,” Cyno breathes.

Carefully, he gathers the shuddering figure into his arms and holds him through the ache, letting it infiltrate his own heart in hopes of sharing the burden. He sinks with Tighnari’s every heaving wail, and splinters with each whimper. In an awful moment of clarity, Cyno realizes that crying has only exacerbated his partner’s physical pain, but he seems unable to stop himself. It’s the kind of breakdown that’s been pushed to the wayside again and again, until it simply demanded to be acknowledged.

“I’m sorry,” Tighnari wheezes. He’s still clinging to himself, refusing to reach out for help. Cyno tries to be grateful that he isn’t being pushed away.

“You shouldn’t be,” he says. Tighnari feels unusually small in his arms - his shoulders are sharp, almost jagged, jarring with their lack of padding. Alarm slices through him, a knife wedging itself in his gut, and Cyno grits his teeth against its urgency. It’s there, it's important, and it won’t be going away on its own, but it cannot be addressed immediately.

“No, I– I’m fine.” Tighnari can hardly speak, between the vicious trembling, tears, and agony. He clutches at his head. “I’m fine.”

“Look at me, Tighnari.” When Cyno pulls away, Tighnari moves, face tilting upward, eyes wet and fearful. “It is okay for you to hurt.”

The words feel lacking, to Cyno. He wishes he could say more, about how Tighnari is always so stubbornly steady, about how he’s owed a few favors from the General Mahamatra after all he’s done for him. He doesn’t know how to say it all and also convey that his support and love for Tighnari is unconditional. So he leaves it simple and specific, and is relieved when it seems to be enough, because Tighnari moves towards him.

They’re hardly a distance away but it feels as though an incomprehensibly long bridge has been traversed when Tighnari crawls into his arms. There are no more apologies, no more pleading-to-be-believed reassurances. Together they sit, waiting out the storms that rage inside and out.

The crying tapers off eventually. Tighnari stays where he is, head resting on Cyno’s shoulder. He’s quiet, and Cyno hopes that he’s asleep. He’s beginning to nod off himself when Tighnari shudders and shifts. Another minute passes, and then there’s a whimper.

“It hurts,” he admits.

“Your head?”

“Mhm. Could you massage my ears?” His tail is wrapped around the both of them - it’s his special way of mapping their closeness without opening his eyes. Cyno obliges the request without a word, and then takes a moment to assess his own concerns.

“How long have you had a migraine?” The question has been begging to be asked since he noticed the unhealthy amount of weight his partner had lost in the time they’d been apart. He feels Tighnari deflate against him.

“Four days,” he confesses. Cyno does not go rigid, but only because of years spent honing his body to wait before reacting. “It’s– it’s a stress response." Tighnari explains. "Inherited from my mom.”

“You aren’t easily stressed,” Cyno states. It’s an opening to explain further without any pressure to do so. He can tell Tighnari understands and appreciates the phrasing when he squeezes Cyno’s shoulder.

“Eleazar flare up last week - Collei’s fine. I,” he pauses. Cyno knows that he’s thinking, and simply continues massaging his ears until he’s ready to continue. “I actually reached out to you.”

This time, Cyno does tense up. His instinct, about the lack of contact, had been right after all.

He’d heard nothing about this matter, and his matra had explicit instructions to report to him immediately any time Tighnari or Collei attempted communication. In fact, it was a rule that surpassed even the strictest of confidentiality standards, meaning it should be implemented regardless of risk during missions, and was well known because of both its intensity and its rarity. The only reason it existed at all was because Cyno had stated it was a requirement to renew his position years ago, and his matra had backed him up unanimously, asserting that they would leave along with the general if Azar did not grant this single request. It had never failed him before, but now…

“Three times,” Tighnari adds, quiet. His earlier anger, his words, his worry, all start to make sense.

“I didn’t hear a word of it, Tighnari. I promise, or I would’ve–”

“I know,” he interrupts. “I knew the whole time, Cyno, I just used it as a convenient excuse to take my frustrations out on you.”

Cyno hopes this is true, though even if it is, the fault still falls onto his shoulders for his failure to monitor his men’s loyalty. This was deliberate, and it was also an inside job; there's no doubt in his mind.

“Don’t feel bad. I only thought you'd want to know.” Tighnari is right about that. When Cyno returns to work - which he plans to take a significant leave from - his first task will be to punish whoever was deliberately disrupting their communications. He won’t have to catch them, because they are clearly not clever. They were fortunate to have gotten away with it for as long as they did, though he already has a suspect. He’ll let his second in command know of the matter by the end of the day and she will surely have the culprit restrained and waiting for Cyno’s punishment in a matter of hours.

“I’ll fix it,” he says aloud. “Right away.”

“I know.”

“Is Collei…” Cyno trails off. Tighnari had mentioned that she’s alright, he reminds himself. Still, he craves details, for his own peace of mind. This, Tighnari seems to understand implicitly.

“It was a rough couple of days. She pulled through, tough as always. She’s been symptomless for a few days now, but you can go check on her if you'd like,” he suggests, beginning to peel himself away. Cyno shakes his head, pulling Tighnari closer again.

“I’ll see her in the morning,” he decides. “I trust you.”

The words bring the tears back to Tighnari’s eyes, his expression transforming into something akin to devastation. Cyno feels his own lips tilt downwards. Though the offer of open communication was meant to be used at will, Tighnari rarely took advantage of it.

“It must have been quite bad for you two,” Cyno says quietly. 

“Yes,” Tighnari breathes, like something in him has been begging to be spat out and shared. “I— I spent so much time, days and nights, foraging for medicinal ingredients, researching cures, pain management, and temporary treatments... uprooting the withering, in case it would help.” Sweat beads on his temples, and Cyno fears that there are limits to what ear massages can do. "You didn't respond, and I worried about you, and Collei was already struggling but then she got worse."

“The whole time, I just kept thinking,” Tighnari goes on, the words raw and aching as they enter the world, “What if I can’t do enough for her? What if she— and what if you never— And what if you do come back and she’s gone? Because I—” His words are choked off, and Tighnari buries his head in his hands, and Cyno is silently glad for it. Somewhere along the way, his own voice got lost in fear, and grief for something that hasn’t even come to be. He flounders, struggling again with the burden of comfort, one he accepts willingly, but feels woefully unprepared to shoulder.

“That won’t happen,” he manages.

“You can’t guarantee it won't,” Tighnari snaps. He’s correct, again, but the proud righteousness is gone from his next words. They sound hollow and broken. “I can’t guarantee that.”

“No,” Cyno says, “You don’t have to.”

For all of the anger and supposed irrationality behind Tighnari’s earlier words, Cyno sees that there is truth in them, too. He doesn’t visit often enough. He should send more letters, and more supplies. As much as he is dedicated to his job, as important as it is, his family is important, too, and he can do better at balancing them. He needs to. He takes Tighnari’s hands into his own.

“It is not your responsibility to work miracles, Tighnari. I would never ask that of you.”

The forest watcher sniffles. “She’s in my care,” he says weakly. Cyno can see the exhaustion in his partner’s every movement, can hear it in every word. He will fix this.

“Because I knew you would give her a happy life. However long it is.” He’s surprised by the stability of his voice. Cyno avoids thinking about Collei’s illness, and even more stubbornly tries not to consider the reality of her lifespan. Of the two of them, Tighnari is stronger when it comes to facing such matters head-on. It’s something else that needs to change, something else that he’s let Tighnari manage alone for far too long.

“I knew you would do that for her and I was right, Tighnari.” He brushes his partner’s hair away from his face, cupping his cheeks gently. He hopes Tighnari can see how genuine is. “She’s so excited to live, now.”

He watches the words sink in, the way Tighnari’s expression goes soft and fond and full of love. “She is,” he agrees, in disbelieving wonder.

“I’ll be here more. I promise.”

“Okay,” Tighnari accepts. The conversation tapers off, then, and Tighnari drifts into a restless sleep soon after. Cyno wonders if he was simply too tired to argue or doubt, but that’s a conversation for later. Better yet, Cyno's actions will prove the truth of his words.

The forest watcher is still clearly unwell, tossing and turning, sometimes whimpering, particularly when the storm is at its loudest. Cyno can’t help but consider how long it must have been since Tighnari got a good night of rest. It’s likely been over a week, based on what he'd shared. Unsure if it’s helping but confident that it doesn’t hurt, Cyno continues his massage, steadfastly ignoring the weight of his own exhaustion in favor of supporting the love of his life.

Later, when he wakes up, Tighnari’s ears are pressed flat to his head and quivering. His jaw is clenched tight, his skin pale, almost translucent. The tinge of green has returned, too. His breaths come out shaky and uneven.

“Cyno?” Tighnari blinks, holds tight to Cyno’s arm, and stays as still as possible.

“I’m here,” the matra says, keeping his voice quiet.

"Can you help me to the bathroom?”

It isn’t far, but they take their time getting there. Cyno is careful not to jostle the other man, who keeps his eyes closed and moves as if his limbs weigh twice as much as they should. Upon reaching the bathroom, Tighnari is suddenly coughs over the sink, pained noises escaping alongside splashes of vomit.

Cyno stands beside him, wrapping an arm around him for support, wincing as he feels his partner heave repeatedly, against his own will. With each wave of sick come more tears, the sharp movements no doubt exacerbating the migraine. When he has no strength left, Tighnari leans heavily onto the counter, wracked with queasy tremors, belching up small mouthfuls of bile.

Cyno manages to keep his hair out of the way. He cleans both the bathroom and Tighnari’s face once he’s finished. He’s still shaking like a leaf and teary-eyed, entirely heartbreaking in his misery. After brushing the sick man’s teeth, Cyno musters up a smile.

“The storm has stopped,” he says, because it has. “Just for you, I’ll save my joke about why the sun went to school for another day.”

Tighnari releases a pent up breath, which Cyno interprets as some mixture of relief, gratitude, and fond amusement. He half-carries his partner back to the bed, and then sets him down gently. Rays of light have begun to stream in through the windows, so Cyno makes sure to close the blinds and bring back a glass of water before settling in next to Tighnari. Although he’s still pale, he looks far more relaxed since the rain stopped, and Cyno assumes he’s asleep until he hears a whisper so soft, he almost misses it.

“It had to get a little brighter,” Tighnari mumbles.

“What did you say?” Cyno definitely heard, but he can’t help bit of incredulilty. “Tighnari, you– mmph!” He’s silenced, a hand slapped over his mouth, and then arms wrap around his waist and pull him close. The voice in his ear is as menacing as it is loving.

“Yeah, yeah. Go to sleep already, you big lummox.”

–––

Send asks here! Also, if you enjoyed this fic, I would really love to know - thank you so much! 🥰

[ithaquasbbg]

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Todays prompt was for survivor Ithaqua.. so I give survivor Ithaqua ☺️

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Soft spot - Survivor! Ithaqua x reader

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Pairing: Survivor! Ithaqua x reader

Tw: nope

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….

You sit anxiously on your bed, staring at the door. Typically, your boyfriend Ithaqua would be back from his matches by now, but for some reason it’s been almost half an hour since his last match, and still no sign of Ithaqua. Just as you’re about to get up and search the manor for him, there’s a knock on the door. Immediately, you jump out of bed and open the door, only to be met with Emily, who is helping Ithaqua to support himself.

You look him over, seeing several bandaged cuts all over the parts of his skin that are visible, and there are surely more. Along with that, he’s holding a paper towel to his nose, likely due to a nosebleed. “What happened to him?” You inquire, staring at your boyfriend who is quite beaten up, more than you’ve ever seen him before.

“He pushed himself a little too far during todays match, (Name)” she laughs, looking over at Ithaqua who’s blushing. “I already did what I could to help some of his injuries, but he said he wanted to be with you instead, so he’s here now.” You nod and help Ithaqua inside, laying him onto the bed before turning back to Emily. “How could I repay you for this?” You ask, being cut off by her laughing once more. “No need, (Name), you and Ithaqua have done more than enough in matches already.”

Despite wanting to argue, you decide to drop the topic, watching as she leaves the room before turning to Ithaqua. “What were you thinking?!” You rush over to sit beside him in bed, looking at his still flushed face with a disapproving stare. Ithaqua simply sighs at his hands. “I know, this looks pretty bad.. but the Hunter was trying to chair the little girl, I can’t let that happen.”

You’re unable to scold him after that, especially knowing how much of a soft spot Ithaqua has for children. Instead, you give him a gentle kiss on the cheek, ruffling his hair. “I wish I could scold you, Ithaqua, you know that?” He laughs and kisses you back, even though he’s surely in pain at the moment. “Now, how about we get you washed off, you look like you’ve been rolling through the mud.” Slowly, you help him up and into the bathroom, starting a warm bath for Ithaqua.

“Now, can you tell me what happened to get you that beaten up? Usually you would have been eliminated by this point, right?” Ithaqua hums and leans into your touch while you ask him this, relaxing in the warm water as you wash him off. “I had Ada and Demi in the match with me, they kept healing as much as they could when I got hit.” Upon hearing he was in a match with Demi, you raise an eyebrow.

“So, I’m guessing you’re probably a little tipsy right now as well?” You’re smiling while asking this, knowing it was possible since Ithaqua was quite a light weight. Ithaqua blushes and nods slowly, avoiding eye contact with you to the best of his abilities. “Yes, I think that’s probably part of why I’m not in pain right now.”

Once he’s done bathing, you help him change into some nightwear, sitting him down on the bed while you brew a cup of tea, coming back with it a few moments later. “Careful, Ithaqua, it’s a little hot.” He nods and shifts into your frame as soon as you sit next to him on the bed. “Thank you, (name), what would I do without you?” You laugh and give him one more kiss on the cheek, watching him quickly finish his tea.

“Even all bruised up, you’re still cute” you mumble, slowly laying down next to him in bed, pulling him close to you so you can help him with his sore back. Ithaqua simply groans in response to your statement, so exhausted he looks as if he’s about to pass out. “Oh, Itha, dear.. I love you so much” you give him one last kiss, watching him mutter a quick “I love you too.” Before he falls asleep, with you following soon after, the two of you wrapped in each others arms.

[anon-e-miss]

A Touch of Sight - 8

Jazz had never heard a song as beautiful as the one the crystals sang for Prowl. The Praxian stepped amongst the crystals, doorwings and arms raising and falling as he elegantly twisted and dipped. Some steps were so slow, so soft Jazz could hardly hear them through the vibrant song of the crystals. Other times his steps were quick and sharp and the song of the crystals rose with them. Prowl trilled and as he did, the crystals shown brighter all around him. He dipped, plucked a crystal from the field and stepped backwards, doorwings dancing on his back as his arms dipped and turned. There was no hesitation in Prowl’s movements, just grace. Jazz would never have imagined a blind mechanism could dance among crystals without crushing even one; he was in complete and utter awe. Drawn by Prowl’s hypnotic movements, Jazz stepped towards him. As Prowl dipped, twisting and extending his arm, Jazz took his servo.

“Oh!” Prowl stumbled. Despite his empty optic sockets, Jazz could see the start in his face. Around them, the crystals’ glow dimmed. “Lord Inquisitor.”

“Just Jazz,” he said. “I think I interrupted somethin’.”

“I tried to stop you,” Smokescreen declared.

“My harvest,” Prowl replied, there was just the hint of breathlessness in his voice and it stirred Jazz in a manor he was not prepared for.

“Yer harvest,” Jazz echoed.

“My harvest,” Prowl repeated.

He pulled a crystal from his bag, a stunning specimen of Alexandrite and turned his doorwings and helm as he clicked his glossa. Stepping with the confidence of the sure sighted, Prowl walked a few steps and from among the emerald ground cover, plucked a crystal. Prowl returned to Jazz, doorwings tilting and swaying as he walked and held the crystals out to them. At first, Jazz thought the second crystal was just an emerald but when he held it up, he realized it was Alexandrite, a far duller specimen the first, but Alexandrite all the same. Jazz looked out at the sea of emeralds and tried to imagine how he could even spot the rare Alexandrite hidden among them and could not imagine how it could be done. He stared at Prowl and wondered how a blind mech could tell the crystals apart just by touch and how he had made them glow and then capture that power when he had picked that first crystal.

“I don’t understand,” Jazz said. “How ya can do this. Ya made the field glow when ya danced ‘n ya picked Alexandrite from emerald. I can’t... see a difference lookin’ down ‘n I got... well typical Polyhexian vision.”

“I coud not have seen a difference either,” Prowl replied, unbothered by the implication of his blindness. “They sound different. Their vibrations feel different. This is how Praxians have harvest crystals for millions of vorns. Dance and sing to them in the right harmonic and they glow from within.”

“Ain’t e’er seen anythin’ so beautiful,” Jazz declared. Prowl flushed. The horrific burns might have blinded other mecha to the truth but in Jazz’s clear vision, Prowl was a truly stunning mech.

“Thank you,” Prowl replied. “I have a long list from your friend... You may watch but, I need quiet to hear the crystals.”

“Ya got it.”

Smokescreen elbowed Jazz just under his chestplate and smirked. He was an absolute scamp. Jazz looked around and spotted Bluestreak sitting in the branches of the tree next to them. The mechling wave a hello with his digits. Could anything be done for Bluestreak? There was no injury Jazz could see which would explain the mechling’s mutism. That did not mean there was not damage hidden under his plating, or a wound to his psyche. Having walked among Praxian refugees since he had first taken the post of Lord High Inquisitor, Jazz had seen not only physical scars of all kinds but also the haunted optics of traumatized sparks. He knew Ratchet did his best for them but some wounds went too deep for even a miracle worker like him to heal and when there were so many despairing, so many damaged beyond the skills of any other medic in the land, Ratchet could only do so much.

Prowl sang without glyphs, standing still in the field of crystals, varying his pitch as his doorwings dipped and waved. He felt something, heard something that Jazz could not or just did not understand and he canted his helm right and slowly turned in that direction, dancing on flat peds. Heel, toe. Heel, toe. Twist, bend. Dip. Tilt. It was a dance like nothing Jazz had scene. Flick, flick, flick, Prowl waved his left doorwing like a fan as he held the right still and he danced in small steps, knees ever so slightly bent. Jazz realized, as time passed, that Prowl changed his pitch as he sought different crystals and moved from the field into the woodline. Jazz straightened, ready to help him navigated the thick woods but Smokescreen caught his wrist and shook his helm. Prowl reappeared, stepping from around the tree Bluestreak was perched in. There was a sparkling blue stone in his servo.

“Sapphire?” Jazz asked.

“Benitoite,” Prowl replied. “Considerably rarer and like Alexandrite, often overlook among similar coloured stones.”

“Y’re a real master,” Jazz said. “I can’t counter the number o’ mechanism that walk through these woods ‘n fields ‘n got no idea what they might step on.”

“It is not so terrible a thing sometimes to be overlooked,” Prowl replied. “Alexandrite and Benitoite do poorly in greenhouses and gardens. They thrive out in the wild where their camouflage protects them from over harvesting.”

“Ya ne’er take more than ya need,” Jazz guessed.

“I will take none if I believe it I feel the crop may collapse if I do,” Prowl replied. “I harvest from many fields and forests so no one is depleted of its resources.”

“It’s brilliantly done,” Jazz said. “‘N hungry work, I figure.”

“I packed snacks,” Prowl said.

“How ‘bout I treat ya to lunch?” Jazz offered.

“The market is close of Primus’ Cycle,” Prowl reminded him.

“Ain’t a stall or pub,” Jazz replied. “My ori’s got a place tucked away on the west side.”

“You originator?” Prowl asked, taking a sharp intake. “But... is he not at services?”

“No,” Jazz shook his helm. “He ain’t much for temples. We usually have lunch when the market’s closed ‘n quiet. When ‘m in town anyways.”

“Why would you bring us?” Prowl asked.

“No reason not to,” Jazz replied.

“We are almost beggars,” Prowl argued, exasperated.

“‘N I was one once,” Jazz countered, jovially. “Not sure how ya missed it, Prowler but ya ‘n yer mechlings got ten times that class I do. Not that ‘m gonna hold that against ya, ‘n Ori won’t either.”

“You are... persistent,” Prowl sighed.

“‘M a pain in the aft,” Jazz corrected him, grinning as the Praxian shook his helm. Jazz could imagine him rolling his optics.

“I think he has you beat, Creator,” Smokescreen piped up.

“Bluestreak is shy,” Prowl argued, servos outstretched.

“Ori likes sparklings,” Jazz countered. “‘N cheeky younglings.”

“A pain in the aft indeed,” Prowl groused. He stretched out his arms to the tree where Bluestreak was perched and the mechling climbed easily into his arms. The blind mech hugged his creation. “We will leave if Bluestreak or Smokescreen even slightly uncomfortable.”

“Deal,” Jazz said.

It might have been more gentlemechly to allow Prowl to decline without argument but Jazz was not a gentlemech. So far as he was concerned, it was kinder to introduced the trio to his originator than note. Prowl and his creations would benefit from a watchmecha. Having Swindle on notice was no small thing. The mech’s business practices were questionable at best but as much as Swindle cared for coin, he care significantly more for his own helm. He would make certain that none of his underlings, allies or enemies meddled with Prowl for fear Jazz might blame him. Between Swindle and Ori though, Jazz would always choose his originator. Knowing Punch as Jazz did, he knew his originator would not need to be asked to do this favour for his creation. One look and the mechlings and Punch would be besotted and he would not take much longer to adopted Prowl as his kin.

“Just o’er here,” Jazz said as he led the trio of Praxians through the empty market streets.

All the shop fronts were shuttered up, their keepers on their knees in front of monks or priest in any number of the temples in the city. Even after the services over, many of them would go home to rest, not even sweeping the floors of their homes or businesses as this mega-cycle was decreed by many of the faiths as the mega-cycle of rest. Mechanisms like Punch and Prowl were looked down upon for failing to attend worship or rest. Rest was a luxury mechanisms like Prowl did not have and Punch had spent all Jazz’s life and longer still working his digits to the struts to keep his family alive and that habit was not about to die just because Jazz had gotten a fancy title.

“Ori?” Jazz called to his originator as he pushed the folding door away from the shop’s entrance.

“Bitlet,” Punch called to him from behind his loom. “I was thinkin’ ya wasn’t comin’.”

“I got preoccupied,” Jazz explained. “I brought friends to join us for lunch.”

“Oh?” Punch asked as he peered from the side of of the loom. Next to Jazz, Prowl stood rigid and coiled, a spring prepared to burst. Jazz ever so slightly cupped his elbow, reassuring him with light taps of his digits, chirolinguistics. “Lemme lest my spools down. I got myself in a bit o’ a tangle.”

“If we have come at a poor time,” Prowl offered Punch a polite escape and Jazz smiled as he saw his orginator cant his helm at the Praxian and then smile down at Bluestreak who was standing very closely to one of the weavings Punch had display near the door. Though he was clearly captivated by it, the mechling had the good manners not to touch; Jazz could not have said the same for himself at that age.

“Not at all,” Punch replied. “Ya can touch it, Sweetspark. It’s sheepacron wool. A lil touch ain’t gonna hurt it none.”

“Thank you,” Prowl murmured. He did not so much look at the direction of his youngest creation but tilted his helm and doorwing to him. Jazz watched the silent mechling pet the soft, colourful panel. Bluestreak clamoured over to Prowl and moved his digits quickly against his procreator’s palm. “He says it is very pretty.”

“Thank ya, Darlin’,” Punch said. “Jazz, show’em to the nook. When I free myself from theses strings, I’ll serve some soup.”

“Lemme help ya,” Jazz said, taking Prowl’s arm in his. “I know ya get ‘round well but Ori’s place is... full.”

“It is that,” Punch agreed.

“You made all of this, Sir?” Smokescreen asked.

“Not all at once, or nothin’,” Punch replied. “Somethings don’t take so long as others.”

“It’s amazing,” Smokescreen said.

“Why thank ya,” Punch said.

“Are you sure there enough fuel?” Prowl asked. “There are three of us...”

“There’s fuel enough,” Jazz assured him, guiding Prowl to the long bench on the closest side of the table. “Ori’s always got a pot of soup on.”

“Ne’er know when some poor hungry spark might come by,” Punch declared. Free of his spoon, he joined them in the nook that served as the kitchen where a cauldron simmered on the fire. “Temple’ll only fuel ya if ya let’em preach at ya. That don’t suit a lot o’ mechanisms.”

“Ori’s always fuellin’ mechanisms passin’ through,” Jazz explained. “My Ori, Punch is a weaver, Prowl. Among other things. He knits some too. Ori, Punch sells crystals in his slot on the east side. Ya mighta heard talk o’m.”

“I have,” Punch declared. “That was clever o’ ya teachin’ yerself the feel o’ different coin. Very clever.”

“Prowl’s pretty brilliant,” Jazz declared. “The way he finds his crystals is a work o’ magic.”

“It is not,” Prowl argued. “It is only a little skill.”

“It’s pretty magical,” Smokescreen interjected.

“My creations are Smokescreen and Bluestreak,” Prowl said. “Bluestreak is mute, If he wishes to speak, he will use me or his brother as translator, unless you speak some chirolinguistics, as Jazz does.”

“Happens I taught the miscreant,” Punch declared. He set a bowl down in front of Bluestreak first, his wriggled his digits in the air and wrote a compliment to Bluestreak. The mechling snuggled into Prowl’s side and shyly answered with the careful wiggle of his own digits.

“I wish it was more commonly known,” Prowl sighed.

“I agree,” Punch said, setting bowls in front of Prowl and then Smokescreen before fill bowls for himself and his creation. “So many mechanisms get hung up on Neocybex or Primal Vernacular ‘n sneer at every other tongue.”

“Thanks, Ori,” Jazz said. He smiled as he ate a spoonful of soup, as the mechs and mechlings with him spoke. It was exactly as he had planned.

[inquisimer]

her mouth tastes like fear and blood

some Cousland origin feels for @febuwhump day 10, killing in self defense - Not a day before, Ember begged her father to send her off to battle. Now, she wants nothing to do with war.

read it on ao3 here

Female Cousland & Eleanor Cousland | Rated T | 1254 words | CW: blood & injury, canon-typical violence, implied/referenced character death, shock, loss of innocence

-

The sword in her hand is a familiar extension of her arm. She knows the weight of it, the way that it swings, and the press of the grip against her palm better than she knows the back of her hand.

But she does not know the way it cuts through flesh. She finds she does not want to.

Sweet Iona is dead on the floor before Ember can so much as reach for her blade. Heart aching, she uses the pommel of her weapon to knock the assailants unconscious. She pulls a tunic over her head just in time for her mother to appear, wearing fine armor and a frightfully furious expression that Ember has never seen.

“We must get to your father,” she says. That her parents were separated at all is a concern, but Ember does not give it voice as they head into the night.

They round a corner and a swarm of Howe’s men rises up to meet them. She charges forward while her mother nocks an arrow for cover fire.

Slash, parry, stab. It is both familiar and foreign, because the most realistic training dummy could not prepare her for how the blade bashes through actual armor, laid over actual skin. Where she can she maims, wounds, slams the butt of her sword against their heads and sends them crumbling, dazed against the cobblestone. She knows that the weapons in her hands are meant to kill, but the heart in her chest is not ready for that responsibility.

One of them comes at her with frightening anger—does he know what he fights for, she wonders? Does he serve a betrayer willingly, for power, for wealth, or is he blind to the motives of his master?

She parries his sword, thrusting back against his advances, but he is all muscle and force, where her strength lies in cunning and escape. She dances around his strikes, but rogue tactics will not save her if she cannot divert his attention elsewhere.

With refreshed determination, he barrels at her and she freezes. There is no hole to slipthrough, no gap in his defenses to exploit. Evasion is normally effortless, but her mind stalls out and she watches, as though in slow motion, his blade lift and fall directly toward her neck.

She should raise her blade, block his strike. But she can’t think beyond the fact that there is no way out of this unless she kills him. Can’t think beyond the bloody reality her life has become overnight.

A hand snaps out and tangles in the back of her tunic. Her mother yanks her back from certain death, but the tip of the weapon still catches the collar of her tunic and scrapes a bloody line down her stomach. A well placed arrow between his eyes drops the hulking mass of a man, but Ember stumbles, gasps, weapons clanging to the floor as she presses her hands to her wound.

“Don’t—here, let me—“ Eleanor bats her dirty hands away from the open flesh. It’s not deep, but it leaves her chest entirely exposed and Ember feels cold, a dissonance between her own body and the damaged skin.

Eleanor fashions a makeshift bandage from the tattered remains of Ember’s tunic. It doesn’t do much besides stop the flow of blood, but it’s all she can do until they find some healing supplies. Then she unclasps her own leather breastplate and hooks it around Ember. Made for Eleanor’s much broader frame, it sits heavy and awkward on her daughter’s shoulders, particularly with the way Ember’s eyes are shock-hazy, trained on the dead soldier at their feet.

A minute ago that man had been breathing. Now his lifeblood stains the stones of her ancestral home, and if it hadn’t been for Mother’s quick reflexes, it would have been Ember’s instead.

She feels like a young child again. How could she have begged her father to send her off to war? If this is war, she wants nothing to do with it.

Her mother’s bow-calloused fingers snap before her face and Ember flinches back against the wall. There is an edge to Eleanor’s sympathetic smile. They need time that they do not have.

She grips at her daughter’s shoulders, brow furrowed with the night’s anguish and this new added concern. Their world is falling to pieces, their family either murdered or under attack. Bryce Cousland’s fate unknown. All that they have protected, broken by a man’s greed and jealousy.

“We must go,” Eleanor says. She cups Ember’s face and give her a hard, searching look. “Can you do it?”

A question she never wanted to ask, one Ember never expected to hear. Can you kill a man? Can you drive your blade through a beating heart, if that beating heart decides the choice is between you and them? Before they force your hand?

Ember is not sure she can. Never in her life has she doubted herself, but in this, she falters. She is still shaking with adrenaline and her chest stings with every breath. The price paid for cheating death, she supposes. It still feels like a dream—a nightmare—like she will wake any moment snuggly tucked against Iona’s soft skin. But Iona is dead and her father and countless others may be too.

Who is she to try and subvert fate?

As if she can sense her daughter’s doubt, Eleanor grips the shoulders of the armor she now wears. “It’s okay,” she assures her. “Maker, but I never wished this for you. You can still be soft, while also holding firm, darling girl.”

She presses a kiss to her crown. When they draw apart, Ember sees the conflict in her mother’s face. She wants her daughter to stay soft and sweet, headstrong and optimistic. But she also wants her to live.

Ember swallows, hard. She closes her eyes and pictures Howe’s man driving the greatsword fully through her chest. How her innards would spurt and gush around the iron, how her blood would spatter across his face. Her mother would scream in agony over her broken body, as she had with Oriana and Oren. When word reached the Wilds, Fergus would fall and crumple, left alone, all alone.

Her fists clench around nothing. She will not be the weak link that leaves them all to suffer. If she has to abandon her gentle heart, if she has to swallow back the shards of childhood comfort that lie shattered around her now, she will. She will break herself a thousand times over before she lets her family down.

“I can do it,” she finally says. Her voice shakes, but she picks up her weapons and holds them tight in sweating hands. “I will do it.”

Eleanor gives her a long, searching look; it would not be the first time Ember has put on false bravado, nor the first time it bites her in the ass. But this time she means it. This time, there is no other choice.

Eleanor answers with a nod of her own. They did not have time doubts or questioning and they have even less now. She brushes a last, fleeting caress down her daughter’s hair.

“We must find your father,” she says, eyes glinting as sharp and dangerous as any of the arrows in her quiver. “And we’ll make this bastard pay along the way.”

She takes Ember’s hand and they flee.

[slaysfive]

〈 melissa barrera  ›  non - binary  ›  she/they  ›  25 〉  ———   a grand welcome to the vieux carré,  FAITH LEHANE. with a city as diverse as this, there’s a new threat on almost every corner. being a SLAYER might provide some protection but their biggest strength may come from being loyal to HERSELF. many see them as a SOLDIER which is why I’VE ACQUIRED QUITE A TASTE FOR A WELL-MADE MISTAKE, I WANNA MAKE A MISTAKE — WHY CAN’T I MAKE A MISTAKE? seems to fit them perfectly. whispers say they’re from the PAST. can it all be believed? just keep an eye on them and see if their true colors shine through.

݀ basics …

full name: faith rosalind lehane. titles/nicknames: f, the dark slayer, little firecracker, hope lyonne. gender: non - binary. pronouns: she/they. date of birth: december 14th. zodiac: sagittarius. species: slayer. occupation: unemployed, slayer/hunter/muscle for hire. birthplace: south boston, massachusetts. current residence: new orleans, lousiana. sexuality: bisexual affiliations: herself, faith has a favor for doing her own thing until she believes she can benefit from something else. watchers council, past. scooby gang, past. richard wilkins, past. slayer organization, past. angel investigations, past. wolfram & hart, past. london slayer squad, past. religion: catholic, non - practicing. spoken languages: english, spanish, french.

݀ family and relations …

mother: maria lehane, deceased. father: pat lehane, estranged. siblings: none, faith is an only child. significant other(s): single. generally, and while not entirely opposed, faith does consider "love" or romance to be a waste of time. they prefer sexual relations used to scratch physical itches rather than anything more intimate. friends: relationships with faith have a tendency to ebb and flow— crumbling just as fast as they blossomed. while she can be clingy, loyal, and, at times, desperate for acceptance/approval, they are also quick to let pride and emotions get in the way as a result of an untrusting and skeptical nature. pets: currently none. however, faith has always longed for a dog.

݀ skills and interests …

education: faith attended some school before dropping out in high school. as it stands, she never graduated or got a GED. strengths: superhuman strength, speed, durability, reflexes, and healing factor on account of being a slayer. weaknesses: c - ptsd, undiagnosed personality disorder, depresssion, typical weaknesses of a slayer + human; while she is far more durable than the average human being, they are still vulnerable to most forms of conventional injury (bullets, knives, etc.), and most other human ailments (sleep, hunger, etc.) weapons: at any time, faith can be found with one or more stakes secreted about their person, typically inclusion of a series of small knives of some kind - with a preference for her gil hibben 1999 jackal knife, and crossbow. abilities: unnaturally talented acrobat and hand - to - hand combatant. faith also has a mastery of melee weapons, lock - picking, and stealth. moral alignment: chaotic neutral. element: fire. mbti: estp — the entrepreneur. positives: carefree, charismatic, scrappy, adaptable, fun - loving, confident, witty, assertive, adventurous, sensual, alert, persuasive. negatives: impulsive, jealous, reckless, violent, mistrusting, unpredictable, insecure, prone to fits of anger, secretive, cynical, aggressive. likes: dancing, drinking, slaying, button pushing, vinyl records, comic books, leather, fast rides, body modification, card games, neon lights, open windows. dislikes: authority, boredom, greed, the rich, routine, conspiracy theories, psychology, westerns, planes/flying, reading, shopping.

݀ physically …

eye color: brown. hair color: dark brown, often appearing black at times. height: 5'7", flatfooted, but typically found wearing combat boots which adds an inch or two. build/type: lean and athletic, considered to be in "peak" human condition. dominant hand: right. tattoos: tribal band on lower right bicep. (ref) piercings: multiple ear piercings, nose. scars/marks: 3 - inch vertical scar on center - right abdomnen, knife wound courtesy of buffy summers. two small circular scars on the left side of neck, near the collarbone, bitten and drained by angelus. a wide variety of visible scars scattered across their body ranging in size and shape. typical attire/style: favors leather, denim, and revealing outfits. often found sporting tank tops of some kind, bold prints, and dark colors: usually black, red or deep maroon, and dark blue. her style also consists of a variety of chains, spikes, chokers, studs, and laces with heavy and often dark make - up.

݀ additional notes …

faith is mostly mostly canon compliant through the end of season 7 before taking some inspiration from the comics (primarily season 8).

after aiding the scoobies and potential slayers in the fight against the first evil and the destruction of sunnydale, faith begins traveling around the states. she begins aiding new slayers, helping robin wood to lead and train them.

during this time, faith takes on more serious "side work" as a slayer for hire— more specifically, jobs that would otherwise be considered too disturbing and dark for others, especially new slayers, to handle.

eventually, this routine and at often times, darker, lifestyle begins to take a toll. faith grows restless in her position and longs for something else, something more, resulting in them acting out as a means to once again try and attempt to quiet the noise around her. while they never gets quiet as bad as they once were, there's both a deeply rooted fear and shame in what she does, having thought she had "grown" and changed since then. a belief that only further aids this new spiral, causing it to take on something of a vicious cycle.

at one point, faith attempts to flee the states to avoid arrest with a forged passport. this lands them in great trouble until rupret giles comes to their aid, deeply surprising faith. perhaps more than she wants to admit.

giles offers faith a deal: go to new orleans and take on one final mission as a slayer in exchange for relocation to any country of her choosing with the promise of never having to resume traditional slayer duties again. something faith had begun to long for despite their love of slaying as it would free them from the life of repetition and regulations. allowing her to find the "more" she so often chased.

considering the offer too good to pass up, faith immediately agrees and sets out for new orleans. however, after spending some time in the city, she quickly realized giles set her up and that what they signed on for is much bigger and much more complicated than they could have ever imagined or wanted.

yet she refuses to give up just yet, and still holds out hope that giles will uphold his end of the deal. staying in new orleans, faith takes on a role of tracking down rogue slayers, demons, vampires, etc. and regularly begins to work on additional "hunter for hire" jobs as a source of income and thrill.

[lunasohma]

part xv: walk in, locked in

[ a twist of lemon / bakery au tag ]

[ << left and stranded (but not for long) / chapter list ]

[ ao3 / ff.net ]

This crush is disastrous.

Spoiler: Named Miss Matoba!

A small warning for a knife injury.

—

“Uh, Matoba.” Natori turns to face him, a sheepish expression familiar on his face. Seiji doesn’t let his gaze linger. He’s been getting better at that. And at least it’s rather dim in here. His sister always says that he has a propensity to blush. He sorely wishes she was wrong.

Seiji hears it now—the futile jiggling of the door’s handle.

What in the ever-loving rom-com—

—

Swanning about the place and, in Seiji’s opinion, barely scraping by on charisma alone, this Natori Shuuichi is impossible to ignore.

Like some celestial body pulling everyone around him into his orbit—Seiji has to scold himself for thinking in metaphor.

He does not have a type.

Natori is an unaccounted-for variable in Seiji’s kitchen. And it’s beyond infuriating that he can fix just about anything—botched recipes or persistent late attendance—with a grin as carefree as a breeze or a tongue as quick as silver.

Again, this poetical thinking.

“Locked?” He forces himself closer to the door. Towards Natori.

“It would appear so.”

—

Matoba Seiji holds himself like a prince and is very easy on the eyes. He would be Shuuichi’s undoing, typically, but Matoba doesn’t give him the time of day. Instead, he has perfected ten different glares reserved for Shuuichi alone. Maybe he should be touched. It’s something.

Shuuichi is not unused to staring, though it can be tiring and meddlesome.

He’d had a brief but fun (and ultimately disastrous) stint as an actor. That proved the meddlesome aspect most of all.

But Matoba’s stares are electrifying.

And though he knows better, Shuuichi can’t get enough.

—

It’s thanks to his hairpin that they get out. But of course! Seiji could hit himself. This proximity is dangerous for his mental faculties.

The sooner he’s out of this small, enclosed space with Natori Shuuichi, the sooner he’ll regain them.

—

“Ha, where’d you learn that?”

“My sister locked me in a closet once.”

“What? That’s terrible!”

“Only once.” A cat-eye’s gleam in the low light. Just the one. Matoba’s hair, now undone, has fallen over the right side of his face.

Shuuichi doesn’t think twice. He brushes it back, tucks it neatly behind his ear.

Matoba freezes.

Oops.

—

Seiji can feel everything. Too much.

The sweep of Natori’s knuckles as they brush his temple. That scar—not yet fully healed?—courtesy of a slip of Natori’s knife. So careless! Seiji’s heart had nearly beaten out of his chest at the sight of so much blood. Natori had smiled all the way through; Seiji elected the one to patch him up.

“Oh.” The sudden absence of his touch feels wrong. “My bad.”

Natori opens the door. “After you.”

—

Shuuichi is late, but Hinoe has nowhere in particular to be. Playing harmless tricks on commuters is entertaining after all and Takashi isn’t here to scold her. She returns their little trinkets only when their mounting hysteria becomes annoying.

When Shuuichi finally arrives, Hinoe has just given a cat-shaped lollipop back to a young child on the verge of tears.

As if she wants to hear any of that.

—

“No sweets today? Madara will have your head!” A worryingly cheerful declaration as Hinoe tucks her arm through Shuuichi’s and tugs him along. To his end at Madara’s jaws, no doubt.

“It’s not really my fault,” he mutters.

“No?”

The Incident has been replaying in his head the whole way home.

“You’re all red!” She delights in his now-visible anguish. “Who is it?” Hinoe’s appetite for gossip is ever unsatiated.

He waffles internally for a moment before deciding. Maybe he would feel better if he talked about it.

“Well, get this—”

—

“Your hair!” Shinobu cries in dismay. She’d spent over an hour this morning on that updo, damn it! “Seiji, get back here!”

His bedroom door slams in her face. How rude!

She contemplates the door but decides she won’t pry for now. Of course, she won’t be deterred so easily.

Investigative journalism is what she does best, after all.

.

.

.

[ a few chapter notes, if you are interested! ]

[lovevalley45]

#fictober23 day twenty-three

"No, you won't understand, ever."

original fiction (power payback)

word count: 744

cw: mentions of child abuse, injury

Most times, the walk from his house to the Coello-Sterling home was nothing more than a stroll across the street. Hugo could practically do the journey blindfolded, if not for the danger of getting hit by a car. 

But now, every step felt excruciating. It was even worse going to Haley’s window, knocking on the glass. Though her parents had no problem with him coming over, climbing through the window was his typical way in. Even if it wasn’t necessarily a big window. 

He was having trouble keeping his footing as he weaved through the flower bushes, let alone thinking of climbing a window. Yet Hugo still knocked, more urgently than he would usually. 

It was a bit until she came to open the curtains, looking out at him in confusion. Her short curls were parted into messy braids, barely brushing the shoulders of her pink nightgown. She slid the window open. “Hugo?”

“Hey, yeah,” he said, trying to keep the strain out of his voice. His mind was foggy from pain and the headache starting to build being his temples. It was taking all his attention to stay upright, so he braced himself against the window ledge. “Can you unlock the door for me? I can’t really- climb through there this time.”

She furrowed her eyebrows together. “What happened?”

Hugo glanced back to his house. The windows were still dark. “We can talk inside.”

Haley looked behind him, then sighed. “Alright.”

By the time Hugo limped his way to the porch, the door was unlocked. Once he opened it and crossed the threshold, his left leg finally gave up on him. He pitched forward, crashing onto the floor and at Haley’s feet with a thud. The falling hurt, especially since he had a feeling the bruise would be sticking around for a while, but the floor was nice and cold. 

“Oh my God, Hugo!” She reached around him to close the door before she crouched down. As she did, she looked down at his leg. Though he though his leg had healed up pretty quick on the surface, he knew she saw the dried blood, the frayed hole in his jeans. “What did he do?”

“Well, you know, trying to give me a burnout,” he said. A weak laugh tumbled out of him. “He might have succeeded this time, though.”

She cupped his face. “It certainly feels like you have a fever,” she muttered. “I should call my mom, or get my dad to drive you to the hospital-”

Hugo grabbed her wrist, his mind suddenly clear. “No. No hospitals.”

“You’re obviously in rough shape, you need a doctor-”

“That’s why I came here.” He met her eyes. “Please.”

“She’ll tell you the same thing I did. And she’s right. Hugo, this isn’t something you can just sleep off, you need actual medical attention,” Haley told him. 

“You don’t understand. No, you won’t understand, ever,” Hugo said, squeezing her wrist with the strength he still had. “If my dad hears, he’ll just yank me out of the hospital anyways. I’d rather be here than have my dad try to play nurse. Why do you think I snuck the fuck out?”

“Don’t-” Haley ripped her wrist away. “I know your dad is a fucker. If he wasn’t, you wouldn’t be lying on my living room floor.”

“Please, Haley,” he said. “I can’t go back. Not right now.”

She glanced back at the rest of the house. “Fine. I’ll get you to the couch, then I’ll get my mom.”

“Thank you.”

Haley stood back up and grabbed his arms. With his uninjured leg, he pushed himself up, and threw an arm around her shoulders. 

“If you don’t go to the hospital, my mom’s gonna try to get you to stay here.”

“Good. Better here than my dad’s.”

“I meant forever.”

“Oh.”

She looked back at him. “Were you really going to go back?”

Hugo didn’t want to admit the truth - that maybe if his Talent was actually gone, his dad would be nicer to him. Maybe this burnout could be a good thing. 

Instead, he said, “I don’t know if I have a choice.”

Haley helped him get settled on the couch, propping a pillow under his left foot. As she adjusted it, she looked him in the eyes. “If I know you, I know you’ll make one.”

Hugo sank into the couch cushions. He hoped that one day she would be right about that.

[mxanigel]

Cut to the Feeling

an Attack on Titan (Shingeki no Kyojin) fanfic

[Read on AO3]

What if they lived?

An in-progress longfic that follows Levi Ackerman and Hange Zoë starting in the wake of Eren Yeager's first Titan transformation. It features OC Shion Miller, a soldier in Hange's squad who attempts to seek joy in their crapsack world. How will the journey these three take together improve their chances of survival?

Trio art by @/lilithkb!

-----

Rating: M

Relationships: Levi Ackerman/OC, Levi Ackerman & Hange Zoë, Hange Zoë & OC, eventual Levi/Hange/OC

Additional Tags: They/Them Pronouns for Hange Zoë, Hange Zoë Being Hange Zoë, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Friendship, Banter, Swearing, Lots of Cursing, Angst, Love and Loss, Asexuality Spectrum, Levi Ackerman Is Obsessed With Cleaning, Falling In Love, Literal Sleeping Together, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Canon Divergence, Nightmares, Torture, Blood and Injury, Demisexual Levi Ackerman, Bisexual Hange Zoë, I'm writing this because it's taken over my brain, I have spent so many hours on the wiki lol, Eventual Romance

Snippet from the 57th Expedition's aftermath below the cut:

-----

Shion skids to a halt at the sight of Levi hunched over, woodenly going through the motions of tuning his ODM gear. He stares intently at his equipment, eyebrows drawn together, eyes sunken, mouth flattened into a thin line.

Her heart shatters into pieces. What should she say? What can she say?

Then he looks up. “Shion.” The smallest spark of life flickers into his eyes. “You survived.”

“I… I did.”

“I’m glad.” His voice is barely louder than a whisper, gravelly with the weight of what he’s lost. 

“I’m glad you’re alive, too.” She hangs her head. “I’m… I’m sorry about your squad.”

He flinches. “Soldiers die.”

She instinctively begins to reach for his arm before deciding against the gesture. “And we remember them.”

“Yes… we do.”

The barely-controlled emotion in his tone prevents her from saying anything else. Unable to move away from the crushing silence, she leans against the side of the wagon, desperate to sort her thoughts.

She knows next to nothing of what happened. She still can’t believe they suffered this many casualties. Whoever the spy is must have far better control of their Titan form than Eren does. The one deadly glimpse she caught of the so-called Female Titan was terrifying enough: incredibly agile, quick to adapt to new information, utterly unafraid of Survey Corps soldiers. Perhaps because of the additional tricks at their— at her disposal. Hardening abilities? A scream that affects other Titans? Is that why so many abnormal Titans appeared today? How can a human become a Titan? What makes those Titans different? How much do we still not know about these monsters?!

“I expected you to ask me what I saw.”

Startled, she whips her head toward him. “It sounds like you saw hell. If you want to talk about it, I’ll listen, but I won’t ask.”

“… Thank you.” Levi turns his gear in his hands and then sets it aside. He slowly slides off the wagon, carefully and deliberately placing his weight onto his right leg.

“Are you injured?” she blurts out.

“I’ll heal. In time.”

She won’t ask how his squad died, why he got hurt, but she desperately wishes to know. She longs to offer a hand, but his demeanor screams at her not to. The burden of the words she can’t say squeezes air from her lungs.

His gaze bores into her forehead. “You’re injured, too.”

“It could’ve been worse.”

“Mm.” He glances over his shoulder. “If you haven’t yet seen them, your squad’s keeping watch to our east.”

They aren’t my squad. Except she can’t say that now. Not to him. “Th-Thanks.”

“You sent them ahead without you. They were worried.”

How does he know that? “I should go apologize.”

“Don’t fucking apologize. Your survival will tell them that leaving you behind was the right choice.”

His words may be harsh, but he wouldn’t say them if he didn’t care. Warmth unexpectedly trickles into her heart, a familiar yet jarring emotion when juxtaposed against sorrow and bewilderment and horror. “I’ll go see them,” she promises.

“Good.” It feels like a dismissal.

Without another word, Shion trudges toward her surviving squadmates. Along the way, she realizes the name of the warmth her heart carries. Something it hasn’t held in years. Something she never thought she’d feel again.

This is a particularly shitty moment to fall in love.

[robotgirlservos]

Alright, so

I have had a few questions from other sites and dms and stuff and I think yall need one of these

healing lessons with Titch!

Covered in the next few minutes or so will be a few basics on healing.  Even if you aren’t a green eye and don’t have healing powers, this should still be useful so that you know the limits of your green eyed friends.

Just like any other eye color, green eyes see the world with a different “tint”, ours reveals the “healthiness” of a living creature.

If someone has an injury, the injured part will lose its healthiness tint, some injuries are severe enough that the healthiness tint is drained from a larger area than the injury covers.

Bodies can recover on their own, even adapting to the loss of major body parts.  We will come back to this in just a bit.

First, we need to understand violet tint, which highlights the shape of a beings soul.  Most of the time, a persons violet tint matches their body with only minor deviation.

The most common exception to this is people who have lost fingers or maybe a limb, and while green tint may show that they’re in fine health, violet tint will reveal the parts that are missing.  Some people and animals are just fine even if they are missing some of the parts most members of their same species would typically have. They will also be missing that part in their violet tint.  Some people are just built different and we gotta respect that.

A few times, I’ve met people who had waaay different violet tints compared to how their bodies looked.  Some were as minor as gender differences, and one guy I met had the soul of a dragon!

All of these also can be healed, but it takes quite a bit of skill and power to get right, and it could be dangerous to the patient if done wrong.

Something less fun we should all be aware of was how some things can hurt you without leaving a visible mark to anyone but a violet eye.  Things like being heartbreak and harassment actually literally crush the soul and too much can permanently harm or even outright kill someone with no physical (healable) injury.  Fortunately souls can regrow over time, just be sure to stay safe.  If you need any help you can always come to me.

On a slightly more positive note, even if someone has died from a physical wound, a quick enough healer may be able to bring them back if set to work immediately.  The soul sometiems sticks around for up to a few minutes after the body can no longer support it. 

Generally, 3 minutes is the accepted timeframe for being able to bring someone back, but certain factors can raise or lower the time.  Cooling the body way down or having a loved one present drastically increases how long the soul will stick around for.  It’s never a guarantee, though. 

Some things are just out of everyone’s control.

...

Alright!  Now for your burning questions about eye transplants!

First off, even without his eyes, this guy can still use his orange eye powers, though he cant see anything, so he can’t really see anything in an orange tint.

Next, we’ve given him green eyes, and with his green eyes he can see!  in green tint!  However, he is still an orange eye at heart and can’t use any green eye powers, but he can still use his orange eye powers

Finally, after a while (or if someone just healed him) the green in his eyes fades and is replaced with regular orange tint

Eye color change is never permanent.

The closest I could think of is when someones soul got totally crushed, but their body just continued on as a husk.  Then something else came and took over it.

Anyway, hope this clears things up!  I’ll be happy to answer any questions you may have

[of-beasts-and-blood]

Character Intro

☠Basics: Name: Fyodor Bychkov Pronunciation: Fee-o-dore Beach-kov Meaning: Fyodor ~ ‘divine gift’ Bychkov ~ a family name connected to animals. The meaning of the name is ‘bull’, and denotes a family that is strongly built and powerful. Birthday: May 15, 1960 (Taurus) Age: 23  Gender: Male Pronouns: he/him Sexuality: Bisexual Siblings: Anna Whitlock Mother: Ksenia Bychkov Father: Andrei Bychkov Other Family: None Languages: Russian, English, minor French (mostly curse words, likely), small bits of British Sign Language Current Residence: Declan’s apartment, please free him. His and Declan’s shared living space, somewhere in London  Hometown: Satka, Satkinsky. The reserve was far out of town, due to its magical nature. 

☠

☠ Wizard Fun: School: Durmstrang  House: Atticus House Year of Graduation: 1978 Occupation: Unemployed Pet: He wishes :(  Blood Status: Pureblood Patronus: A graphorn. The creature is just too intrinsically tied into Fyodor’s being to be anything else. However, it’s a double-edged sword. Even if Fyodor were to be happy enough to conjure more than a thin wisp, the sight of the graphorn would definitely make him falter. Boggart: His father, severing his ‘attachments’. In general, Fyodor wasn’t afraid of his father. He admired his work ethic, his strength of magic and his ability to provide for his family. Yet he can no longer separate that man from the one who killed his favourite creature just to prove his point. His Boggart takes the form of his father, taunting him and torturing him about something - or someone - that Fyodor holds dear to him. Even if he closes his eyes, he can see the flash of green that follows. He can hear their cries and then… nothing. Amortentia Scent: Freshly-ploughed earth, medical sanitiser, beef stroganoff simmering on the stove. Wand type: Custom-made by Mykew Gregorovitch, made of Hawthorn with a Graphorn tentacle core. 12 inches. Affiliation: Neutral, but still on the border of Death Eater society as he treads a dangerous line.

☠ Appearance: Face Claim: Noel Fisher Height: 5’7” (he’s short and stocky) Hair Colour: Black Eye Colour: Blue-grey Typical Hair Style: Having spent his school years with a constant buzzcut, Fyodor is only now letting his hair grow out a little. Though it’s still short, the extra inches from his old look make him feel like a new man.  Fashion Style: Style? What is this? Fyodor, stylish? It’s less likely than you think. Having only packed very few of his clothes from Russia, his wardrobe is very eclectic. He wears sleeveless vests with jackets over them, fur coats when it’s snowing and - let’s be real - very little when he’s relaxing at home. He just looks like he walked into his closet and it spat him out again. The man needs help. He’s so used to the Russian winters that anything England throws at him is a balmy day to him.  Distinguishing Features: Scars, scars, scars. You don’t grow up raising creatures without getting a few injuries. His arms and legs tell that story, patterned with a few nicks that he will happily tell you about - at least, on his non-Dark Mark arm. His left knee is also a bit stiff following the time he got his knee cap shattered during a Re’em stampede he caused. His parents healed the bone, but not 100%. Their parenting style was all about lessons, and this was one that he’d have to bear for life. He also has a very distinct way of pulling his mouth when he speaks. 

☠ Personality and Interests: Positive Traits: Caring, hard-working, humble, a good listener. Negative Traits: Complaisant, undecided, stubborn, reluctant to open up.  Quick Facts: Left-handed. Cannot wink. Can sing. Likes Firewhiskey. Likes all seasons equally. Particularly enjoys jumping in leaf piles. Can’t swim. Smiles easily. Teases those he likes mercilessly.  Hobbies: Cooking. Fighting (well, previously). Waiting for Declan to come home. Running away from his problems. Sometimes reading Declan’s medical textbooks so he can throw in a fancy word or two during casual conversations.  Skills: Fair at cooking. Great with animals. Good with his fists. Bad with his wand.  Theme song: “Glitter & Gold” by Barns Courtney. 

☠ Headcanons:

Voice: Fyodor’s voice is deep and his Russian accent is thick. His elocution is good enough to not struggle with pronunciation, but his accent is always there. It’s in the roll of his R’s, in the guttural H’s and the general hum of his tone. 

Handwriting: Surprisingly neat. As a child, Fyodor would make notes on his daily activities, and they had to be legible enough to refer back to. His letters slant to the right and are small in size, allowing for more information per page. He once tried out dotting his i’s with X’s, but promptly stopped the habit during his first year at Durmstrang.

Because of its origin, Fyodor has not bonded with his wand. He never managed elegant spells, and even conjuring a simple Lumos took effort. An educated wandmaker could easily detect an air of melancholy coming from the object - one that could probably vanish if Fyodor embraced the bond he once held with his wand’s core. When at home, Fyodor does not carry his wand around with him, instead leaving it in its holster on his bedside table. In public, he has it with him, but barely uses it - though this isn’t necessarily something someone would immediately notice. 

Fyodor enjoys cooking. This only became evident once he left Russia and lived on his own. He had to make himself meals that would last him as long as they could and, having watched his mother cook over the years, he figured it couldn’t be too hard. He surprisingly took to it like a Kelpie to water, even going as far to buy himself some recipe books from a local bookshop in Paris. He makes a mean French onion soup, and his dumplings are his pride and joy. He’s recently taken to trying out sweet recipes - but don’t tell Declan. It’s a surprise. 

Fyodor misses the creature-rearing life, but he’s worried about trying to enter the London creature scene. How could he explain his proficiency with animals and not delve into his past? It was better to leave it alone. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t shoot longing glances at the Growls and Howls clinic wanted ads in the paper though. 

Fyodor is convinced that Sprinkles is a Jarvey in deep hiding, and keeps attempting to teach his cuss words when Declan isn’t home. 

Fyodor is shorter than both Whitlock siblings - something that amuses them greatly. Despite this, he can easily haul them both off their feet and over his shoulder. Separately, of course. He’s not that strong. Unless…..

He never realised how boring being a single child was until he met Anna. Now he’s completely adopted her as his sister and formed a bond almost as strong as if she was his biological sister. 

[wickedsrest-rp]

NAME: Bugbear (Pl: Bugbears)

ALSO KNOWN AS: Hobgoblin, Boogeyman

RARITY: ★★☆☆☆

QUICK FACTS:

Lifespan: 70-90 years

Supernatural abilities: Shapeshift into bear, heightened strength (as bear), cast frightening illusions, sharp claws and teeth (as bear)

Enhanced/special senses: Sharpened smell and night vision, senses fear

Immunities: Sees through illusions, some are immune to fear

Weaknesses: Fearlessness

Can detect: Possibly species with animal-like scents

Detected by: Hunters (rangers), possibly species with heightened sense of smell

Additional notes: This species does not have accelerated healing, or heightened strength/senses in human form; bugbears do not have an innate sense to allow them to recognize other bugbears

DESCRIPTION: Bugbears are shapeshifters, taking either the form of a human, or a ferocious, hulking bear-like creature. To most, the bear form of a bugbear is indistinguishable from a typical bear, though can be larger, and may resemble any ursine species. Despite their terrifying appearance, bugbears more often want to frighten people than genuinely hurt them, and revel in causing frightening pranks that allow them to feed off the fear of their victims. While there are stories of them eating people, there’s speculation that bugbears themselves made that up to frighten others (though, sure, there have probably been some incidents). They take a lot of pleasure and pride in being able to scare people, and even consider it their “job”. 

Bugbears require the consumption of fear to survive, but they also enjoy eating meat. In fact, they are known for their insatiable appetite and poor dining etiquette, as well as their ability to eat and digest absolutely anything (silverware, tools, cars). They are drawn to the morbid, creepy, and disgusting… and the morbid, creepy, and disgusting are also drawn to them. They are not popular at social gatherings. Bugbears that are not raised by a human tend to be socially awkward and sometimes display bear-like tendencies. The one human activity that bugbears raised among other bugbears excel in are campfire ghost stories. Campfire circles like this are popular among bugbear communities. 

ABILITIES: Bugbears are able to cast illusions that are specific to frightening people, including sound and smell-based illusions. More experienced bugbears can even stir up their victim’s more terrifying memories with their illusions, getting a window into what scares them more than anything else and potentially causing paralyzing fear. Some bugbears are even able to use these illusions to communicate while in bear form. These auditory illusions are always chilling, but do allow the bear to “speak” with others while shifted. Occasionally, they’ve been known to scare people to death, accidentally or otherwise. 

Bugbears have excellent night vision and a keen sense of smell, in both forms. As bears, they also have a mouth full of dagger-like teeth and long, sharp claws capable of slicing through most non-metal materials, not to mention they’re extremely strong and muscular. They can inflict serious damage when they want to, provided the person in question feels any fear toward them. Bugbears are also capable of seeing through illusions that are cast either by other species or other bugbears. While not universal, many bugbears are physiologically incapable of feeling fear themselves. They may understand the concept of being in danger, but their bodies and minds don’t react to it in a typical way.

WEAKNESS: Because bugbears feed off of fear, the best defense against them is to not be afraid of them. If they can’t sense fear in their victim, they physically cannot cause injury. They closely guard the fact that lack of fear renders them powerless. Thankfully, even if the rare someone is aware of this, it’s hard to stand your ground when a gigantic bear is charging at you. Bugbears do not have any kind of accelerated healing and thus are vulnerable to normal weapons and injury. 

If a bugbear hasn’t had a meal of fear in a while, they will start losing control over their shifting, and may “bear out” at an inopportune moment, letting their ravenous appetite guide them into chomping on whoever they can find. Fear, flesh, and all. They’re also known to lose their composure around honey, whether straight from a beehive or an aisle in the grocery store. During the winter months, bugbears have slower metabolism and tend to be more laid back. Most of them don’t overwinter unless they choose to live as a bear, but they do get sleepy.

SPECIES DYNAMICS:

While these dynamics are considered to be typical, there are many outliers based on character histories, personalities, development, and plots.

Mares: Because the feeding of mares causes a lot of fear as a byproduct, they have something of a rivalry with bugbears. There’s a lot of controversy over which species is scarier, and sometimes mild conflict in attempting to gain the upperhand, but at the end of the day their alliance is strong. The two have a deep respect for each other and will help each other out. Bugbears are the only shapeshifter that don’t feel uneasy around mares in any form.

Werewolves: Bugbears and werewolves tend to have a friendly and mutualistic relationship. Bugbears have been known to join wolf packs on hunts and share in the meaty feast. They also tend to get along in human form with their shared love of all meats and the outdoors. 

Empaths: As one could imagine, empaths don’t love being around someone who incites fear in others. The secondhand fear is nearly as damaging for the empath as it is for the bugbear’s intended target. As such, empaths avoid bugbears when possible.

Humans: Bugbears hold a lot of fondness for humans. Second only to bugbears themselves, humans are expert storytellers, and some of the finest and scariest literature and movies came from them. Bugbears credit themselves as inspiring such stories, naturally, and they see most as being non-fiction, but they love that they can scare humans into creating these masterpieces. If only humans made more bear stuff. Maybe that can be fixed.

Hunters: Yeah, hunters hunt the supernatural. Yeah, bugbears could be considered as such (even though some may think they’re just bears who are smarter than your average bear). But geez, hunters inspire such terror in other supernaturals, and bugbears are here for it. Some bugbears even admire hunters and like to watch them as they’re on hunts, lapping up the fear from their targets and the less bold hunters themselves. When a ranger does go after bugbears, it’s considered fair play; bugbears love a challenge and see it as an opportunity to scare a scary hunter right back.

Muses: Muses are always on the search for interesting talent and art, and they may enjoy the dark artistry of bugbears and mares. The nightmares and scaring are their own genre, and muses “get it,” which can please a misunderstood fear monster. However, muses do grow bored of one-note or hackneyed scares rather quickly, which can leave bugbears and mares disappointed.

Fae: While fae as a whole don’t have any particular dislike of bugbears, the fact that bugbears can see through their glamours may make them feel uncomfortable and exposed. It can allow for bugbears to easily identify them as fae, which makes bugbears a danger when it comes to secrecy breaching. Some bugbears don’t know how to keep a secret; others may find less scary fae utterly unremarkable and don’t spare a thought. 

Balam: The thought of a shapeshifter with a spirit inside of them is inherently scary and novel, and bugbears like that, even though they’re unlikely to know what a balam is until they meet one. However, most balam don’t think of their spirits as scary or even as ghosts, so this can cause arguments between the two species. Bugbears may take things too far and attempt to force a balam into shifting just to see more of the jaguar.

Kitsune: The claustrophobia in kitsune may be so intense that even the thought of exposure to their fear can cause dangerous panic. Some may try to avoid bugbears and mares, knowing exactly which fear of theirs will be exploited. Others may be more trusting or simply not be aware of the risk. 

Sirens & Banshees: Species with enhanced hearing may find the songs of sirens to be especially beautiful, drawing them toward the siren even from a distance. This can also make them more susceptible to enthrallment. For obvious reasons, those with enhanced hearing also may not appreciate a banshee being nearby… or even further away. Those screams travel. 

Nymphs (Melissae): Due to bugbears' love of honey, melissae tend to regard them with disdain. Bugbears who do come by a hive protected by a melissae may be especially drawn to their honey that’s become imbued with fae magic over time.

VIEW OPEN BUGBEAR SKELETONS

[fangs-and-mischief]

louder than sirens, louder than bells

Summary: In the aftermath of a nasty fight, Isolde wakes in Astarion's tent, only to find the vampire watching over her.

Word Count: 980

TW: canon typical violence, angst, vampire hearing is really sensitive

The Underdark was not a favorable place. Not for any of their little adventuring party. It had taken some…maneuvering, to get some of their party down here in the first place — Scratch and the owlbear cub didn’t exactly have opposable thumbs, but with Halsin’s help, they’d been flown down in a sling, something Isolde hadn’t expected the druid to do.

He was kind, though, and an invaluable addition to their little encampment.

Of course, things did not go smoothly. Shortly after departing the temple outpost of Selûne they faced a pair of angry minotaurs, resulting in Isolde’s first major injury in the time they’d been adventuring. One of them had charged her, horns goring into delicate flesh past padded armor.

The thing that stuck in her mind was Astarion’s voice, calling out to her as she fell to the wound, to the pain it caused. Followed, of course, by the singing of an arrow flying over her head into the minotaur’s eye. Once the threat had passed, she remembered Astarion carrying her, close to his chest, and whispering that everything would be all right, before she passed out from the pain. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, being carried with gaping wounds in one’s abdomen.

As she woke, she slowly came to be aware of a warmer tone to her surroundings. Not the dim, blue tones of the Underdark, Isolde found herself staring up at the blood red ceiling of Astarion’s tent.

“Good morning.” Her first response was a slight groan — not of pain, but that of the freshly awakened. That earned her a surprisingly warm chuckle from the vampire, who sat nearby. “Eloquent as ever,” he laughed, stretching his hand to take hers, entwining their fingers together. “How do you feel, darling?”

“Sore,” she replied softly, squeezing his hand even as she tried to use her other as leverage to sit up. Which was promptly stopped by the pain in her abdomen spiking. “Gods…damn it all, we don’t have time for this.”

“Except we do,” Astarion assured. “As much as we’d like to solve this problem in our heads, we can’t do much with one of our number severely injured.”

“Severely?”

“Halsin’s word, love, not mine,” he replied smoothly. “He gave me specific instructions to ensure you do not move from this tent today.”

“Healing magic?” she croaked.

Astarion shook his head. “The druid says that it will heal incorrectly, if magic is applied.”

“I didn’t even know that was possible,” Isolde wondered. “You said it’s…morning?”

“At least it feels like morning,” Astarion mused. “But then, my perspective on that may be a little bit skewed.”

“Did you sleep, Astarion?”

The vampire paused, seeming to take in her expression, before shaking his head. “No, I…I couldn’t sleep.”

“Why?”

“Do you really want to know, darling?”

“Would I ask if I didn’t? You know me, Astarion. I don’t ask things if I don’t want the answers.”

He sighed, inching closer to her and lifting their entwined hands to his mouth, deliberately taking the time to kiss the second knuckle of each of her fingers. Only then did he speak again, his voice somber and quiet. “Darling, you nearly died twice last night.”

Isolde was taken aback. “I…what?”

“The first time,” he began, “we weren’t even at camp. Shadowheart had to stabilize you with magic, and she was quick to do so, but…I’m ashamed to admit I panicked, when...” He drifted off, ruby eyes going distant, as they did sometimes when he thought about difficult things.

“When, what?” Isolde pressed.

“When I couldn’t hear your heartbeat,” he rasped, before regaining his composure. “I hadn’t realized how…reliant I had become on the surety of it, the steady, stable rhythm in the back of my mind, ever present. I don’t doubt I could pick your heartbeat out of a crowd, no matter what your state.” He laughed, the sound weaker than usual.

Isolde found herself speechless for the moment. Astarion relied on the steady sound of her heartbeat? Well, that certainly explained his reaction when she’d fallen to the minotaur the evening before.

“The second time,” he continued, as if he needed to fill the silence, “Halsin was trying to stop the bleeding. He’d asked Wyll to keep an eye on me, but I could hear it from across the camp. When your heart faltered, I choked on nothing and broke into a run. Karlach had to step into my path to keep me from interfering — she threatened to hold me back physically, and gods, I was tempted.”

“Astarion…”

With slow, deliberate movements, Astarion released Isolde’s hand, placing his own on the ground beside the bedroll as he shifted to lay beside her. But his eyes never left her face. “May I?” he whispered.

“Uh…yes?”

A soft laugh escaped the vampire. “I only want to listen closely.”

“To my heartbeat?” she inquired. “You can hear it from several feet away — won’t it be deafening up close?”

“No, actually. It just grows…clearer, the closer I am. At a distance, I can only hear the thumping you might hear in your own ears. Distinctively yours, but others might not recognize it. This close…I can hear the blood rushing through your veins.” His expression had grown reverent. “It’s almost hypnotic, darling.”

“Are you sure?” Isolde was hesitant, lifting her torso up ever so slightly again to scrutinize him at a more equal level. “Won’t it just make you hungry?”

He scoffed. “Isolde, you allowed me to feed just two nights ago,” he reminded. “I’ll be all right. I swear.”

Slowly, she let herself relax. “Okay.”

“Thank you,” he sighed, before slowly resting his head on her chest. Without even really thinking, she lifted her hand, carding her fingers into his silver hair. After a few moments, her eyes drifted shut, and she allowed herself to have a lazy morning for the first time since she was a child.