#it's another of those ones where sun and moon get found and repaired post fire

[starrspice]

I get 90% of my AU ideas from early stage dreams or thoughts i have moments before drifting off to sleep

And I only tell you guys about the ones I think are really good

[puppypeter]

These are all dark fics, READ THE TAGS before reading the fics. It is your responsibility to check whether what you are about to read is something that you can stomach. While most of these fics are based around trauma, recovery etc many feature triggering scenes or flashbacks as well as darker themes. Please be safe and don’t read them if they can be triggering for you! Proceed with caution! Most of them are Hydra Trash, but still not just the ugly bits as I like there to be a plot. Hiding them below the cut:

between scylla and charybdis | 21590 words

Sam Wilson has been witness to a lot of things he wishes he could unsee. Civilian families shot dead in their cars because of miscommunications at checkpoints. Riley’s body spiralling to the ground in a smoke-plumed plummet. His own face in his bathroom mirror after waking up hung-over as hell at two in the afternoon, the day after the anniversary of Riley’s death, year after year after year.

And now, in an abandoned bunker on the outskirts of Boston, a seemingly unremarkable manila folder at the bottom of a filing cabinet.

Berceuse | 10730 words

There are strange, new things Bucky needs from Steve.

Dreamers Often Lie | 11040 words

As far as Bucky remembers, sex is something that is painful and terrifying if you wake up while it's happening. As the Asset, sleeping through sex was a rare treat. When Steve lets Bucky know he's interested in a sexual relationship, what Steve doesn't know is that they have fundamentally different ideas of what that entails.

despite the threatening sky and the shuddering earth (they remained) | 71532 words

“They really didn’t want the mask to come off.” Hill thumbed through the scans, and pulled out a film that she then handed over to Sam, face mostly expressionless but for the flat line of her pursed lips.

Sam accepted the film and held it up to the light, angling so both he and Steve could see it, squinting at the outline of the Winter Soldier’s skull, and the blips of unnatural white that showed up, God, in his brain, not to mention about half his teeth, plus the mask, with its thin protrusions—

“Those are pins,” Steve realized. He looked over at Hill. “The mask—it’s nailed to his face.”

Hill’s face was as unmoved as ever. “Like I said. They really didn’t want it coming off.”

Fire And Water For Your Love | 77084 words

When the Avengers investigate an abandoned HYDRA base on behalf of S.H.I.E.L.D., they unexpectedly encounter a dark-haired man with a torn metal arm, who leads them to an even more shocking discovery deeper inside the base. The Avengers must reconcile what they have found with the lies S.H.I.E.L.D. has been telling for decades.

Give An Inch | 5070 words

The Captain has a warm smile and clear, open eyes. The Soldier knows these are tricks. He's fallen for them before and he won't do it again.

Humans As Gods | 4818 words

"HYDRA's scientists had been delighted to find their serum-reversal procedure had worked. Their jubilation was dampened by the discovery that Steve's smaller self might no longer be Captain America-sized but was still 100% Steve Rogers, and Steve Rogers was now mad enough to spit nails. A minor oversight in the design of the containment area meant that smaller-Steve had simply wriggled out of the now ridiculously-oversized restraints like an angry ferret escaping a paper bag, and punched the nearest technician in the nuts.

Chaos ensued."

HYDRA scientists successfully de-serum Captain America, only to discover that they are utterly unprepared for Steve Rogers. Meanwhile, the Winter Soldier follows his instructions to the letter. This works out just great.

The Only One That Needs To Know | 6571 words

Bucky can't control his body. He can only control what secrets he keeps.

I Was Wearing My Blue Coat | 11503 words

Following exposure of his past as the Winter Soldier, anonymous postings of explicit video footage, 63 charges of murder and the wrath of the Internet, James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes finally steps into the limelight and tells his story to Zenat Patel of the New York Times.

Compliance Will Be Rewarded | 4767 words

Someone told him once: "Compliance will be rewarded," and he remembers pressing his head against a man’s leg in open supplication. He remembers hands in his hair, and a gentle grip on the back of his neck. He remembers a man telling him "so good, so good for me aren't you?" And he remembers nodding his head in a desperate attempt to be exactly as good as he was supposed to be.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Bucky Barnes is physically free from Hydra, but the hold on his mind lingers still. All he wants is to go home, and he'll do anything he can to get there.

To Burn Your Kingdom Down | 12370 words

The Avengers go after a Hydra splinter cell with a nasty habit of brutalizing their prisoners. Steve has some ugly history with them, and when a rescue mission gone wrong leaves him and Sam in enemy hands, the situation gets uglier still.

Worth The Wound | 7709 words

The asset knows that maintenance is better than punishment. But with Steve, maintenance becomes more pleasant, soft and gentle and everything he could dream of. It was only natural that he decided to prolong that maintenance a little longer.

The Spaces In-Between | 6971 words | Part 1 of What We Tried So Hard To Hide Away

"Memories are like buckets of water: they weigh on the heart and the brain until the body fails. You're blessed to stay forgetful and young, Soldier."

Sometimes blessings feel like curses.

Illuminate The Scene | 7086 words | Part 2 of What We Tried So Hard To Hide Away

The doctors had wanted to keep the Soldier. Shock him and freeze him until he was fixed, or tear him to scrap if he couldn’t be repaired so that he wouldn’t be an entirely wasted investment. Steve is the only thing stopping them.

When the Soldier can't trust his own body, how can he trust anything?

All These Riots Of Broken Sound | 83790 words | Part 1 of Forever Is A Close And Honest Friend

When Steve and the team return to Avengers tower to find Bucky gone, they must venture into B.A.R.F. to figure out what triggered him to leave and hunt those who wronged him. Trapped in a simulation of Bucky's worst memories with rogue HYDRA agents waiting to strike, 100 years of secrets, lies, pain and love drive the team to their limit and push Steve towards a realisation that is a century in the making.

I Was Lost But Left A Trace | 3585 words | Part 2 of Forever Is A Close And Honest Friend

Disorientated, the Asset reached up to wipe at the moisture on its cheeks and was shocked to find it clear, instead of the crimson it has been expecting. It didn’t understand why this misidentification had caused uproarious laughter from the technicians.

“It is not blood,” the Asset told him, “but it is still a malfunction.”

This sobered the technician a little, and he nodded tightly.

“Yes. It is. But we will fix you.”

I’ll Always Be Blamed For The Sun Going Down | 9907 words | Part 3 of Forever Is A Close And Honest Friend

He knows he’s in the right place. He has heard the guys at the docks laugh and joke about the queers who come out after dark, looking to earn a little extra cash. He has seen the johns, when he’s been out late enough, skulking in the shadows like predators hunting for their next meal, looking for something in particular. Sometimes they look at him.

A small, rusty pen knife that his father had picked up in Europe during the Great War sits heavy in the breast pocket of his jacket. Just in case.

Book Of The Moon | 16019 words | Part 4 of Forever Is A Close And Honest Friend

In 1929, Bucky Barnes falls in love for the first time and resigns himself to never telling a soul, let alone Steve, the object of his affections. In 1943, half a world away from the man he can never have and fighting for his life and his sanity, something new begins to bloom.

Habeas Corpus | 18054 words

An unexpected incident in the field leaves Steve Rogers facing the infiltration of a Hydra base and retrieval of important intelligence, all while pretending to be the Winter Soldier. Unfortunately, there are important aspects of the Soldier's past that Bucky hasn't disclosed, and Steve has no idea what he's really walking into.

Bullies | 14979 words

Written for the MCU trash meme prompt:

I wanna see Steve being messed with by his secretly-HYDRA coworker buddies. I want them generally fucking with him, "accidentally" doing terrible things to him or getting Steve into awful situations, telling jokes that aren't really jokes, gaslighting, performing sexual-assault hazing under the guise that "that's what people do now," pressuring him into other sex shit, anything, just fuck Steve up.

Steve isn't failing to fully catch on because he's dumb or oblivious: it's just that he is Steve, so he wants to believe the best of everybody, and he doesn't want to believe that he could be working for/with bullies and that (as Natasha says) he essentially died for nothing.

Not Unwanted, Not Unloved | 50320 words

They'd resigned themselves to never becoming parents - until Bucky gets pregnant and drops off the grid without even a whisper to his mate about his condition. Steve will still raze the earth to find him, but that doesn't mean he likes what he finds.

The Tones That Tremble Down Your Spine | 13889 words

Tony tells him they’re planning a party for Steve’s birthday. He knows how parties are supposed to go.

Lacuna | 62875 words

The Winter Soldier doesn't remember Steve Rogers, but he needs Rogers' help.

OR: The one where Bucky doesn't remember Steve, but falls in love with him anyway.

Not A Perfect Soldier | 93354 words

In a world where HYDRA was wiped out in the '40s, Steve is found by the Army rather than SHIELD. General Thaddeus Ross wants a perfectly obedient super-soldier at his command, and to that end, he sets out to break Steve to his will. As Steve struggles to come to terms with all he has lost, his life in captivity is only made bearable by the presence of another prisoner-- another super-soldier known only as "Soldat". Then the Avengers strike a deal with Ross to "borrow" him for missions, and Steve is faced with a team who dislikes him, an organization he doesn't trust, and the question of what he's willing to do to escape Ross's clutches.

For Want Of Him | 103174 words

It's the twenty-first century, and Steve Rogers has never been more alone. Everything he knew, everyone he loved, is now gone, and a dark, bitter loneliness claws at him, raking bleeding gashes into his heart. And then there's Brock Rumlow. Rumlow is like salt in his wounds; vicious, and cruel. But his dark brown hair and teasing smirk reminds Steve of someone long dead, and his New York accent sounds like home...He's a soldier like him...he understands. And Steve makes the fatal mistake of trusting him.

The Same Measure | 4943 words

The Winter Soldier was never allowed to stop unless an injury was too grievous.

To Be Unmade | 5114 words | Part 1 of Alexander Pierce Should Have Died Slower

For the asset, things only ever get worse. The external scars fade quickly enough. The internal ones dig deeper and deeper.

But the internal scars are called love, and doesn't that make them worth the hurt?

Do Not Put In The Icebox | 7143 words | Part 2 of Alexander Pierce Should Have Died Slower

When the asset malfunctions on a mission, Rumlow and Rollins learn more than they ever wanted to know about Pierce's hobbies.

And then everyone has pancakes.

The Knowing Makes It Worse | 4130 words | Part 3 of Alexander Pierce Should Have Died Slower

No is a bad word and invites punishment.

Or, Alexander Pierce is a very bad man who delights in manipulating and degrading the asset.

Love Is For Children | 5303 words | Part 4 of Alexander Pierce Should Have Died Slower

Bucky understands how the game works. He can't understand why it makes Steve cry.

But Natasha and the other Avengers are there to help.

I Just Wanted To Be Sure Of You | 4461 words | Part 5 of Alexander Pierce Should Have Died Slower

Bucky has Bucky Bear; it's only fair for Natasha to have something of her own.

Visiting a toy store wasn't strictly necessary, but if Tony wants to throw money around, no one's going to complain.

“Till The End Of The Line | 6069 words | Part 6 of Alexander Pierce Should Have Died Slower

It's hard to take a friendship right back up when so much has changed over seventy years.

Particularly when HYDRA's conditioning resurfaces.

*if you feel that any of these fics shouldn’t be in this list please just send me a message! :) I have read them all but over the past 1+ years so some of them I might not remember all the details of :)

[rotzaprachim]

Kalimat/كلمات

Yusuf al-Khaysani/Niccolò di Genova, 3.3k, teen, AO3 LINK

Yusuf translates medical texts for Niccolò from Greek and Persian into Arabic, and Niccolò spots the substratum of the ideas of the classical authors that he had once believed the basis of his own civilisation that he would go to the sword to defend, translated and passed down and sewn into a no longer foreign script. There are words Yusuf does not know how to translate. They will never, ever know all of the words. The prospect is thrilling. --- It takes Niccolò lifetimes to learn Arabic.

(I've tried pretty hard to make this at least historically feasible but I'm very sure this is just. Jam packed with mistakes. As is the Arabic langauge stuff- I got booted from the class due to dyslexia. I also hope the representation of Islam and Islamic culture is accurate.) 

Languages drop from Joe’s lips easily. Nicky struggles with survival phrases in lingua francas- What Hurts in Dari and Can you breath- nod yes in Swahili and How can we help in French, but Joe can easily lose himself in the sea of a new language’s words and come up swimming, not just stringing together sentences but swallowing poetry, drama, and music. In Ughyar, Bosnian, Zapotec, Spanish, Tamil, Sylheti, Albanian. The shelves of his books line their lives. That is important to Joe, that people be seen not just as they always seem to be in western news reports - as the bodies in the ruined city- but as poets. As storytellers. As humans who struck fire with language that will survive and burn anew.

Joe recites Khachatur Abovian to calm the fractured nerves of a former schoolteacher ripped from his home while he and Nicky rush to forge passports and visas for the teacher and his wife and his seven children to make new lives in America. In a post war displaced persons camp he speaks Yiddish, reads Sholem Aleichem and Avrom Sutzkever from paperbacks pulled from the fires and then decades later in the dust of Baghdad, Arabic and al-Sayyab. And he listens, listens even more than he speaks. He listens to stories upon stories of war and loss and human suffering with his ears and his eyes and heart and a clasped hand that says, I do not claim to know your pain but I have felt my own.

Nicky sets arms and delivers babies and administers vaccines and sorts endless boxes of quinine tables and bandages. He speaks with his hands, mainly, and his bedside manner is different from Joe’s. He learned long ago to keep lollipops in the right pocket of his jacket. The first language Nicky learned to speak was the sea and the second was the wind, and spoken words come to him slower, with less agility, blending into occasionally archaic jumbles. He means to ask an assistant for an antiseptic wipe at one point, has to dig through his mind through the piles of once vital vocabulary bleached useless by time, military jargon for battles lost nine hundred years ago and colloquial derja words for plants and crops gone extinct under the tides of modern monocropping, and comes up sputtering, asking if anyone, perchance, has a neckerchief?

The linguistic stumbling of an unlettered genovese sailor versus a middle class trader’s son who learned to love the written world on his mother’s lap.

It took Nicky a human life time to master spoken Arabic, in a few of her many varieties, with her tricky mazes of roots, more decades of listening and stumbling through conversations and gentle corrections than the average human mind could take before his own readujsted to the beauty of a world described through roots with all things connected to each other.

It took him another life time again to master fusHa, the complex turns of phrase and imagery and unwritten short vowells, and a brush and then pen always felt far more alien in his hands than a sword did. (Although the precision of a pen prepares him well for the precision of a scalpel, and that, perhaps, is the instrument with which Nicky writes history.)

A thousand years ago, in the same city who’s people Joe and Nicky will die again and again for to try and pull from the ruin, the man then Yusuf wrapped his hand around the hand of the man then Niccolò and guided him through this mysterious world of written letters. Alif-ba-ta-thaa and then nun-qaf-waw-lam-alif,

اسمي نقولا

For the first time, Niccolò wrote himself down.

The script contained other mysteries and hidden trap doors. The disappearing mem that could get swallowed by lam and alif and the mysterious shape-shifting ta marbouta and the categories of sun and moon letters that lent the marks on a page a tangible quality, the burning Mediterranean sole that Niccolò’s people marked their years by and la luna by which Yusuf’s people knew their own time by.

When they had reached their first truce in the battlefield and had to learn how to say things beyond various threats and claims of the name of God, they’d each had to remake the world in a new image, relabel everything they’d thought they’d known. Shams, the enemy man had said over and over again, pointing up, and Niccolò hadn’t known if he meant “sky” or “blue” or “above” or “God” or the color “blue.” Niccolò had drawn a line in the sand, the past running to the future and tried to map out the different tenses of his own language he didn’t fully understand himself, only knew how he’d use them in a sentence. He’d hatched an x in the middle for now, drawn two little stick figures and two blobby horses, us he’d said in zenaize, then future, right of the men, past, left.

“Ahhh,” the man who Niccolò now knew as Ana Ismee Yusuf, nodded. He stood up and pointed right. “Lelshar’.” To the left. “Lel’arb.” He smiled and Niccolò thought it might be worth dying, just to see again. “Si, si. Io capiscooo.” He stretched his syllables out in a deadpan imitation of a puffed-up Genovese noble, and Niccolò laughed himself.

Several lifetimes later and Niccolò tries to label his world anew again in writing. Yusuf writes out words in large, blocky script on pieces of scap paper, marks the harakat around the words carefully in red ink. He tacks باب to the door and سَرِير to their bed and even أنا to himself. He holds up a piece of paper to the sky outside, the sun blinding their eyes momentarily before they repair. الشَّمس, the first word. Yusuf even attempts to stick قِطّ onto Amira, the sharp eyed street cat who’s wormed her wait into their household. The scratches that earns him heal quickly.

It takes Niccolò far longer than he wants anyone to know before his mind properly started to see a word and see it as a word, something more than a collection of letters but a thing that existed, definitively, in God’s world. بَيْت, what he and Yusuf have now had in Basra, Palermu, Fustat. مُحيط, like the Mare Nostrum. فَتاة, a girl like like the sister he left behind.

And then the door was opened, and Niccolò could read, or at least, understand this process of reading for himself, and more than that, he could see this part of Yusuf, so crucial to the soul he nad come to love and this heart he now held in his own. Yusuf loved words, and books, and writing, he loved his Book as the word of God to his prophet and he loved his books as connection to the mother who had first taught him suras and his father who wrote in three languages, and, he had once gold Niccolò in the quiet safety of their bed, in the night, with the first boy he had ever loved, the other star pupil at their madrassa with whom he would lie composing lines of poetry under a lemon tree.

Niccolò thought of Yusuf reading in the small, cool courtyard of the house in Damascus that would for this lifetime be their home, his mouth moving silently in prayer as his fingers followed reverently over the verses. He thought of Yusuf moving elegantly through the world, his speech dry and witty or educated where his own felt blunt, trading jokes and barbs back and forth in the tea house and the market. But mostly, Niccolò thought of Yusuf writing, face still with all the steady focus and silent reverence of prayer, bent over a carved rosewood writing desk, the sunlight streaming in through the windows setting his curls on fire. And his hands, so strong, so reliable, moving unerringly across the page, line after line of the script that Niccolò once feared and mocked because he feared but which he now knew could contain all the beauty of the world.

He practiced by writing to the those he loved but no longer walked the world.

Oum, today sun bright. I see roses in market. I think of you, when I see roses in market.

Abba, in house of God happy I know you are, happy makes it me.

Maria, to read you will love, i know. Your son man now. Good i know. Peace to you.

Niccolò burned the letters in a fire and hoped God would make it so his 'aa'ila could read them. Yusuf and Niccolò were both young in the business of being immortal. They had not learned to shoulder the pain of it yet, so they faced the loneliness, together and alone. Niccolò thought that he saw the appeal of letter writing, then, imagined a world in which he could have written his family from the Holy Land, told them that no matter how many infidels he killed to cleanse this world for the Cross he felt no closer to holiness himself, told them that the one he killed and killed and killed again he had found holiness in, told his parents that their son died and died and did not die. That he missed home, the rocky shores and fishing villages of Liguria, but that he missed them more, because his family was his home, even if there were things about him that he hid in the darker parts of himself because he knew they would never understand.

His sister’s grandchildren- or maybe her great-grandchildren, he wasn’t quite sure- were still alive, probably, but there wasn’t a way they’d respond well to the idea of a relative who’d have been forty years past death even without war sending them letters written in the alphabet they’d been taught to hate, if they could read at all.

With the ashes of his letters, he lets his family go, and prays God looks kindly upon them, and shows them mercy, and grants them peace and understanding. Every century or so, he’ll check in, he vows, even from afar, because he owes Maria that much. He hopes her son or his son or his son has not wasted his life to die in a war on foreign soil like he did, or that her daughter or her daughter or her daughter has not been left a widow.

Yusuf’s family still lived in Tunis. His sister Maryam took over the trading business after his death and made the al-Khaysani family a great name and funded many hospitals and houses of learning. News of her death reached Palermu weeks after the burial, and it was one of the few times in their long, long lives that Yusuf had to walk for months alone, to process a grief as large as the world. He let the waves of the sea and the sand of the desert swallow him again and again, and when he did not die, he rose and lifted his head to the sky and swore he would make the world as good as she wanted it to be. In every city they go to with a cathedral or even a baked mud church Niccolò lights candles for Maria and for Maryam. Santa Maria, madre de dio, they’ll pick up one day, in a language centuries off from existing. You know she is named more times in our book than yours, Yusuf told him in one one of their many cycles of death and coming back, when Niccolò called out for her, bleeding out on the sand.

When Niccolò found Yusuf again they stood with their hands clasped at her grave outside the medina and then they prayed and set off again. New cities, new tongues, new people. To avoid suspicion, they alter the sounds of their names to match the sounds of the city. Yusuf and Naaqid. Giuseppe and Niccolò. Nikolai and Iosef. Every death is shorter.

Yusuf forges the documents and the names, barters and trades, even makes several seperate respectable fortunes as a merchant of cloth and then spices before even claims of pomegranates doing wonders for one’s health start to wear a bit thin and they have to fake their deaths again. He writes, and though home quickly becomes what they can carry, he keeps sheaths of poetry in tiny, perfect script in his saddlebag, recites long poems as they make camp in the desert. Some were written by and for men like them. Others Yusuf tweaks the gender of, chooses inta over inti. Every time they die they leave a generous waqf behind.

Niccolò takes care of the horses, and then he tries to take care of people. He learns as much of these strange healing arts of the east as he can from Yosef, and then from a doctor in Basra and a Jewish apothecary in the city of Fustat. It is not blasphemy to try to know the body, he is deciding, it is not sacrilige to try as hard as one might to save a life. At some point, the knowledge goes beyond what he can remember or what a diagram can tell him, and so it’s in Damascus that Niccolò decides, even with his previous failed attempts at the aliph-baa, to ask Yusuf to teach him how to read.

And he does. It takes time, years, before he can, before he feels more man than child with a pen in his hand and he does not smear ink across the page. And there are limits. He is never a poet. His language is always more practical than- and this is a word that will not exist for centuries but that colors his memories even still- than romantic. For him heart is a thing of muscles and chords that powers a life. He reads and takes notes on Al Razi far more than Abu Nuwwas or al Muttanabi. Ibn Sina’s Canon of Medicine astounds him just as Ferdowsi’s perfect schemes of monorhymes entrance Yusuf. His sentences do not flow into rivers like Yusuf’s do. They build squat, strong houses. They encode information that Niccolò can leave behind when he dies, only to return to a century later and find that have been added on to by scholars after him, the foundations for someone else’s palace. Sometimes, the things he thought were true are completely washed away in the flood of some new discovery, and he prays and begs the forgiveness of all those he caused unnecessary pain in his ignorance.

But even in his clumsiness, the power of words surges through. Yusuf’s words and his love of words surges through to Niccolò in the years of learning, until Niccolò loves words too, just as Niccolò’s love of the sea and her many tempestuous moods and promise of infinite freedoms filters through to Yusuf. Yusuf translates texts for Niccolò from Greek and Persian into Arabic, and just as with Mary and Maryam centuries ago on a battlefield, Niccolò spots the substratum of the ideas of the classical authors that he had once believed the basis of his own civilisation that he would go to the sword to defend, translated and passed down and sewn into a no longer foreign script. There are words Yusuf does not know how to translate. They will never, ever know all of the words. The prospect is thrilling.

And Yusuf’s love of words surges up into Niccolò’s love of Yusuf too. It took him about three weeks after their initial truce to realise the man was soft, which then took him a few decades to find more endearing than annoying. That he liked sweet things and flowers and goddamn useless hobbies like calligraphy and drawing complex borders of tulips and interlocking knots along the borders of his writing papers. And he knew he was a good poet, to his own ears, that he fit words together nicely. But being able to read Yusuf’s poems, even the unwritten snippets he leaves scattered around the house, often unfinished, is something else entirely. A glimpse into being seen, by the person who sees him best. But God above, he doesn’t think anyone alive has had their eyes compared to the beauty of the sea after the desert quite so many times, or wrung as many turns of phrase from the has the double meaning of عَيْن.

“The world,” he says one night as they sit and watch night descend softly upon the City of Jasmine. It’s a city to make even the woman who will come knocking at their door in a matter of decades feel young and insignificant, and even the colloquial name suits Yusuf’s pretensions annoyingly well. Steam from cups of tea curls into the evening air. The smells of horse shit and rosewater both on the air. The calm cradle of the evening after the maghrib prayer. “You see it …” He does not know how to end it.

“How, then, do I see the world, hayati?”

“You see the stars above a battlefield. You see the stars and then the fields that will grow again after the ashes are tilled into the soil. You see stars as gems, and the windstorms of the desert is the finest music, if you would believe your poems.

“And you are angry that I have seen the good in the world? I would not call the man who came to a foreign land to kill the infidel and came to spend a hundred years learning best to save their lives a man who does not see beauty in unexpected things either.”

“You are-”

He looks for a word, any word in his mind that has learned so many. Unchanging would not be right for the man who once killed him so many times and learned Greek and Latin to read him the words of the Apostles as they were written, who has accompanied him on pilgrimages to Antioch and the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem. He has changed as much as Niccolò has. No, it’s something-

“You are looking at me as you look at your patients.” Yusuf reaches out and brushes back Niccolò’s hair. He kisses his forehead. A kiss from Yusuf, no matter how chaste or how many, still sends lightning through his body.

“As if you were ill?”

“No. You look with such focus upon the world, with so much kindness about how to help it heal.” For a time whose number has since gone beyond count, their hands interlink. “We cannot save the world, but we can save some, and by saving some, we can save the world. We will work to repair what is broken.”

“I have found the cause of your affliction.”

“What do you consider me afflicted by, Doctor Al-Zenowaizi?”

The word romantic is still more than six centuries out, although they’ll soon wander through Europe during the heyday of the romance, and Yusuf will even write a few himself in Occitan and Provençal. For now, though, the word carries the implications of Roma and the waning Basileion Rhomaion to the north, to the al-Rum rite of the Damascene churches he now celebrates the Eucharist in, the river of his faith turned down a different course. For now, though, the word romantic remains firmly in the future. No, it’s something else he thinks of.

“Hope. You have a most serious case of hope.”

“And what do you suggest as remedy, Doctor Al-Zenowaizi?”

Niccolò pulls him in for a proper kiss, long and deep and hot and sweet and bitter from the tea. He loses himself in the warmth of his body, his hands in the curls of his hair, and he thinks how blessed he has been by God that this is the man he has been destined to spend forever with.

“Albi, I do not think there is one. I think you have been cursed with an incurable case of hope.”

[cowboisadness]

Hang ‘Em High {Arthur Morgan x F!OC} Chapter 18

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x FemOC

Summery: Belle Hawthorne is high society looking to escape her mean husband. A robbery by the Van Der Linde gang could be her chance. Can she escape his cluches and possibly discover what love should feel like?

Warnings: Swearing. Micah

.....

Chapter 18

Arthur didn’t return that night, nor was he there by the time morning arrived. I spent all day unable to focus on anything. Like everyone and everything around me was moving at a higher speed than I was. Leaving everything as a blur. Once I was done with everything and positive that Grimshaw wasn’t going to find something else for me to do, I made my way over to the horses. 

Tossing the finished cigarette I was smoking to the side I strolled over to my girl, Orion. Giving her a few rubs on her chestnut and white nose and sharing my apple with her, biting into it a few times as she looked on waiting to get some herself. I usually take a couple of minutes every day to spend time with her, but the last few days I had been neglectful. Thankfully that O’Driscoll boy, Keiran, was doing a fine job of taking care of her and the others. You could always find him here a little away from the camp and the teasing comments.

“Do you have a spare brush I could borrow?” I asked him as he tended to Old Boy.

“I do, Miss.” He replied quietly. Going over to a bag propped up against one of the hitching posts and retrieving the brush. Handing it over with a timid smile before going back to what he was doing. 

I brushed down Orion, giving her soft words of comfort. One of her hind legs resting as she relaxed from the attention. I couldn’t help but look out towards the path beyond just hoping for him to turn up, unharmed and with an explanation. Drowning out all noise from the camp behind me to focus on what could be heard within the canopy of the trees surrounding us. Nothing but the rustling of small creatures through the grass and birds in the trees. I offered to take watch. Relieving a thankful Javier of the duty. 

The hours ticked on as I stood there, the next feeling longer than the last. With the rifle at my side, I kept myself hyper-aware of any noise or disturbance. The day eventually turned into night. But still no sign. Maybe being here alone with my thoughts wasn’t a grand idea. Various thoughts and scenarios at the forefront of my mind. He could have been captured and killed by the O’Driscolls on his way to meet up with Dutch and Micah. His body dumped where he would never be found. The law or Pinkertons could have apprehended him. In a cell ready to be hanged if he hadn’t already been executed to prevent any risk of him getting away. My hands shook with agonising worry. Taking slow deep breaths in an attempt to steady myself lest I lose it completely. 

John approached at some point when it was completely dark, carrying a lamp with him. He offered to take over. Stating I had been out here for almost six hours. 

“Abigail told me you are worried about Arthur,” he said, lighting up a cigarette as he leaned against the tree I was previously attached to.

Still unable to tear my eyes away from the path I took in a shaky breath before speaking “Seems like I’m the only one.”

“It’s not strange for him to be away for days. But even I can tell this is different.”

“Has Dutch given any implication that he’s going to look for him?” I eventually looked at him. The lamp he placed on the floor lighting up the side of his face, his healed scars more pronounced in the yellow glow.

He just shook his head. He handed me a cigarette from his pack as I made my way back to camp. Probably his attempt of comfort. I picked up a couple of beers as I passed the wagon, completely passing the surrounded fire and made a beeline to my tent. Ready for another restless night.

…..

The morning I was welcomed with the watered-down, piss-water excuse for coffee at the fire. Swallowing it down with a grimace and debating to switch it to beer or whiskey for breakfast. 

Micah made his way over, pouring himself a cup. “Whoever made this coffee needs to be banned from doing so ever again,” I said, my tone as bitter as the liquid in the cup. 

He just huffed and groaned as he sat beside me on the log. Keeping his distance but still much closer than I would like him to be.

Soon letting out an aggravated hum after the first taste. 

“Ya know. It’s cute the way you worry about us men,” He leered at me, taking another sip.

He’s not wrong in thinking I would be worried if it was any of the others. Just not to this magnitude. 

“Of course I’m worried.”

He moved closer closing the gap slightly, my body tensing in preparation to move away. I should have because once he placed his hand on my knee I froze as I looked down. Wondering what the fuck made him think he could put his hands on me.

“I’m willing to take out of camp for a few hours. Take your mind off it…” I could feel his eyes on me, his foul breath on my face. It took all my willpower not to shove him to the floor.

“...Make you forget for a while.” That’s it. I latched onto his hand to force him away. Now standing so he was out of reach. Anger and disgust plain as day on my face when I faced him.  

“What makes you think I want that, Micah?” 

“Just suggesting a bit of fun.”

“First of all…” I began pointing my finger in his direction “We must have a different meaning of fun. Secondly, never put your hands on me again.” My brows raised waiting for his retort.

“Well, I didn't take you for a prude.” He snarled 

“No. I’d just rather lay with someone I like as a person.”

“Like baby-blues Morgan? All over each other like a rash. That's why you’ve been a sour bitch lately? Ya ain’t getting ya legs spread?”  He stood then, drifting closer and oozing cockiness. That smirk still on his face.

“What if he doesn’t come back? 

“Get fucked, Micah.” I didn't give him time to respond, turning on my heels and towards the lake to calm myself down before I throttle the bastard. Inhaling the warm air slowly to ease my irritation. Focusing on the sun's rays rippling on the surface of the water.

…..

I stayed by the river most of the day as it rolled into the evening. Taking the pile of clothing that needed repairing or altering with me. Taking short walks along the water when the pain in my back and hands got a bit too much. The sky changed from its brilliant blue into intense oranges and yellows, like the sky was ablaze for those couple of hours. The full moon now making its face detectible amongst the lingering clouds. A single Blue Jay with a coat in such a vivid deep blue and white that I had never seen before perched on a rock nearby. My silent companion.

It was then, still sitting on that log with a steaming coffee in hand and a pile of fixed garments at my side that I heard a commotion on the other side of camp. 

Mary-Beth’s usual delicate voice now one of panic, shouting for help.

I rushed into camp, preparing to pick up my gun from my tent fully expecting the panic to be an ambush of some sort. That we had been found by O’Driscolls or the Pinkertons finally brought their men to kill everyone as promised. I wasn’t expecting to see the Tennessee Walker that has been missing for days. Mary-Beth and Karen stood over a body. 

Running over I could feel the panic now setting in. Falling to my knees beside him. Relief washing over me knowing he was still alive. But he was in a serious way, the ragged wound on his shoulder emitting the stench of iron and gunpowder. Dutch made his way over then, the man in complete shock. 

“I told you it was a set up, Dutch…” His voice was strained and hoarse. It was a miracle he was able to get back from the state he was in. His hand went to me, holding on with what little strength he had. But I held him anyway, my other hand propping up his head as he tried to sit up but completely unable without help. Dutch called out for Grimshaw and Swanson. Pearson now beside me, apologising profusely. Dutch continued to shout as Pearson and I lifted him, his full weight bearing down on us as we made our way to his cot, dropping him down as gently as possible with a groan from the three of us. Grimshaw came barreling through then, pushing me out of the way causing me to lose my grip on him. Swanson dropping a bag of medical supplies beside her. Both of them getting to work. 

“Best if you stand outside, Miss Bella,” Swanson advised. The sounds and movements surrounding me seeping back to my senses. 

I looked at Arthur again, a faraway look on his sweat covered face. Letting out pained gasps every so often.

“I’m not leaving,” I said matter-of-factly

“Do as he says. This ain’t gonna be pretty.” Grimshaw glanced at me then. Sharpness to her tone and her face contorted in determination. 

Leaving the area I let the canvas fall in front of me but I didn't go far. Stood rooted to the spot only a few metres away. They must have been stitching him up, his agonising inhales and grunts being the only thing I could hear. I felt a hand tenderly placed on my shoulder, making me jump. It was Abigail and I didn’t realise I was crying until my eyes met her face. She squeezed my shoulder slightly but didn't speak. 

It wasn’t long till Grimshaw and Swanson made their exit, blood covering their hands. 

“He’s weak and slightly drunk, but he should pull through,” She said flatly, taking in my tear-stained cheeks. “Go in, he asked for you.” 

I made my way in immediately. His union suit pulled down to his waist. His shoulder now wrapped in gauze and bandages. He must have been slipping in and out of consciousness or the alcohol was putting him to sleep. I sat on the chair beside his bed, a bucket of water at my feet with a clean rag in it. I took the rag and wrung it out, folding it up and placing it on his forehead to help cool him down. My free hand taking hold of his once again. He roused slightly from my touch. His eyes glazed and distant when he looked at me. The exhale was drawn out as he closed his eyes again, murmuring something incoherent, letting sleep overcome. But I couldn’t miss the squeezing of my hand, no matter how faint.

@kashasenpai​ @fallout-cowgirl​

[goldeneyedgirl]

JaliceWeek2020 Day 7

JaliceWeek2020 Day 7: Yeehaw/Western/Sheriff

Love & Duty

Notes: Okay, I’m pretty sure this isn’t nearly ‘cowboy’ enough, and I’ve already started an alternative piece, but I found an old tumblr post about how cowboys were just daytime witches, and I frickin’ loved it (I’ll link it in the morning) and my excitement got out of hand again. There’s definitely going to be more to this story, but separately. 

I also just wanted to prove to myself I could smash out two prompts in one day, honestly. I opted for quantity over quality, and I currently only have some regrets - 4.5 down, 3.5 to go. 

--

The old farmhouse sits outside Laredo, Texas. The wood has blackened from decades underneath the sun and seems to sink in on itself; the ground cracked and dry. The barn roof has caved in, obviously years before if the elaborate nest tucked at the edge is any indication. At the end of the drive, the sign once bore the name of the owners, but that name has long since faded into the wood.

It is an unwelcoming place, for any passerby or stranger - a house that actively discourages anyone from crossing the boundary, even if they never notice it.

But for those that sought it out, and for those few that lived there, it was very different.

—

It was a sacred duty, once upon a time - the Guardians of the Border, sent to protect and prevent the Southern Wars from spilling over from Mexico into America proper. For decades, girls from all the old families across the country were sent to Texas to run the Guard Houses, to protect and shield those. Back then, there were so many daughters that only the very best were accepted at the Border Guard Houses, most of them settled in the city houses, mixing the potions and preparing the weapons. Some girls were even sent home - there were only so many beds, after all.

And Texas remained well-guarded.

But time marches on. Vampire wars, human wars, they all have a death toll, and entire family lines died out. It became less of an honour, more of an obligation, and one that fell to the oldest daughter, or the oddest daughter, or the ugliest daughter. It became more important to keep the bloodlines strong than to protect the South from the never-ending Wars.

Mary-Alice Brandon was never surprised to be banished to Texas on her sixteenth birthday; she’d known her entire life she’d don the blacks and take up the mantle as six generations of Brandon witches had done before her. She was not good breeding stock, with her ‘visions’ and her temper and her complete disinclination to conform to her parents’ social obligations. Cynthia was a much better heiress, and so off to Texas Alice was sent, to three ancient ‘aunts’ who would train her in all she would need to know, having lived their entire lives defending the Laredo house.

The house wasn’t so bad, if you looked past the glamour. The house was in good repair, and the aunts maintained a lush garden out the back, of herbs and flowers. They had two strong horses - Hallow and Haven - and half a dozen well-pleased cats. Her own bedroom looked over the road, hidden only by the branches of an ancient willow tree. Of course, the aunts were strict teachers that expected impossible standards, and third-rate cooks. But no place was perfect, and at least here no one cared about manners or propriety.

But she missed the sunshine. That was one thing the aunts never budged on. “Day is for sleep.” And hell was raged over her head if she wasn’t tucked up tight in bed every morning before dawn, the curtains drawn tight and refusing to budge. Once every moon cycle, her aunts would have a dawn meeting with someone but she wasn’t allowed to join those until she was twenty one, when she formally became a Witch Guardian. Until then, she was just a handmaid and dogsbody.

Which is why she was up to her ankles in mud, trying to pry an overzealous hemlock plant from the ground because it was smothering the chamomile again, with nothing to light her work except the lanterns on the porch. And this was just the first of the positively irritating chores she had been assigned that night.

It was her own fault, really. She should have kept her nose out of the books, and maybe there’d be more lessons for her to finish.

Shoving her hair out of her eyes, Alice glared viciously at the hemlock plant, and wondered if the aunts would consider it ‘inappropriate behaviour’ to curse the damn thing to burn.

“Mary-Alice!”

One of the aunts came dashing out of the backdoor - all three were fairly interchangeable, which felt like an uncharitable thought, but it was the  honest truth - looking more agitated than Alice had ever seen her.

“Yes, Auntie?”

“Get out of the mud, and go and fetch one of the horse,” the older woman said, buckling an over-stuffed messenger bag. “Be quick, girl. Change your boots, don’t worry about your dress.”

Struggling out of the garden and into the house to find her riding boots, Alice knotted her hair back before hurrying to the barn, where all three aunts were gathered, Hallow already saddled - she would have thought Haven a better choice, since Hallow was so big and she was not the strongest rider.

“You’re going to Del Rio, girl,” one of the aunts said, shoving over a mounting block with surprising strength. “One of our allies has suffered an injury and cannot be moved. Hallow should have you there by dawn.”

“Del Rio?” Alice couldn’t remember the last time she’d been into Laredo, let alone more than a hundred miles up the border.

“Yes. Now, they’re expecting you,” the second aunt said, taking her hand and half shoving her up and into Hallow’s saddle. “Everything you need is in the bag; there’s food and water for you, but you’ll need them to provide more for your return journey. Hallow knows the way; if you hit the yellow farmhouse, you’ve gone too far. There should be a scout waiting for you anyway, don’t worry. It’s a long trip, but it’s a good practice for you, and you’re a good, clean healer.”

“The boy’s in a bad way, so you best be off,” the final aunt said, looking grim. “Let us know how long you’ll be staying and when you set off home.”

“Okay,” Alice managed, a bit dazed from the amount of information she’d just been given.

“Blessed and safe journey, my dear,” the first aunt said, looking worried before Hallow decided they had lingered long enough, and moved out of the barn.

Alice suddenly regretted cursing the hemlock.

—

The ride was long and hard. She honestly regretted not getting changed into something more sensible - she’d learnt to ride as a girl English style, side-saddle, but the aunts had laughed at that particular pretension, and Western saddles and long skirts were not a winning combination.

The bag wasn’t heavy enough for any of them to have thought to pack her a clean dress, either, and she was truly wretched at cleaning spells. Perhaps the Del Rio coven could loan her a dress.

Hallow stopped some time after midnight, and she took that opportunity to eat - a floury apple, some dry bread, and cold chicken that was so well cooked it might as well have been ash. But it was food, and the urgency that she been sent off - alone - implied she didn’t have more than a few minutes to rest.

The rest of the trip felt long, and as pink and gold streaks began to hover at the horizon, Alice wondered if she’d taken too long - if the poor boy (boy? she’d never heard of a coven accepting a boy, but maybe the Guard Houses had decided to modernise) had already succumbed. But it wasn’t like she was provided with a map or proper direction…

It was dawn when Hallow began to slow, and she saw a man leaning against a signpost with an indecipherable sign, the road behind him leading to a fire-decimated house on a hill in the distance.

“Miss Brandon?” the man said, looking at her with suspicion before his eyes softened. “Ah, Hallow.” The horse clearly recognised him, nickering affectionately at the man.

“Yes, I am Miss Brandon. You are the scout from Del Rio?” she asked primly, as if she didn’t have mud on her face and dress and sleeves, and no hat.

“Yup. Come on, he’s in the house. I’m Peter,” the man said. “Budge up.”

Within seconds, Peter had swung himself onto Hallow behind her, and Alice gasped at the impropriety, but didn’t get a moment to say a word as Peter clicked and Hallow took off like a bullet.

As Hallow passed another sign that couldn’t be read, the fire-ruins shimmered before reforming into an expansive and well-lived farmhouse, with a large barn. Out the back, she could see pristine fields full of horses and cattle. It was like chalk and cheese from home, and for a moment, she was jealous.

As they stopped in front of the house, Peter slid off, and tied off Hallow’s bridle to the porch railing, reaching up to help her down.

“Quick now, one of the boys will come take care of Hallow, we need you to tend to Jasper now,” Peter said, half dragging her up the front stairs and into the house.

It felt like a bustle of activity, and was so bright and airy. The smell of fresh bread filtered through the house, and Alice couldn’t help but snatch a look as she was dragged deeper into the house.

“Char! The witching’s here!” Peter bellowed, and suddenly Alice was presented with a drawn-looking woman with strawberry-blonde hair.

“Oh, thank gods,” she said. “I’m Charlotte. Come with me. His fever keeps getting higher, and I’ve tried everything I know. We called out to everyone, but your aunt was the only one who got back to us.”

She was lead into a backroom, where a mattress was laid out on the floor, and the curtains were drawn. And in the middle of the room, moaning in pain and sweaty, was a tall man covered in scars.

Alice tried not to gasp. The scars were quite clearly vampire bites, healed ones. Covens had some natural immunity to vampire venom, but it only slowed down the process and allowed it to be reversed. There were dozens of stories of girls who couldn’t be saved, and had been burnt before the change could be completed. It was, unfortunately, one of the risks of their duty.

“He got ambushed,” Charlotte said, kneeling beside the man. “The harpy practically gutted him, but he got away okay.” She pulled back the sheet, to reveal an enormous wound that had been clumsily stitched, from the middle of his chest, slashing downward over his stomach to his hip. “It needs cauterising I think, but I’m no healer.”

Alice came back to herself then. Whatever was going on here - male Guardians, this untrained woman, all the bite marks - could be questioned after this poor man - Jasper, had Peter called him? - was treated.

Dropping to her knees, Alice quickly inspected Charlotte’s stitching of the wound. “It will need cauterising, it’s too deep,” she determined quickly. “And treatment for infection, but stitching it was a smart thing to do.” Charlotte looked relieved. “Did he get bitten?”

“His arms,” Peter said, and Charlotte quickly pulled off bandages, already blackening from the venom. Three bites on one arm, four on the other. Bad, bad business.

“Okay. Do you have a smock, and a place I can wash up?” she said, standing quickly. Walking into a sick room in her filthy clothes and boots had been a stupid thing to do, but nothing for it now.

“Of course - show her the bathroom, Peter,” Charlotte darted out.

Within moments, Alice had a smock over her underthings and a pair of borrowed slippers - Charlotte promising to wash her dress immediately - and she’d scrubbed every visible inch of her skin as fast as she could, her hair pinned under a kerchief.

It was a very, very long day. The bites had to be purified, cleaned, and bandaged to draw out as much venom as possible; the bandages had to be changed four times every day, to prevent the venom lingering against the skin. Jasper had to be fed the tonic that the aunts had sent every two hours to flush any venom that had already ended his system. Then she had to treat the fever, to lesson his evident discomfort, and treat the infection that had clearly set into the wound Charlotte had stitched, whilst reassuring Charlotte that it was nothing actively wrong that she’d done, just the unlucky result of riding home with an open wound.

But by the time night fell, Jasper was somewhat more comfortable - the moaning had stopped, and with a generous dose of pain and sleep tonic, he seemed to actually be sleeping.

Alice wished she could.

Instead, she changed his bandages again before finding herself in the kitchen, with Charlotte piling plates with food.

“We heard from the others,” she said, taking her own seat. “Days away, Carlisle is furious. Emmett’s already on his way back with Rosalie, but they won’t make it here for at least a week.” Charlotte looked exhausted. “At least they’ll bring supplies.”

“What’s done is done,” Peter said smartly, watching Alice as she began to eat, exhaustion in every one of her motions. “Jasper will be okay now, yes?”

Alice looked up. “Well,” she began, and sighed. “There were so many bites,” she managed, trying to be kind. “And he’s been bitten before - even one previous bite decreases the effectiveness of treatment. I swear I am doing everything I can possibly do.”

“You’re young, yes?” Peter shot back. “Not even a full Guardian yet?”

“Peter!” Charlotte scolded.

“No, I’m not of age yet. My title does not affect my ability - I have been trained. I have completed my lessons. There is nothing I can think of that I am not already doing,” Alice retorted.

“And we are grateful,” Charlotte broke in.

“Yup, I’m positive Jasper would be thrilled that his life is in the hands of a schoolgirl,” Peter muttered before getting up from the table and storming away.

Alice was too tired to be angry, and just sighed and went back to her food - Charlotte was far and away a better cook than the aunts; perhaps a week of edible food, and she’d be filling out her dresses properly.

“I’m sorry, Peter and Jasper… they’re like brothers. They’ve been together for years,” Charlotte said, looking at her plate. “…Please, please don’t let Peter’s rudeness dissuade you from helping Jasper…”

Alice looked up in shock. “No. No, of course not. I understand his frustration, I do. And there’s nothing he could say to me that would make me treat Jasper any less, I promise.”

“Thank you,” Charlotte smiled, and began to clear the table. “The guest room is at the top of the stairs, I’ve laid out a nightgown for you, and some towels. Peter’s taken care of your horse, and I’m sure…”

“That’s very kind of you,” Alice said gently, “but I’ll sit up with Jasper tonight; he’ll need watching.”

“Could I help at all? Watch him in shifts?” Charlotte asked, but Alice could see the exhaustion and worry in every line of the woman’s face. If they weren’t careful, Charlotte would fall ill too and she’d have two patients.

“No, it has to be me, to make sure the bites are clean and the tonic takes. We’ll have a better idea of how he is tomorrow, though,” Alice offered. “I would like to bathe, though, if you could watch him?”

“Oh, of course - there’s a washroom in the guest room,” Charlotte said, gesturing to the stairs. “Thank you, Alice. I mean it. Thank you for coming, I feel like everything is going to be okay now that you’re here.”

—

It was a long night, with exhaustion setting in for Alice - she hadn’t slept in over a day, had ridden half-way up the border… she felt like an old woman. But it was her duty. And she would do it to the best of her ability.

Charlotte had leant her several dresses, and it was quite strange to wear a colour that wasn’t black or grey, but a welcome novelty, even if the dresses were a size too big.

Settling beside the sickbed, Alice administered the tonic every two hours, and found herself changing the bandages obsessively, as soon as she saw or smelt the venom. She flushed out the bite wounds - one would need stitching. She’d have to cauterise the chest wound first thing in the morning; his fever still lingered, but the tonics and potions seemed to have had a powerful effect on the infection, with the red veins having already retreated.

Though, she might have to teach Charlotte how to administer stitches whilst she was here. The woman was clearly unfamiliar with stitching flesh. Maybe some rudimentary treatments so that they didn’t have to wait twelve hours for help.

The aunts had packed her two new books to read - purely educational, histories of the coven, that were not even a little bit relevant in her current situation, or interesting. But they did keep her awake.

Morning came, and Jasper’s fever had broken. She nearly cheered at that, and when Peter and Charlotte burst in at dawn, she gave them the good news. She thought that Peter was going to cry - Charlotte certainly did. But then she required the couple hold him down as she cauterised the chest wound.

Charlotte ended up vomiting at the smell, and Peter looked at little woozy, but at least he was held together with more than embroidery thread now. She quickly applied a fresh layer of ointment that smelt like mint and tea leaves to the raw wound and bound up his chest up in fresh bandages. At least Charlotte had the practicality of preparing an immense quantity of fresh, sterile bandages that looked like they been cut from good quality bed linens or petticoats.

The day moved slowly; Charlotte brought her meals in on a tray, and sat with Jasper whilst she changed her dress again, and sent a message to the aunts. Peter was very respectful around her, and brought her anything she asked for - purified water, feverfew, lavender, aloe vera. Jasper seemed to sleep more comfortably each day, as she fed him cold tea laced with every possible tonic and potion she had in her bag and could create from scratch. His bite marks were cleared every day, settling into fresh scar tissue. She was genuinely sorry that they had scarred, but there was nothing for it.

But only time would tell if the venom had made it to his heart.

—

Seven days. She had been at the Del Rio house for seven days and seven nights. Jasper had passed out of danger, and was now just healing, though he hadn’t regained consciousness. But Alice continued to nurse him, as was her duty and purpose here. She fed him careful sips of tea and then herbal broth, to build up his strength and hopefully reinforce his immunity; she rubbed ointments into his new wounds to keep the skin supple and preveshe lnt thick scar tissue and ease any discomfort. She helped Charlotte wash and dress him as soon as she deemed it safe.

That she had not been expecting. She hoped her poker face was good, because she’d really never seen a man’s body before. Not like that - she was only nineteen, had lived with the aunts since she was sixteen and had never been courted. Even her lessons had been done on whatever animals they could hunt or trade for from the market, not really humans. And this man, he was… handsome. He was tall and just the right amount of muscular and tan and, she shouldn’t be having these thoughts.

She couldn’t even imagine her embarrassment if this Jasper had seen her in such a way.

Oh, she was definitely sleep deprived. She had yet to sleep a single second in the guest room, snatching cat naps in the corner of Jasper’s sick room when she couldn’t hold her eyes open a single moment longer.

Which was what she was doing now. She twisted her neck uncomfortably; she’d been sleeping at a funny angle, she’d be feeling that all day. Stretching out, she looked over at her patient, only to see Jasper staring back at her curiously.

“Oh my gods!” Alice gasped, scrambling over. “You’re awake? How are you feeling? How long have you been awake?”

She quickly helped him sit up, reading for the water cup on the beside table. He took two deep swallows before coughing.

“Oh, it’s got lemon and mint in it, for healing,” she explained. “It’s helped, I promise. Hopefully we can get you back to normal drinking water and food tomorrow.”

“Who are you?” croaked Jasper, looking up at her with glazed eyes.

“Oh. Um, I’m Alice Brandon. From the Laredo Guard House,” she said, embarrassed. She was acting like a bumbling sixteen year old trainee, not a proper Guardian. “I was summoned when you were wounded.”

“Alice Brandon from Laredo,” Jasper repeated, a quirk of his lips. “Thank you.” His energy seemed to drain out of him all at once - totally normal for the severity of his wounds and his recovery.

“It was nothing,” she said. “Sleep now. It’s a great healer. Charlotte and Peter will be awake in a few hours.”

He nodded half-heartedly before he closed his eyes again, and Alice sat backwards. He was okay. Two blue eyes without a hint of red, talking and lucid, and drinking easily. She did it.

He lived.

—

Both Peter and Charlotte had wept when they realised that Jasper was conscious again, and Peter had nearly tackled the man when he saw Jasper sitting up, drinking water and talking to Alice, trying to piece together what had happened to him, and to learn how she had treated him - the Del Rio Guard House had fallen to the Whitlock-Hales several generations ago, and many of the old skills - like healing - had been lost.

In fact, it was only him, Peter, and Charlotte who were at the house full-time now - they hired local boys to help out on the ranch that funded the Del Rio clan. Jasper’s own sister and brother-in-law visited regularly, as did various other friends and allies, “but none of us are witchlings,” he coughed. “We were raised in the sun, not in the night.”

She smiled at reference to the old rhyme. “Even your sister?” she asked; girls were kept to the night, boys to the day. Old attitudes that had held true - girls were protected and cloistered (and much less likely to be caught poisoning or cursing) in the darkness. Their herbs and plants bloomed and grew so much harder under the moon than the sun. But boys, they were the fighters, the warriors, and battle against vampires and other dark creatures was best done when there was no darkness to escape into.

“Even my sister,” Jasper had smiled. “Rose would have made a horrible healer - punched me in the arm and told me to ‘man up’ the first time I fell off a horse; my arm was broken. She’s not nearly as committed as I am, but she helps. Her husband’s good at it too, he just married into the madness.” He spoke about his family with such affection, Alice felt a little jealous, but before she could ask any other questions, Charlotte and Peter were there, Jasper just as pleased to see them as they were to see him.

Alice slipped out to give them privacy - a bath and a clean dress sounded heavenly right now, and she ought to send another message to the aunts. She’d help Jasper wash and change afterwards, and hopefully be able to move him from the sick room to his usual quarters with fresh sheets. He’d sleep more comfortably in his own bed.

By lunchtime, Jasper was safely ensconced in his own bed, in a room that overlooked the a paddock of horses. He’d eaten some broth and drunk as many cups of herbal tea as Alice could press on him, as she fussed around. Peter had headed off to get ranch work done, and Charlotte had taken up a vigil at Jasper’s bedside with some sewing.

“Alice, please, you don’t have to do anything of that,” Charlotte laughed as Alice began folding clothing. “You should rest - you must be exhausted.” Turning to Jasper, she continued, “I don’t think she’s rested this entire time - she sat with you every night, didn’t even wake us to help change your bandages. She insisted Peter and I sleep.”

“Oh, I’m up at night anyway,” Alice laughed. “And I’m here to help.”

Jasper was watching her carefully now.

“She hasn’t stopped at all. I cannot imagine how efficient the Laredo House is,” Charlotte shook her head. “Though, I’m sure having proper recruits makes a difference.”

Alice shook her head, as she reached out to plump a pillow behind Jasper’s head. “Oh, it’s just me and the aunts,” she said airily. “All the old families are dying out, and, well, it’s not exactly a glamorous position. I knew I’d be sent to Laredo since I was very small, so I suppose my mother and father prepared me for it.”

“It sounds lonely,” Jasper said quietly.

And it was. She always tried to think of the positives, that she had her own bedroom, and she got to learn so quickly and do hands on practice much more quickly, and there were practically no chores but she had still been alone there for three and a half years. No companions, just duty. It hadn’t felt quite as bad until she’d come here, to this bright, happy place with sweet Charlotte and practical Peter and handsome Jasper…

“It’s home,” she finally said, honestly. “But I will take you up on that offer for a rest. If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to wake me.”

“I’ll be fine, I promise,” Jasper said.

“See that you do - you’re my first official patient, and it would look terrible if you died when I was napping,” Alice teased, before slipping out of the room. She could sleep, finally.

—

The next week and a half fell into a routine. Jasper regained his strength surprisingly quickly, and went from being bedridden to eating meals in the kitchen with them all, to back on his horse - an enormous brown beast named Duke - within the week, though he did seem to tire quickly.

He took to showing her their operation - the wall of blessed weapons in the barn and in the house, the modified saddles to carry the weapons, the horses carefully trained to protect their rider and be desensitised to the presence of vampires.

It turned out that Charlotte was a newcomer, a local girl raised as a kitchen-witch whose brother had worked on the ranch. Charlotte had fallen quite hard for Peter, to hear Jasper tell it, and hadn’t flinched when she realised she’d married into a quasi-family of cowboy vampire hunters. She had started a small greenhouse with many common herbs that was a good start, but Alice knew that they needed something a little more robust for their ‘business’. She immediately promised Jasper to write them a list of additions they needed - and send them seeds and samples - and their purpose as soon as she was back in Laredo.

It was all very pleasant, but Alice realised quickly that Jasper was, for all intents and purposes, healed. She had no place here any longer; his sister would arrive soon, and he had no use of a nurse or witching now. She needed to leave.

She announced those plans at dinner that night, as Charlotte presented another one of her delightful spreads.

“I’m going to miss this,” she said ruefully, as they all dug in. “The aunts cannot cook at all.”

“Miss this?” Charlotte asked innocently, passing out hot rolls.

“Jasper is healed,” Alice smiled, trying to keep her voice upbeat. “Your recovery will continue, and you should be conservative about what you take on for a months or two, but you have no need for me any longer. I should return home first thing tomorrow.”

Everyone froze.

“So soon?” Jasper managed, almost looking… hurt?

“The aunts need me. They’re elderly,” Alice explained, “and it’s where I belong.”

Silence.

“Well, we’re mighty grateful you came all the way out here for us,” Peter said. “We’d all be happy to see you around here again.”

“Ah, but that would mean one of you was hurt, and that would be acceptable,” Alice teased. “You’ve been very kind to me. If I could trouble you for some food for the trip home, Charlotte…”

“Oh, of course,” Charlotte nodded. Jasper was focused on his potatoes and not looking at anyone. “You must stay in touch, yes? It’s been so nice having another woman here.”

“Of course,” Alice gushed, trying to ignore the reaction she knew the aunts would have if she started using the messaging system for socialising. “I’m going to be lost without you!”

“You’re not the only one,” Peter murmured, and Alice chose not to pull at that thread, and instead turned the conversation to Jasper’s sister’s arrival and tried not to dread the next morning.

—

It was a moment of weakness when she waited til Jasper was downstairs helping Peter wash up, when she slipped the medallion into his cowboy boots. He’d never feel the tiny silver charm, blessed with protection and a long life, but it would keep him safe.

She tried to convince herself it was because he probably wouldn’t survive another bite, but it didn’t work.

—

She left just before dawn, once again clad in her blacks - freshly washed and mended by Charlotte - and Jasper was waiting there, holding Hallow’s bridle as she walked out, Charlotte’s food tucked into her bag.

“Oh, you didn’t have to do that,” she said, realising Hallow was saddled and ready to leave.

“I wanted to.” He looked her up and down. “You look beautiful.”

Alice smiled - her black lace dress, from ankle to wrist to throat - was practically her uniform; she had four more just like it hanging in her wardrobe at home. Any particular beauty in the garment had faded the one hundredth time she wore it.

Jasper stepped closer to her; standing on the second step of the porch, they were nearly eye-to-eye.

“I never truly thank you for what you did for me - Peter and Charlotte filled me in,” he continued.

“It was truly nothing, it was what I was born for,” she said, wondering if it was Jasper’s proximity that was making her so warm, or if summer was coming early.

Jasper just stared at her and all of a sudden his lips were on hers.

She had never been kissed before, not even once, and it was… unexpected. Within a moment, Jasper deepened it, and she was properly clinging to his strong shoulders and oh, how could he do such a thing to her when she was about to leave?

Pulling back slowly, Jasper ducked his head. “I just wanted to do that once,” he murmured. “I couldn’t let you walk away without…”

“I can’t,” Alice whispered, somehow unable to pull away. “I… I’m not allowed. I would have to recant my vows, and the aunts have no one else to take on the Laredo house… I just can’t.”

Jasper looked at her. “That seems cruel,” he said in a low voice. “Looking after some old ladies until they die, then being left alone without being allowed anything more.”

“It’s how things are done,” Alice took a shaking breath. “I’m sorry. Please thank Charlotte and Peter for their hospitality.”

And with that, Alice took Hallow’s bridle from Jasper and mounted her horse, leaving for the Laredo house, trying to drag her mind away from what was behind her, from the first (and likely the only) kiss she had ever been given. From the way he looked at her, like she hung the moon.

She was, in all probability, never going to see him again. And that was how it was supposed to be.

[witchyclispe]

Master Of Balance

Posted first on ao3! Check it out there too!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/22412821/chapters/53549695

Chapter One 

The Princess and Elder Mechanic 

Rysheladon, one of the coldest planets in the galaxy . The planet was so cold most ships tend to stay far , FAR away from it . Coldest it has ever gotten was below -647 ° which to the people and creatures who inhabit the planet was slightly more than a walk in the park. Thirteen months of winter in a year with only one for spring , two for summer and one for fall , you kinda get used to the never-ending "freeze your ears off" weather.

The planet was on the very edge of the outer rim , almost past it . Rysheladon seemed very similar to Earth yet instead of 75% being water, 80% of the planet had enormous trees that overlooked even the tallest of buildings. They seemed to touch the stars to the citizens who resided there. Often there had been tales the elders would tell the young-lings of their ancestors reaching the stars through the spirits of those very trees. They would call the trees spiritus trees because of the stories.

In these large forests resided many terrible and kind creatures . Large beasts to the smallest of insects that would enchant the unsuspecting traveler if you weren't careful enough , which is why the people of Rysheladon decided to dig underneath the cold surface and make home below away from the cruel weather up top . Though not all could afford to live below so others created tall civilizations atop the surface . For traders of any kind lived above whether they were wealthy like the people below. Only the rich or royalty were able to live beneath the surface . The royal family lived the largest tunnel and cave systems in the below, while the poor people above lived in the terrifying and never ending sea of forests .

Many years ago there had been word of the eldest daughter of the royal family coming to bear a child , but a child with no father. So she had been cast out to raise her child alone and in the cold harsh land above. Never to return unless the child was dead . The eldest princess was to bear the weight of the throne and craved that power unlike anyone in her family ever had before so when she had been tossed out , the eldest daughter had been devastated.  She hated the being growing inside her . Each day closer to the child's birth gave the princess more hatred and anger towards it so she came up with a plan. No one would miss this child, so why keep it? She could easily leave the infant to the storms and creatures of the forest so why shouldn't she?

That was how the eldest princess decided on giving her own child up to die . No remorse , no love , not even a hint of guilt in this poor woman's soul for her own child . But you see, the reason she wasn't happy with the child was because the infant would have no father.

That is because the princess had never been in bed with a man before .

Yes this child had absolutely no father. So how did it come to exist ? There was no logical explanation to it. The child should never have existed yet here it was , growing inside the poor, angry, and abandoned princess. Months ago she had felt an energy consuming her while she slept but never once had she been bedded . Doctors checked just to make sure, she was indeed a virgin soon to give birth to a baby but what the hell kind of baby would it be if it had no father?

Soon the baby was born, it was a baby girl with small tufts of dark hair on its fragile head. The baby seemed perfectly human, and almost resembled her mother completely . Except for the small birthmark on its back which looks oddly like a sword of sorts, a Jedi's sword? No, she must have been losing it .

After resting for a day she haphazardly swaddled the infant in a blanket and walked towards the forest. Not caring that the baby had not been fed yet , not caring that it wailed as if it were dying. 'Soon, soon the child would know death' the princess thought to herself as she walked deeper into the forest until she found a small frozen over lake . One of the only lakes she'd ever seen. It was beautiful , but a dangerous area even for an adult . Quickly the princess settled the baby on a frosted over ledge and wrapped the baby up once more for good measure . She then stood up and started to walk back out of the dreaded forest , never once turning back to look at the now sleeping baby girl.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Quietly walking along the trail he had made in the forest , an older man who appeared to be around 60 years in age started to trot along through the thick woods . He hummed a small tune to himself as he walked . Nothing pretty but still had meaning to him, His name was Percival the machinist . Or that's what people had been calling him since he was much much younger.

His humming quickly came to a stop when he heard what seemed to be the wailing of an infant. Why was a baby out here? He quickly started walking towards the sound, an infant should never be out in these woods , he thought to himself . Surely he heard the crying get louder as he came closer to it . When he appeared by old Lake Ziosashra and saw the small bundle wrapped up on a stony ledge he moved to assess the situation.

"Aw why hello there little dear. " Percival called to the infant as he reached down to pick it up . "Well I'll be damned… who would've let such a beautiful little baby like you out here , huh?" He cooed to the bundle in his arms . The child seemed to calm down quite a lot just by being held,'T his baby can't be more than a few days old. Why is it out here?' , Percival thought to himself . He looked around seeing that there was most definitely no one else around. " Guess I'll just have to figure out how to keep ya myself huh? Is that alright, little moon? " the old man asked the baby , knowing that it wouldn't understand him but he smiled happily at the smiles and giggles that came from the child.

" Guess that's a yes. " he chuckled to himself.  Quickly and carefully, he made his way off the stone ledge to the ground below with a nice crunch as his feet hit the snowy terrain. Making his way back to the trail he looked down at the little one calmly babbling to itself . "Well we have to give you a name don't we dear? And figure out if you're a little girl or a little boy… " he looked at the lake as the sun lit up the frozen top . Such a beautiful , great big lake.

He untucked the blankets from around the baby , quickly taking note that the baby he has all but suddenly decided to care for was a girl . " Hm…. Why don't we call you… Ziosa?" He said wrapping the baby back up to conceal it from the wicked weather around them. The baby made a strained noise almost like a yell of sorts . Percival laughed a little , " Apparently not. Little moon doesn't like that . Well we can figure that out later , for now let's get you out of this cold . " , the old man said walking to the trail he had just been on minutes before he knew what would happen.

'The force surely does work in mysterious ways .' Percival though as he made his way to his mechanical shop and home. All the while holding the baby girl close to himself as if to shield her from the cold weather .

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Once Percival had made it to his home he set down the small infant on a makeshift couch of his, quickly taking off his multiple layers of jackets and cloaks to fight against the cold world. After that he started a fire in the fireplace that was about 10 feet away from where the bundle of blankets sat on the couch. " lets get it a little warmer here why don't we. " Percival said to no one in particular in the room . The baby girl babbled as if to respond to his words .

Once the fire had been started he walked to his room to find a few thicker blankets and saw one on the end of his bed . " I'll need to find her clothes later…. This'll do for now", again talking to himself. You do that a lot when you've been basically alone for 30 years, all except for the occasional customer and many many ships that needed repairing in his shops garage .

Walking back out to the living room he picked up the girl out of the ragged old blankets and quickly swaddled her to the best of his abilities . He'd never taken care of a kid before but damn he had always wanted to raise one . Just never found the right woman to settle down and have a couple of kids with. He rocked the baby in his arms for a bit, humming the same tune he had been just before he found her. Apparently it had lulled the girl to sleep because the next time he looked down, he saw that she was fast asleep nuzzled in his arms.

Percival's heart could almost burst at that moment . He really needed to think of a name for her but he's a mechanic not someone who's creative, in all honesty he could hardly make up blueprints of his own personal projects . Slowly and carefully, he placed the sleeping baby down on the couch again. He then placed another blanket on top of the swaddled little girl hoping that she'd stay warm with all the blankets and the roaring fire that was going.

Suddenly there was a very loud knock on Percival's front door , he almost jumped out of his skin at the random knock . He wasn't expecting anyone today and it was his only day off which usually meant everyone would leave him alone. Again the very loud knock sounded from his front door , he checked to see if the infant was still asleep , which she was . He grumbled a bit walking towards his door and opening it, " What the hell do you want it's my damn day off-"

"Don't start fussin' at me old man I'm just here with ya groceries like usual." , a tall woman said . She had long black hair that hit that hit the middle of her back, half of it braided in sections. Her skin was a dark blue with green in areas. " alright alright Arthala get in before you make me freeze the last bit of life I have off.",Percival said as he moved to the side to let her come inside. " Like ya have much of that anyways , Percy. " , the woman better known as Arthala said walking in .

Percival quickly closed the door and locking it walking over to check on the baby again as Arthala started talking ,"Its colder than usual out there. People in the city say it's goin' to break records tonight so- what are you doin' perc? " , Athala looked up from her place by the door to see Percival bending down and tucking in something to the couch . " Ah oh yeah… so I was on my daily walk and found something near Old Lake Ziosashra ." , the man said now standing up straight and looking at the very tall woman who now stood in his small kitchen. "Something? Oh please tell me ya didn't find another dying bird , ya could get sick.", Athala said looking at her friend .

Leaning down , Percival carefully picked up the bundle of blankets and you could practically hear Arthala's jaw drop. " You found a baby!?" , she yelled . " Will you be quiet!? Yes I found a baby , she was left all alone and abandoned near the lake. " , Percival whisper shouted walking towards the  kitchen swaying the child back and forth to keep her asleep.

" Why would you bring a baby home? You can hardly take care of yourself !", the tall woman said coming closer to look at the bundle of blankets her friend held . "What was I gonna do, let the bats eat her? Someone had already abandoned her… I mean look at her. She's just so beautiful I don't know why anyone would ever leave a sweet thing like this out there to die ….. I just had to bring her home 'Thala" , Percival told the woman standing beside him . "She is quite cute… but how will you take care of her? She can't be but only a few days old… " , Athala asked .

Percival tried to think about what he would do on his walk home . "Honestly 'thala I have no idea yet but i'm going to keep her. I'll just make up what to do on the way ." , he said quietly still rocking the infant . " You can hold her if you want to." he told his friend who was transfixed on the sleeping girl. As Athala nodded he slowly placed the baby in her arms. "Oh look at ya, aren't ya just a beaut? " she cooed to the girl. " Does she have a name yet Perc? " , " No… still thinking about that but you know i'm not creative. Got any ideas? " , Percival replied as he looked up to his friend. " If she was found near lake Ziosashra… why not Zio? Or maybe 'Ziorah' . Rah means ethereally beautiful to my species and she surely fits that description…" , Athala said to her friend.

Percival smiled looking down towards the sleeping infant that was snuggled up in his friends arms, " Ziorah… that sounds perfect. Alright little moon, I dub you Ziorah… my daughter. "

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Hey guys! I hope you enjoyed chapter one of this story involving my baby girl Ziorah! Please feel free to share and comment any feedback you have or even questions! I'd love to hear what you have to say! If you'd like to see what Ziorah looks like please check out my instagram! I'll hopefully make this story into a comic with time but for now I'm writing it out and making some art of certain parts. Hope you've enjoyed this first chapter!

More to come soon!

[shions-songbirds]

I saw your tag about you okami and bnha au and would you mind telling the details? I saw the post and my heart skipped a beat, I just love them both so much!!

Oh!!!! You’re interested?? I can totally talk about it!! I don’t have to many details flushed out for it but I had two different ideas for it, so I’ll run through them both! 

This is going to be pretty long so strap in

Idea #1: They’re different brush gods, all forced to work together to try and stop the world from being consumed by darkness (that sounds like kingdom hearts), or, as I lovingly described it to my friend, “1 person learning all the brush techniques? No. It’s a conglomerate of brush bastards working together to save the world“ 

None of them are capable of learning any of the other brush techniques, they’ve been apart for far too long, and so instead, they have to band together. It’s a lot of team building and learning how they can make their powers work together to solve puzzles and make it through the dangerous terrains they’re traversing. Certain ones are more combat oriented, and thus, are usually the ones to take on whatever demons might approach them. 

Brush god assignments and idea number two under the cut

For all of them, their divine markings are present on their bodies exactly where they would be on their animal forms, and in similar fashion to the Oina, they all have a mask of their respective animal. All of them have a calligraphy brush they can materialize to use their respective brush technique should it be necessary. 

Amaterasu - Izuku - He only has sunrise, however he’s also set up with a reflector, Divine Retribution, just like Ammy is. Flowers follow him when he walks, and though sunrise isn’t good in combat on its own, he does know how to use it to his advantage. 

Yomigami - Momo - If anyone is going to be rejuvenation, it’s Momo. She can fix anything that has been broken, repair anything. Four orbs circle around her at all times, purple, green, red, and yellow in color, and a thick scroll is rolled up and tucked away at her side. 

Tachigami - Tenya - While he’d also be a good fit for Kazegami, bc horses and fast and all that, I kind of just wanted to give him a giant sword. There’s not much in depth reasoning for this other than the guy who wanted to commit a murder for revenge deserves a giant sword. He keeps a sheath at his side for seemingly a normal sized sword, and upon pulling the blade out, it becomes more buster sword sized. The tip of the blade is inked like the calligraphy brushes, allowing him to perform proper power slashes alongside utilizing the strength and sharpness of the blade itself.

Hanagami - ???, Tsuyu, Hanta - I am genuinely at a loss about who should represent bloom, however I do have lily pad and vine down. Now, I know Shiozaki would be an incredible match for vine for obvious reasons, instead I went with Hanta, as his tape translates nicely into vines, and he deserves more love. Tsu should be fairly obvious, frogs and lilypads, so it just made sense to make her the lilypad brush god. Each of the three, whoever their missing link is, has an instrument on them at all times. Tsu has a shinobue, and Hanta a pair of cymbals. 

Bakugami (this one should be obvious) - Katsuki - Again, this should be obvious. The god with cherry bombs? Only fitting for this explosive boy. He can roll around on a giant cherry bomb, should he so choose, and his mask has a pair of proper tusks sticking out of it, although it’s usually not on his face, rather settled in his hair. 

Yumigami - Fumikage - Considering Dark Shadow, it only made sense to make him the god of the moon. Carried with him is a giant mochi mallet, and though he’s not the best equipped for combat, he’s resourceful, and his ability to control the night is vital. 

Nuregami - ??? - I was at a complete loss for this one. If anyone has any suggestions for her, a snake and goddess of water, please tell me!

Kazegami - Inasa - This one was a perfect match, considering Inasa’s quirk being wind. He keeps a battle fan with him, and can control the winds to his every whim. A gentle gust follows him wherever he goes.

Moegami/Itegami - Shouto - No one knows how this boy got two brush techniques, least of all him, but he bears the power of the ox and the power of the phoenix. He wears the ox mask out of personal preference, but he does have the phoenix mask with him. Though a split design would be optimal, I struggle to think of how this would work. Unlike the others, he does get an animal asset, in the form of massive, flaming, red and white wings. However they’re not always around, only manifesting in a blaze when he needs them, or is utilizing inferno. He has a smoking pipe he doesn’t often use and conch horn on him, attached to his waist by a light blue and white belt. His ice is at it’s full power upon him joining up with the others, but his fire is weakened, requiring him to have another source to derive it from, until Izuku gives him the push he needs to get it back. 

Kasugami - ??? - Midnight’s quirk would be perfect for this, but on account of me trying to limit it to the children, I have no other ideas. 

Kabegami - Ochako - The ability to defy gravity and walk up walls? A perfect fit for her. While most useful for navigating around, it would be impossible for the others to get to where they need to go without her catwalk ability. Like Shouto, she has a cat feature, a long fluffy tail, which serves as her brush and as a means of helping her to balance. 

Gekigami - Denki - With a set of lighting arrows in a quiver at his back and a bow always on hand, he can strike that which he sees fit. One of the most dangerous and combat oriented abilities, he has infinite electrical energy for as much as he has ink, which allows for dangerous lightning storms. His lightning arrows are as infinite as his ink, and when equipped with his tiger mask, he’s rather intimidating. He has the most celestial markings of any of them, running in stripes along his skin. 

That’s all I’ve got right now, mostly just ideas and character designs, but I think for the most part this would follow the canon plot, just with them travelling in a group rather than all together as Ammy. 

Idea #2 is a bit different, and a bit more true to Okami form. Or, rather, Okamiden, as Izuku fills in as Chibiterasu. 

All I really have is everyone’s species and like, general backstory, if I know it.

Inko - Sun goddess. Amaterasu equivalent. Origin of all that is good. She’s done her time, she’s served the people, and she’s fixed the celestial plane. She. Is. Tired. All she wants is a break, and she decides the best way to get that is to head to earth once things are fixed and settle down by Kamiki, where she has her son. She sells her artwork, often with help from Izuku.

Izuku - Baby god. Chibi equivalent. He grew up in a small house in Shinshu field near but not close to Kamiki village. He found Katsuki when he was younger and the two have stuck near each other since. He has no idea what his godly status actually means, but his mom has worked with him since he was little on practicing his brush strokes, even if he can’t use them yet. Unlike his mother’s ink, he’s uses charcoal, still a child in terms of powers, though a teen in body.

Shouto - Oina, lost to Yoshpet when he was a child. He survived the treacherous cold and winding paths of the forest, and though he could ask the citizens of Ponc’Tan to escort him out, he isn’t inclined to leave. He spends much of his time in the clearing Ponc’Tan is in, though, and often hangs out with Hanta and Denki. His dog form is a red husky, and his mask is a phoenix.

Katsuki - Oina, however much like Shouto, he doesn’t live with the tribe. He left fairly young, escaping through the path to Shinshu field, where he found Izuku. He attached himself to him, convinced that Izuku would get himself killed if he wasn’t around. He is unaware of Izuku’s godly status. He’s always in dog form, so Izuku isn’t aware that his dog isn’t merely a dog. He and Shouto were close when they were kids.He wears no mask, having thrown it aside upon leaving the tribe. 

Ochako- Sparrow clan. Used to only meeting those of the purest hearts but also all too familiar with financial hardships as a result, as her family hardly makes enough to even keep the inn open with their limited visitors. She recently left the inn in search of something to help keep her family better off.

Tsuyu - Dragonian.

Mina - Dragonian.

Hanta - Poncle. One of Shouto’s closest friends, and the one that initially found him in Yoshpet. He wanted to bring him back to the tribe when he recovered, but he refused, and so instead, he often spends any time he’s not within Ponc’tan busy with lessons with Shouto. 

Denki - Poncle. Another of Shouto’s closest friends. He takes his art training very seriously, but when it’s him, Hanta, and Shouto, the three of them tend to get up to quite a bit of mischief. They often tag along on Shouto through the forest, knowing that he can get them back to Ponc’tan with minimal effort with how well he knows the forest. 

Eijirou - Human.

Hitoshi - Moon Tribe.

Tenya - Human.

Fumikage - Sparrow clan.

Mashirao - Oina.

Yuuga - Moon Tribe.

Kyouka - Human.

Momo - Human.

Neito - Oina.

Getting things all figured out for this idea takes a fair bit more work and since I haven’t talked it through much, it never got very far. So that’s about everything I have. I adore this au, both parts of it, so if anyone has any ideas feel free to send in asks or ideas! I’d love to hear your thoughts.

And I hope this is kind of what you wanted anon! If not, well, please tell me!!

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Hi Steph! 👋 In honor of mental health awareness month, do you know any fics that talk about mental health? Thanks!

Hi Nonny!

Ooo, good topic!

I don’t know any FOR SURE that are SPECIFICALLY about mental health, however I do have a few fics that deal with mental health-type issues, so please take that into account that they’re not the main topic but rather a background issue they’re dealing with as part of the plot. If anyone has any that SPECIFICALLY deal with mental health, please let me know!

MENTAL HEALTH-RELATED

See also:

Self Harm, Danger Nights, and Drugs

Nightmares, PTSD, Panic Attack, & Mental / Emotional Turmoil

Main Character Depression

Rescue by missilemuse (T, 2,574 w. || Fake Relationship, Sherlock Whump, Irene Helps Sherlock) - If this was the way Sherlock Holmes loved, it was no wonder why he had avoided the damned emotion for over half of his life. Part 6 of Reichenbach To Return

Bitter Nights Turned Sweet by Hyliare (T, 4,076 w. || Pre-Slash, Insomnia/Hallucinations, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, POV Present Tense John Watson, Cuddling/Snuggling) – Sherlock has always had trouble sleeping; he hasn’t always had someone in his life willing to help.

Bed-Sharing Between Flatmates by testosterone_tea (T, 5,053 w. || 5 and Ones, Bed Sharing, PTSD John, Science, Whump, Insecure Sherlock, Asexual Sherlock) – 5 times Sherlock had an excuse to share John’s bed, and the one time he didn’t need one.

We are all together alone by Mildredandbobbin (M, 10,461 w. || Mutual Pining, Implied Torture, PTSD, Child Loss, Post-S3) – John is back at 221B but his relationship with Sherlock is not what it used to be.

Where the Sun Never Shines by teahigh (T, 11,634 w. || PTSD, Nightmares, H/C, Post-TRF, Implied Sex) – John is a mess. Sherlock can’t fix him, but he tries. That’s good enough, John thinks.

Achieving the Together-Coloured Instant by teahigh (E, 20,776 w. || Est. Rel, PTSD, Codependency, Fluff & Angst, H/C, Smut, Demisexual Sherlock, Experiments) – John wonders if this is how it’s going to be: A life speaking in code, because they’re both too stupid to figure out how to say, “I love you.”

The Yellow Poppies by SilentAuror (E, 34,952 w. || H/C, Nightmares, HLV Fix-It, PTSD, Trauma, POV Sherlock, Doctor John) – Sherlock is threatened and assaulted in the hospital immediately after having been shot in the heart, first by Mary, then by Magnussen. As he recovers at Baker Street with John and plans the attack on Appledore with Mycroft, he fights to work through the trauma caused by these two visits. Set during His Last Vow.

The Unfinished Letters by SilentAuror (E, 37,391 w. || Post S3 / S3 / HLV Fix it, Angst with Happy Ending, Romance, Infidelity, Depression, Case Fic, POV Third Person Sherlock, Love Confessions, Pining Sherlock, Letters) – A fire at Baker Street leads John to read something he was never intended to see: a notebook of half-written, unfinished letters Sherlock wrote during his time away…

Turn Left at the Park by Glenmore (NR (E), 37,409 w. || Alternate First Meeting / ASiP Divergence, Case Fic, Depression, Suicidal Ideation, Loneliness, No Mary, Possessive Sherlock, Fluff & Angst, Nightmares/PTSD, Sherlock Saves John, Sherlock Whump-ish, Doctor John) – So what would have happened if John hadn’t walked through the park and met Stamford?What if, instead, he walked around the park and just went home?

Right Hand Man by SilentAuror (E, 42,031 w. ||  H/C, Injury, Slow Burn) – When John’s left arm becomes paralysed after a car accident, Mary asks Sherlock to take him back to Baker Street to recuperate, as she’s about to give birth. Despite the fact that the search for Moriarty is ongoing, Sherlock takes John in and takes responsibility for overseeing his rehabilitation as he adjusts to the loss of his arm.

The Pieces That Fall to Earth by Itsallfine (M, 49,513 w. || S4 Fix-It, Epistolary, Love Confessions, Slow Burn, Parentlock, Past Abuse, Coming Out, Questioning Sexuality, Mental Health Issues / Therapy, Angst, Happy Ending) – John and Sherlock have hit rock bottom, but with all their armor stripped away, they can finally speak honestly, seek healing, and find the truths that matter most. An epistolary post-s4 fix-it fic. Now complete.(This fic is rated T except for one very clearly marked and easily skippable chapter, which is rated M.) Part 1 of The Pieces that Fall to Earth

The Homecoming Series by sussexbound (M, 51,744 w. across 12 stories, WIP || Domestics, PTSD, Love Confessions, Hurt/Comfort, Cuddling, Jealousy, Family Issues, Cuddling) – Sometimes home is all you need. After three years of horror, betrayals, and crushing loss, John and Sherlock find their way back home to one another, and together find new footing in a world that has changed forever.

Lost Without My Blogger by starrysummernights (E, 52,155 w. || Rev. Reich, PTSD, Hurt / Comfort, Fluff / Angst, Psychological Torture, Reunion Fic, Friends to Lovers) – John is abducted and declared dead. How will Sherlock cope without his blogger? How will he react when John comes back from the “dead?” Drama and angst with a healthy dose of romance. Part 1 of I’d Be Lost Without My Blogger

Albion and the Woodsman by Glenmore (NR [E], 54,437 w. || Post S3 || Parentlock, Pining Sherlock, Angst, Family, Drug Use, Depression, Sherlock POV) – Sherlock and John are devastated after Mary Morstan makes her final moves. Sherlock relapses at the crack house, John walks around the world … and a lot happens in between. Parentlock, in the good way.

Scars by SilentAuror (E, 60,493 w. || Rape / Non-Con / Abuse, Gaslighting, Manipulation, Dub Con Elements, Homophobia, Angst With Happy Ending, Mary is Not Nice) – S3 rewrite, showing Mary’s manipulation of John as he realizes his love for Sherlock. Mary is not having it.

The Burning by SrebrnaFH (M, 60,658 w. || Reverse Reichenbach, Suicide, Depression, Hurt Sherlock / John, Separation, BAMF John, Good Big Brother Mycroft, Angst, Implied/Referenced Torture, Fake Character Death, Rescue Mission, Reconciliation / Reunion, Hospitalization, Marriage Proposal, Illnesses, Physical Therapy, Happily Ever After) – Something went very, very wrong. John had seemed, if not happy, then reasonably content with his life. Sherlock had never predicted something like THIS might have happened. Not in his worst nightmares. He was the lousiest friend ever, apparently. At least Mycroft found him something to occupy his mind with, so that he didn’t have to go back to 221B and stare at the walls and the chair, where John Watson would never sit again.

You Have Drawn Red From My Hands by J_Baillier (T, 67,085 w. || Three Garridebs, Heavy John Whump, Hurt / Comfort, Pining, Heavy Angst, Case Fic/Adventure, Slow Burn, Sick Fic, Injury, Guilt & Depression, Just Talk Already Please, Medical Realism, PTSD) –  John getting injured leads Sherlock on a path of guilt and revelations.

The Vapor Variant by 88thParallel (CanadaHolm) (M, 72,684 w. || Post-THoB, John Whump, Protective Sherlock, Guilty Sherlock, Anxious/Worried Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock, Angst with Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, PTSD John, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Suspense, Virus, Sickfic, Big Brother Mycroft) – They stood face to face in the middle of a clearing. The dim light of the moon barely allowed Sherlock to see the glassy terror in John’s eyes and the sweat that glistened off his forehead. His nose was bleeding again, blood dripping in a slow stream from his right nostril. They were both gasping for air, John’s eyes locked on Sherlock’s. There was no recognition there, just wild animal fear. Time stood still for an eternal few seconds, and Sherlock took a shaky breath. “John—”Spell broken, John spun and bolted back into the woods. Still heaving for air, Sherlock took off after him.

Maintenance and Repair by patternofdefiance (E, 106,650 w. || FutureAU, Augmentation || Augmented John, Depression, Body Modification, Slow Burn, Worldbuilding, Sci-Fi, Self-Care, Body Dysmorphia) – John wants to explain the rush of sensation and data, which is just another form of sensation (or is it the other way around?). John wants to say:Augmentation circuits report temperature, pressure, various forms of quantitative input. Sudden changes are reported as pain, since sudden changes are dangerous, and pain is the quickest way to encourage reflexive extraction. But all John can manage is, “Nng.” Because this sudden touch is not reporting as pain. Part 2 of STATIC

Shatter the Darkness (Let the Light In) by MojoFlower (E, 109,683 w. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Genie/Djinn AU || Magical Realism, Kidnapping, Genie Sherlock, First Kiss / Time, Case Fic, H/C, Angst, Clubs, John Whump, Mild DubCon, Hand / Blow Jobs, Torture) – Fairy tales are for those who remember how to dream; not John Watson, broken and hiding from his bleak future in a beige bedsit. But then he discovers a lamp and finds himself in the dangerous riptide of an enigmatic man whose very existence is unbelievable, murder charges against his sister, and the growing pains of feeling alive once more.

Breakable by MissDavis (E, 117,627 w. || Established, Fluff/Angst, Depression, Paralysis, Happy-ish Ending) – After John is seriously injured, Sherlock struggles to figure out how to help him, keep himself sane, and maybe, just maybe, get their life back to the way it’s supposed to be. Part 1 of Breakable Not Broken

[starmoraquills]

walking through eternity

so like... i had a headcanon about peter inevitably sleepwalking cos his nightmares tend to be really vivid at times? it’s a 5.8k word hurt/comfort fic. i hope you guys enjoy. :)

summary: upon returning to berhert, the guardians are alarmed to see peter sleepwalking to god knows where, mumbling about eternity. what ego has showed him must’ve really stuck enough to cause these lucid nightmares.

**********

Weeks following Ego have been a wild ride for everyone, and most certainly for Peter Quill. Things have been bizarre especially for him. Peter’s eyes open suddenly, and he blinks in confusion. Sometimes, he doesn’t even remember what brings him into situations such as these, as he lays crumpled on the ground in exhaustion.

He takes in his surroundings. Right, they’re stationed at Berhert, still awaiting the Milano’s repairs. However, he’s unsure where exactly he is. It’s nighttime, the silver shading of the moon casting faint outlines of the forest around him. Nocturnal creatures make their nightly sounds in the background.

He assesses himself before standing; no injuries, just extreme exhaustion. His scarf and jacket is on, so it seems as though he had intentions to be outside, but how did he get here of all places? The middle of the forest is quite an odd place to take a nap, assuming that’s what he was doing.

Standing up feels like a chore, his knees are wobbly and he’s shaking uncontrollably. Anxiety’s fingers are loosely wrapped around him. He takes in a deep breath, a little disoriented by everything. Peter tries to recall the last thing he remembers doing. He remembers the faint flickering of the dying fire outside, recollects putting it out before taking his place at their makeshift lookout post. His eyes were heavy, enough to convince him to close them for a second -- and now he’s here.

He decides to find higher ground to pinpoint where he’s at. There’s a small hilltop just north of him, and he stumbles clumsily towards it. The sluggishness makes it rather difficult to climb up, even if it’s a minuscule slope. By the time he reaches the top, his lungs are on fire and his hands catch his knees as he tries to recollect his breath. From this vantage point, he makes out a small tendril of smoke rising above a small fire. His ears faintly pick up frantic yelling from his comrades, but he hasn’t enough energy to yell back.

As his legs give out, he finds himself recalling more of what happened. When his eyes shut, he could feel himself going into a trance like state. A ghost finger taps his forehead, and he sees the long, intricate eternity before him. Something he still can’t comprehend to this day, even with Ego long gone. He sees it, his mind can’t fathom it. His breathing grows awry, panic beginning to bubble within him again. Flashes of what happened on Ego’s planet fills his mind, blinding the forest surrounding him. His eyes desperately seek out the moon, but all he finds is a long ribbon of light forming in front of him. Burning seeps through his veins as he stares at it.

“No,” he mumbles feebly.

Peter remembers now. Trauma has lead him up to this point. The restlessness, many sleepless nights after Ego. Sometimes eyes fall shut for a split second, allowing his feet to carry him into the thick woods of Berhert. Unknowing, totally uncalled for. He’s asleep, lucid dreams leading him to obscure locations. When he closes his eyes, he sees it… a reality none could handle. Eternity. He hears things he doesn’t want to, feels the light pierce him, life being sucked out of him -- and in turn, immortality replacing it just as quick. He relives it all through his nightmares.

Through this, he decides to volunteer for lookout, unable to handle the constant nightmares. The Guardians disapprove of his behavior, Gamora often encouraging rest, though it feels forgotten. He can’t rest anymore; his mind won’t let him. Sleep is too hard, even though his body is desperate for some. Almost in a blink of an eye, Peter finds himself in places like this --

“Damn.” Was he sleepwalking again?

Before he can really recall the answer to that, his body heavy and exhausted, pulls him under for more unwarranted sleep.

“Peter?” a voice calls him awake this time.

He stirs, coming back to earth after another walk through eternity. This time, his body is aching, quickly registering with him. Eventually, he’s able to make out a homely, familiar face. Her eyes are full of worry, lips tugged into a slight scowl. He feels one of her arms under him, cradling him against her smaller person. It’s weird how perfect he fits there. Peter blinks a few times.

“Gamora? What happened?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve finally found you here, all covered in sticks in mud.”

There’s a small quiver to her voice, and he notices fresh tears sparkling in her eyes. How long was he out for? A subtle orange light glows in the horizon, the purple hues of night are replaced with the lighter ones of dawn. He sits up quickly, realizing the sun is rising.

It’s much to Gamora’s dismay, however; he feels her try to push him back down. Is he that injured? Peter doesn’t feel so. Sore as shit, but not debilitating.

“Ugh…”

Peter pinches the bridge of his nose. Last night has a lot of empty holes. The last thing he remembers is dozing off on the cliffside, so it’s very probable he tumbled down it, the cause of his injuries. It’s alarming, to say the least -- how did he not wake up during that? All he remembers is the light, he followed it.

“What happened, Peter? Were you sleepwalking again?”

Her voice is troubled, hysterics blatantly swallowed down. Gamora helplessly brings him closer.

“I think so. I kept falling asleep and waking up in random locations. Gamora, I… the dreams I kept having…”

“About eternity?”

She recalls Peter talking of them over the fire the other night. She knows with Ego still fresh on their hearts, he’s been having crazy dreams about everything that went down. Mostly the light he was pierced with, the trauma behind it. Peter’s still in a lot of pain, even if he doesn’t have physical injuries to prove it anymore. (Well, except for now -- the boy is covered in cuts and bruises from his recent ventures.) He also talks of dreams of eternity. Every now and then, when he’s not sleepwalking like an utter fool, he mumbles about it in his sleep.

Peter nods. “And I feel it all over again -- that light, sucking everything out of me. When I wake up, it’s as if it really happened. I’m so exhausted and sore, and at first, it’s really hard to tell that it’s just my dumb sleep adventures leaving me in this state.”

Gamora goes silent for a moment, processing it again. She understands what it’s like to deal with trauma, her own still follows her. Still, Terrans have a bizarre way of processing it. Not to say that sleepwalking is uncommon for aliens (much like herself) she’s encountered, but she never pictured that it’d be something Peter struggles with. He’s always been so good at holding it together externally, save for the times he can’t help but cry. Ego truly had an impact on him. She feels angry.

Subsequently, she tightens her arm protectively around him. Her genuine, unadulterated strength almost strangles him, and he tries to invisibly gasp for air. There is something comforting in it, though. He’s been stuck in disorientation for so long, and her touch helps him feel grounded again. He focuses on it, the tightness of it, leaning into her more. Face burying into her cheek as he curls up, allowing her to cradle him more. It’s safe, real.

“Say something,” he chokes out in a hushed voice.

“I’m worried about you,” she replies in the same tone. Worried is definitely an understatement. “This is the third time this week you’ve had nightmares that make you wander off. You’re going to get very hurt!”

“I know, I know. Ow -- okay, wow, you’re really crushing me.”

A small apology escapes her lips as she loosens her grip ever so slightly. Although, she’s still hysterically worried. She doesn’t like seeing this side of him, always so out of it, getting lost. It’s sort of ironic when she thinks of it. He gets himself lost, and it’s a perfect way to describe where he must be spiritually. He has so many unanswered questions, about his celestial half, about Ego, and there’s too many why’s. Regardless, she wishes his mind would stop letting him be so reckless, even if it’s not his fault, per se.

“What if I can’t find you when you wander like this? And you’re really hurt?”

“I know, and I’m sorry,” is all Peter can offer.

She exhales deeply. “Let’s get you back to the ship and fix you up.”

They’ve gotta get to the bottom of this.

“Can you hand me that torch?” Peter calls out from under the ship.

Internal repairs are nearly finished, but working on the external has put them on the backburner. Even though he’s quite sleep deprived, and everyone’s unsure of his ability to properly fix the Milano in his state, Peter insists he wants to help. The ship is his pride and joy, after all.

Gamora fetches what he asked for, placing it in his hand that’s reaching out.

“When are you going to stop distracting yourself from sleep?” she asks.

He merely groans in response.

“You haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours, Peter Quill.”

“I’ll sleep when I want to,” he bristles. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m worrying anyways.”

Peter sighs hotly, focusing on his torching. He doesn’t mean to be so impatient with her. In fact, he appreciates her concern. She’s been so kind and compassionate towards him after acknowledging their unspoken thing. It truly warms his heart that she cares so much. Just between the lack of sleep and the nightmares, he’s in a sour mood, and the constant hounding is making him more exhausted.

“I know you don’t want to sleepwalk again, and I don’t want you to either. But you can’t keep avoiding your rest.”

“I know,” he replies, curt.

God, how many times has she heard those words in just this past hour?

“I know that you know, but when are you going to do something about it?”

He offers an ‘I don’t know’ sort of sound before softly cursing at burning his hand. He rolls out from under the Milano, tossing the torch aside in aggravation. Peter stumbles to his feet and starts to kick up a huge, unnecessary fuss over the burning. He’s endured far worse, this is just irritating him more. Under the bright light of the sun, he assesses his new found injury, his hand a blistering crimson color.

Before Gamora could ask, Drax chimes in from the other side of the Milano, “you okay, Quill?”

“Fuck, I don’t know!” he thunders hysterically, anger and annoyance rising in him enough to almost feel dizzy. “I haven’t slept in almost two days, and when I do sleep, I walk around this god-forsaken planet to god knows where! I’m covered in all sorts of injuries because of that, it’s so stupid! And now, I burn my hand trying to fix this piece of junk!” He kicks the Milano. “But, sure, I’m just peachy! I couldn’t be better! Thanks for asking, buddy!”

The area falls silent, everyone unsure how to respond to that. Drax merely resumes to what he was doing, muttering a hurt ‘it was only a question’ under his breath.

Gamora scrambles to her feet to get to him. She gathers his hands in hers, noticing how bad he’s shaking when she does. She scrutinizes him. His eyes seem to be a deeper, darker green, a sharp contrast to his red face. A vein bulges out of his temple, his jaws locked tightly together.

“You need to calm down, Peter.”

He jerks his hands out of hers, still feeling irrationally angry. Calm down? Yeah, sure. He’ll calm down when he’s able to get some damn sleep for a change. Not everyone can be bright eyed all the time like Groot and Mantis. He grits his teeth.

“Whatever,” he hisses. “I’m gonna take a walk, even though I’ve had enough of those!”

As the Guardians settle in for the night, Peter pulls Gamora aside. They go a little away from the quadrant and the Milano.

Gamora studies him again. His anger has clearly subsided. In the faint lighting, she can see his gaze is cast down, lips quivering uneasily. Peter fidgets with his fingers, trying to decide how to word things. She remains patient for him, continuing to watch his expressions.

“Look,” he sighs finally, “I’m sorry, for y’know, earlier. I didn’t mean to be sucha jerk. I’m just so --”

“Tired,” she says, cautious.

Peter nods.

She chews her bottom lip, arms crossing skeptically. Peter’s always genuine when it comes to his apologies. Still, she can’t help but recall how bad it stung when he pulled away from her. Their unspoken thing is acknowledged, and she wants so badly to be more affectionate with him. But she also doesn’t want to upset him. Gamora sighs. She decides to forgive him, removing the distance between them. This time she carefully gathers his hands, watching him for his consent. He’s much calmer, gentler -- normal. Peter’s hands melt into hers, fingers softly intertwining.

“I know you’re tired, and I forgive you,” she tells him.

No wonder he’s so tired; he’s only human, and he’s endured more than one person could handle. Gamora wishes he wouldn’t try to take on these things alone anymore.

“Thank you,” he mumbles watery.

“I just want you to be okay, Peter… I’m tired of seeing you like this.”

“Me too,” he sighs.

“I want you to get some rest tonight. I’ll take the night shift this time.” She squeezes his hands, although especially careful of his injured one.

“I don’t know…”

“Please, Peter?” she uncharacteristically pleads. “Try to rest. For me, if anything?”

He sighs again, eyes shifting away from her. How can he say no to her?

“Okay, okay. Just this once.”

“Thank you.”

Gamora smiles warmly. She’s glad he’s willing to try at least. She watches as Peter chews on his cheek, continuing to fidget more under her scrutiny. In the time she’s known him, she’s never seen him so… small? Vulnerable. The way his gaze is averted, the evident shame on his face for being such a jackass earlier. It looks as though he feels undeserving of her forgiveness, of her care. That’s far from the case. The air is heavy, a small desire tugs in her heart as she stares at him. She’s unsure how to go about it, but she hopes it’ll provide some ease. Without letting go of his hands, she slightly stands on her toes, leaning towards him. It’s uncertain, clumsy, she’s new to this but -- her lips meet his cheek, his whiskers tickling her nose as she places a kiss there. Peter returns a half-hearted smile, eyes almost going starstruck, cheeks flushing at the gesture.

“Wow, um --”

“Try to sleep well tonight, Peter.”

Her hands let go of his, and she flashes him one more soft smile before turning. Peter’s honestly at a loss on what to say. He places a hand over the cheek she kissed, still a little bewildered.

The two of them head back to base camp.

Milano repairs are well on their way to wrapping up, thankfully. Everyone’s not sure they can handle Peter wandering around Berhert in his sleep much longer.

Peter stands in the heart of the ship, going through things they can and can’t salvage with Rocket. The dark rings around his eyes are prominent, bags making them appear as heavy as they feel. He’s exhausted; beyond so. He’s in a zombie-like state as he tosses useless things to the side or spends too long fiddling with items that’s salvageable.

“God, Quill, you’ve been playin’ with that for ten minutes now,” Rocket huffs in his direction. “Are you sure you don’t want Drax doin’ this? I kinda prefer having someone faster.”

“Yeah, and I’d kinda prefer some sleep right now,” he sneers under his breath.

Rocket incoherently grumbles over Peter’s attitude. He honestly can’t wait for Quill to get some damn shut eye. He’s tired of Crabby McGrumpyjackass. They’ve been bickering most of the morning.

“All I’m sayin’ is, I’m already a couple boxes ahead of ya. And we have tons more to go, so pick up the frickin’ pace!”

“Oh, shut up,” Peter mutters.

“I am Groot,” Groot chimes from inside one of the boxes.

The tiny tree pokes out of it, exchanging looks between the two of them.

“Everyone’s suggested that to him countless times, but he won’t listen,” Rocket answers.

“Yeah, well, I don’t exactly feel comfortable with Mantis knocking me out. Besides, I doubt it’d stop the sleepwalking,” Peter returns.

“I am Groot.”

Rocket bursts out in laughter at such a suggestion. Honestly, where does Groot get it from? The idea of Drax knocking Quill out would be quite a sight to see, he’d pay to see it.

“I’m most certainly not letting Drax anywhere near me either!”

“C’mon, Quill. He can do that sleep hold on you, it wouldn’t hurt!” He snickers.

“If you convince Drax to do that behind my back, I’m going to leave you here on Berhert, asshole.”

Both Rocket and Groot can barely contain their laughter.

“It wouldn’t hurt to try!” Rocket insists.

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

Peter knows that Rocket and Groot are just trying to help, in their bizarre smartass sort of way. If he weren’t so tired, he would’ve loved to give his furry friend a harder time about caring about him so much. He knows Rocket has some serious hang-ups about the term ‘caring.’ Honestly, that creature cares too much at times, even if it comes off as snide and asshole-ish.

He may also seem grouchy this morning himself -- rightfully so, as the last time he had a solid night’s rest was a few days prior to fighting the abilisk on Sovereign -- but last night was different for him. For once, he didn’t wake up in strange places; finally waking up in his bed for a change.

Finally, he was able to rest better last night after Gamora’s little kiss. Honestly, it’s all he’s been thinking about this morning. His heart flutters each time he thinks about how soft her lips were. Even though he’s still horribly exhausted, something about the kiss has given him a new form of strength. He looks over at Gamora through the window, smiling like an idiot at her. She doesn’t notice him, though, as she’s occupied with Kraglin and Drax taking apart their recent hunt to cook for breakfast. Even covered in blood, she’s the prettiest thing he’s ever laid his eyes on. Despite the past couple weeks of hell, he knows that with her by his side… maybe he could overcome anything.

Peter presses his hand to his cheek again before returning to work.

Peter wakes up in darkness again, unsure of where he’s at this time -- or if he’s anywhere at all. Everything is too dark, any source of light completely absent. He fumbles around in this void, unsure of where he’s going. The voices… they’re soft, hardly reaching his ears. One almost sounds vaguely like his own father, beckoning him further into the darkness. The farther he goes, lights start flickering around him. Soon, he notices they’re stars; thousands of them, lighting up a vague path that he follows. Towards the end, it feels like he’s walking in slow motion. He sees it -- and then there’s several ribbons of light spawning out of the darkness. He reaches his hand out towards one, but just as he’s about to touch it --

He’s startled by overwhelming coldness.

Peter’s eyes pop open, and he gasps, gulping in a big breath of water. How did he wind up here? He frantically swims up to the surface, disoriented by being woken up so abruptly. He’s fallen into a rather large lake. It’s breathtakingly beautiful -- and cold -- under the light of the moon, he makes out rainbow colored rocks beneath the crystal clear surface. The forest is distressingly silent, other than his harsh spitting and sputtering as he tries to gather air.

“Fuck!” he spits out, frustrated he’s woken up in another random place.

Once he’s able to collect himself, he swims to shore, allowing himself more time to breathe. On the bright side, it was raining earlier that evening, which means… Peter looks down at the ground, thankfully his footprints are still pressed in the wet soil. It’s evident he wasn’t supposed to be outside in the first place; his shoes are off, and he’s only in his boxers. He remembers falling asleep in his bed, but he’s unsure how he managed to exit the Milano in his unconscious state. Everyone else must’ve been heavily asleep to not realize his absence. It’s a little disappointing no one’s searching for him, but it does save him the embarrassment.

He follows his tracks through the winding forest, shivering uncontrollably at the slight chill in the air. He’s soaked to the bone, too, and extremely exhausted as per usual. His feet drag through the mud, eyes heavy as he follows the fresh footprints. Soon the two familiar ships come into focus. He’s a little surprised how close that lake is. It probably only took him half an hour to return to their base.

He steps inside the Milano, letting out a sigh of relief at the warm air that meets him. It’s quiet and peaceful inside, too. (Well, except for Drax’s rather loud snoring.) Peter tiptoes around as to not disturb anyone -- no one can know he managed to sneak out. The neon light of the clock in their command modules show it’s a little past three a.m. He wonders how long he was out there, wandering around like a total idiot in just his underwear. Why must his dreams be so vivid?

Despite it being so late in the night, Peter decides to freshen up at least. He’s still pretty freezing from his fun little night swim, and he does reek of fish. He sneaks into his quarters to grab a fresh change of clothes and his toiletries, before heading into the bathroom. The Milano’s shower isn’t too loud, so he knows he’ll be able to get away with one so late in the night. He allows the door to softly shut before flickering the light on.

He turns the water on a comfortably warm setting before quickly undressing, pausing in front of the small mirror to gaze at his reflection. His hair is a few shades darker from his dip in the lake, curls clinging to his forehead, and his green eyes are lost and frantic. The bags under them are a noticeable bruised color, a huge contrast to his light skin. As he stares in the reflection, he can’t help but feel haunted by the face staring back. A human once close to being a celestial, a god… His head throbs. His eyes trick him with faint flashes of light trickling in his veins. Life leaving, being replaced… and all of those planets he could feel in the core of his being. Peter quickly shakes his head and pries his gaze off the glass. He steps into the shower, feeling miserable again.

The water did help a little, however. He didn’t realize the extremities of his shivering until the hot spray calmed his muscles enough to make him realize how overworked and tight they were. Peter sighs deeply. Normally, he listens to music when he showers, so the silence feels a bit odd. But perhaps it was much needed. It feels like his thoughts roll off him along with the water, and he finally relaxes. He revels in the calmness a bit longer before washing himself.

***

Peter steps out of the bathroom feeling much better. Against his better judgement, he decides to to stay awake the rest of the night.

He sits at their makeshift dining table of boxes, scrubs his tired eyes with the back of his hand, yawning a bit too much for his liking. He takes a sip of his coffee, sighing as he sets his mug back down. Out the window, the sun is beginning to rise. It shouldn’t be long before his friends wake up and inevitably scold him for being up late again. However, he’s oddly at peace being awake.

There’s something oddly satisfying about the sleep deprivation. It surely meant no more nightmares or sleepwalking, and the stillness of midnight seems to clear his head. It’s when the sun rises that his mind wakes up, smothering him in questions that will probably never be answered.

“Goodmorning,” rings a quiet voice behind him.

Although his bright arch-nemesis is rising in the sky, he feels instant peace by the sound of her voice. He doesn’t turn to her, not sure he wants her to see how pitiful his eyes look. He cups his own cheek, elbow resting on the table in front of him. Peter yawns.

“Morning, G’mora…”

“Peter… this is serious.”

He nods silently.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

Gamora takes a seat beside him, mirroring his position with her elbow on the table, chin resting in her hand. She brings her other hand up to place it on his free one, gauging his expressions. His eyes are tired, and she watches as incoming tears swirl in them. Peter bites his bottom lip, willing the tears to stay away.

“I dunno…”

“Why don't we take a walk? A real one, to clear your mind.”

He's in obvious thought for a second before agreeing. Alone time with Gamora sounds healing.

He waits outside for her to get dressed, and once she's ready, the two of them start their trek in the woods. Peter takes her to the lake he discovered a few hours ago, admitting to his half-skinny dip. In spite of how he found it, it's gorgeous. The sunrise reflects beautifully in the lake, painting it different shades of orange, pink, and purple. The faint glint of the rocks beneath the surface leaves a spectacular display.

Peter and Gamora settle on a fallen log, hand in hand, watching as the sky turns to dawn. He brings out his zune to play some soothing music, interrupting the silence between them.

Eventually, he speaks up, “I know that I'm physically tired, but man, I'm also mentally exhausted. My subconscious state keeps trying to find something, and I'm unsure how to put myself at ease.”

“I think that maybe when you come to terms with the fact they're dreams and nothing more, then your mind will find peace.”

Quill considers that for a moment. His dreams have been so lucid, he's never really taken the time to remember that they're just dreams. Still, it's hard to wrap his head around.

“You're right. Whatever that jackass Ego did to me, it should've gone away with the light. It's hard to find comfort in that, though, I guess. It all feels so real.”

“I understand.” She turns to face him better, grabbing his other free hand. Peter surely enjoys how casually she’s been doing this lately. “Whatever’s happening in that mind of yours, it's all fake, I promise. Peter, this is real.” Gamora squeezes his hands. “Right here… you have real people really worried about you. I'm worried about you. It pains me that you're in such discomfort.”

He nods, casting his gaze down to their hands. Her’s are so soft, so strong in his. He focuses on the feeling of them, allowing his thumb to brush along her knuckles. Peter smiles softly.

“Yeah, well -- now that I think about it, I feel okay with you by my side.”

He leans over carefully, cautiously laying his head on her shoulder. She's tense under him, still new to the touchy stuff. However, she knows she doesn't have anything to worry about with him. Even though he's a notorious flirt, Peter always carries this gentleness with her. She tries to relax under him.

“I'm honored I can help you feel okay,” she mumbles. “You don't have to face these things alone.” There's really no need for his Star Lord bravado around her. She cherishes his honesty, and just wants him to open up to her.

“Mmm, I'm glad…” His voice is sleepy and rough.

Before she can respond, quiet snores come from him, and she's faced with his dead weight leaning onto her -- not that she can't handle it. Gamora wraps an arm around him to prevent him from falling, gently as to not disturb him either. It's good he's finally getting some rest, regardless that it’s an irresponsible place to fall asleep.

It's really a genuine honor that she can be here for Peter, though. Over the time they've been together, he's been there for her countless times, even when she insisted she didn't need him. Looking at him now, though, so exhausted with all that ails him, she realizes she does need him. He's truly become, dare she suggests, a best friend to her. A dear one. And she dislikes that he tries to take on these things all by himself. He's always been there for her, and now it's her turn to be there for him.

Sleeping on Gamora is the most rest he's gotten in the past couple weeks. In fact, in the days following, he found himself in her quarters, sleeping in a pile of blankets on her floor. (They've yet to move to the sleep together phase, and god, Peter’s ready to. But he won't rush her into anything.)

The whole point of sleeping in her room is to get some early rest, but the two of them often spend their time talking late into the night. Gamora’s glad that Peter’s been open with her about his nightmares, among other things that may be causing his sleepwalking. Speaking of which, he's only done it a couple times since laying in the same room as her. But these times Gamora’s been able to gently guide him back to her room before he can kill himself. It may be a little creepy at times and a bit of a nuisance, but she's come to find it slightly hysterical.

His mood has changed greatly, too, with her love and support. The Milano is pretty much completed, which serves an even better mood. For everyone, really. They're just waiting for Kraglin to come back with some gas to get the ship up and moving again. Still, it's something worth celebrating.

As they chow down on dinner, everything has returned to relative normalcy. Gamora and Mantis didn't realize how easier and better it is to resolve the normal bickering, and while it's annoying babysitting these douchebags at times, it's great that it's normal again.

The Guardians have also taken note of Gamora and Peter’s new found relationship. They deny to dating, even though it's disgustingly obvious they ‘like like’ each other. Honestly, it's about damn time, as far as everyone's concerned. They won't admit to it, but they're all excruciatingly happy for the two dweebs.

All is right in the world again. For now.

“Fuck!” Peter gasps, jolting awake.

It's been a few days since they've departed from Berhert, travelling among the stars again in their home away from home -- the Milano. It's also been a few days since the nightmares have plagued Peter Quill. This most recent one has left him in a cold sweat.

He's in Gamora’s quarters like he was before going to sleep (thank god), but still, he could honestly live without nightmares of his only family dying around him. He looks over at Gamora, who's eyes are peering down at him from her bunk. In comparison to his dream, she looks so alive and well. Relief washes over him as he meets her eyes, fresh tears welling in his.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” she mumbles in her adorable half-asleep voice.

Peter turns away, assessing himself for a long moment and wiping the tears out of his eyes. Is he up for talking about it? He's not quite sure.

He scoots closer to her bunk, vivid images of her all cold and lifeless passing in his mind. He just needs to make sure. Peter reaches his hand up slowly, and he takes Gamora not knocking it away as consent to place it on her cheek. It's warm. He’s cautious as he moves it down to her shoulder, rubbing it in small circles when he does. The slight rise and fall from her breathing is soothing.

Then, he tries to further his boundary with her, laying his head beside hers, but firmly remaining on the floor. He doesn't want to make her too uncomfortable. Being this close to her is soothing, he feels his breathing steady as he silently stares into her beautiful eyes.

Gamora remains quiet, a bit shy and rigid being so close to him. Admittedly, this is a bit more intimate than she was expecting. Calmness quickly replaces the high strung features in Quill’s face as he lays there, absently rubbing circles on her shoulder.

“I don't think I can talk about it right now,” Peter finally decides. He just wants to relish the fact that she's alive and right beside him. “But I will -- in the morning. Just not right now.”

She nods understandingly.

“Are you gonna be okay?” she asks him.

A thousand emotions cross his features, but he eventually finds peace as he thinks about it.

“Yes -- yeah, I am now. For sure.”

He stops rubbing her shoulder, settles on draping his arm on top of her. Peter knows she's still unsure about sharing the bed, but he hopes laying this close is fine, with his body half on it and half off. But she doesn't seem to mind. In fact, she scoots closer to him, bringing a hand out from under her blankets to rest on his cheek.

“I'm right here, Peter.”

Peter does one of his famous crooked smiles, and her heart misses a few beats. He merely nods, eyes blinking heavily as he lets out a quiet yawn. It's an awkward position for sure, but this is the most comfortable he’s been in a long time, forehead nearly pressed against her’s.

“Stay close, okay?” he mutters as he starts dozing off.

“Okay,” he tells him almost inaudibly.

Gamora settles on staying awake a little longer, watching Peter rest. His sleepy face is way too freaking cute, it tugs her heartstrings in unfamiliar ways. She allows the hand still resting on his cheek to gently stroke it and notices him visibly relax under her touch. In a million years, she never thought she could've had an impact on someone like this. Much less care for someone like this. Her fingers slowly comb through his hair, and Peter takes a long, deep breath at that.

She hopes that this will be the end of his nightmares, and perhaps the beginning of something no longer unspoken. Before she goes back to sleep, she presses a tiny kiss to his nose, willing the nightmares to leave him the hell alone for a change.

For the first time since their many tedious battles, Peter finally sleeps deeply, with dreams full of love and his family.