#it's the grief you feel because you were afraid to be honest

[eldritchflapper]

Thinking of how not saving my hentai is a metaphor for my abandonment issues

[redflagshipwriter]

Mamabat- enter Jason 1/2

MASTERPOST

The air was different with Cass, now. Danny felt a little anxious as he followed her to the study after breakfast. Something about her was serious-determined-protective. 

She always felt protective towards him. That was why he'd followed her in the first place. Some ghosts lied, but they couldn't do it with their aura. He knew what she really felt for him. 

“Sit?” She asked him. She gestured at the big squashy chair. Danny did without complaint. Cass perched behind him and started dragging her fingers through his hair, relaxing him.

Man. She was good at this. Top tier mothering, right here. Danny went limp. 

“I'm worried,” Cass broke the silence. She didn't sound worried. She never really did. Her voice was quiet and serious, but still kind. Her thumbs dug into his scalp. He pushed his head back against it. Bliss. “Barbara made you sad. Because you miss your sister?”

Danny tensed. 

‘I should have figured that Batman would track me down.’

Maybe he had known, if he was honest with himself. It didn't hit him like a shock.

“Tim thinks your name is Fenton,” she added, brutally sensible as always. And yup, that was it. No point in denying it. “Declared dead. In danger?”

He sucked in air through his teeth. He wasn't going to lie to her. 

“Worried,” she repeated. 

He thought about it. He really did. Danny bit his lip. 

She was liminal. That probably meant she'd come really close to death, in at least one sense of the word. Would that mean she was desensitized to it, or extra paranoid?

…It was hard to imagine Cass over or under reacting to a possible danger. She was just so steady. But would she see him as a possible danger if she knew what he was, what he really was? 

He could feel it out before he took a plunge with the whole truth.

Maybe it was wrong. Maybe it was invasive. She didn't seem to realize that she was liminal. That meant she definitely didn't realize how much she was communicating to him under her words and gestures. 

But Danny deliberately tuned into her quiet aural communication and tested the waters. “Tim is right, I'm Danny Fenton,” he said. He knew he was too tense. She would definitely feel it. But what could he do about that? He was nervous. “I… Maybe I did die.”

Her heart dropped to her stomach. He could feel the crush of grief on her heart. 

But it didn’t wash away the thudding repetition of love-protect-my darling. There was no suspicion, no guilt, no fear. It was just pain for his sake, with no calculation about how to solve a sudden problem. 

God. He wanted so badly for that to have been how his parents reacted. His eyes started to sting.

Danny sniffled. He thought it was safe to tell her. “I died,” he corrected, and he knew he was right when Cass made a little wounded sound and leaned her body into him, aiming to comfort. “Not then, but a couple years ago. I’m different now, and it’s uh… It’s dangerous to be this way.”

“Affects?” Cass asked quietly. She started to pet his hair again. “Mood? Health?”

“...Huh,” he said, because that was a sensible question he hadn’t expected. If he really thought about his mood and emotions before and after the accident: “Yeah, uh, there’s sometimes a mood thing. I might be a little more aggressive than I was before? And I can get kind of intense sometimes.”

He had thought that was basically just a reaction to having a whole bunch of new threats in his life. But would pre-electrocution Danny have been able to actually stand and fight Skulker? He had genuinely been afraid of the jocks. Maybe… Maybe he was different. Sure, Sam and Jazz were up for shooting ghosts with Fenton tech. Would he have been if he was just human? 

…He didn’t really think so.

Oof. Well, that wasn’t exactly great for his sense of self.

Cass shook him lightly. “Health?” she repeated.

Danny forced down that revelation to deal with later. He didn’t like acknowledging that he was kind of a chicken by nature, but historically, there wasn’t much evidence of bravery pre-mortem. “Uh, my heart rate is really slow, body temp is low, so I can’t really afford to go to a doctor for a checkup,” he said. “Uh, sometimes I’ve got none at all and my hair turns white.” He paused there. That was- that was enough, yeah? He was going to be honest with her because she deserved honesty from him. But that didn’t mean he had to explain the whole great beyond and his inhuman status.

“Sounds like Jason,” Cass said, after a long silence.

Danny short-circuited. “Wait, what?” He craned to look at her. “Who?”

Cass darted forward to kiss his forehead. “Little brother,” she said cheerfully. “Want to meet him?”

Uh, yeah. Danny nodded vigorously, wondering what the hell she was on about. “Do you mean he died?” 

“Died,” Cass agreed, getting out her phone and tapping away at it rapidly.

“Not like, heart stopped for a minute on the operating table and he was revived, or what?” Danny pressed.

“Dead in the ground, came back later,” Cass said. “Dead for months. Now, very crabby.”

Danny balked. “What?”

“White hair too,” she said. Then her face did something funny. “I think he dyed it recently,” she said. 

Danny huffed a laugh. “If it’s the same thing as mine, you can’t dye it.” He saw her look over his head for white streaks. He didn’t correct her line of thought.

He hadn’t thought that anything could top the anticipation of meeting Batman. But Danny had to admit the rest of the day was a wash. Apparently Jason couldn’t make it until the evening, about an hour before patrol.

Danny nearly paced a line into the carpet. He had enough energy to do that now, even without ecto. He was getting soooo much food here. A guy couldn’t even stress out for an hour without someone coming by to make sure he had fruit and yogurt or a hot drink.

He didn’t need someone to come and tell him that the much anticipated Jason had shown up. Danny knew it when he went to take a sip of cruelty-free chocolate milk (hand delivered by the most frightening child in the world) and choked on vapor.

Damian gave him a glare and snatched the drink away. “Are you incapable of drinking beverages?” he demanded. His face looked so goddamn cross but he was just worried.

Danny managed a smile. “No, went down the wrong pipe, sorry.”

Damian didn’t seem to even see the fog, so- so that meant that either he was really unobservant or he wasn’t liminal enough to see it the way people did in Amity. That was a small blessing. Danny appreciated it and he took back his drink to have something to hold onto.

That was a whole ass ghost. That was a whole ghost coming onto the property, one that felt big and mad and old. Danny smacked his lips, disconcerted. 

He, uh, didn’t know what to expect from this.

[illyrian-dreamer]

Make a bargain with me

Rhys x reader angst/fluff one shot

Summary: Your unrequited love for your High Lord has seen you distancing yourself not just from Rhys, but the entire inner circle. Rhys is concerned, and confronts you.

Word count: 2.2k

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You shifted uncomfortably under Rhys’s stare, keeping your eyes fixed the night’s horizon, still with anticipation of starfall that was yet to begin.

“What’s going on Y/N?” he asked softly. 

He had sprung you from your hideaway. It was stupid, really, to think you could escape him, or that he wouldn't follow. 

Tonight on Starfall, when your family and friends were drinking and laughing and toasting to a better year ahead, you had held yourself back, observing from the sidelines, longing to partake as you had each year before.

But things were different now, you were different. It had been a stressful year to say the least – too many losses, too many sacrifices made on missions that you couldn’t come to terms with. Choices made, last words said – the turmoil of your mistakes was a constant loop in your mind, each of your missions weighing heavier than the last, a little piece of you left behind on along the way.

And where you would usually confess or turn to your family for the support you desperately craved, it was all skewed by the devastating, gut-wrenching love you had developed for your High Lord.

You wondered what your friends might say – their snorts and sorry smiles as you dreamed of a life with not just any High Lord, but the High Lord of the Night Court, who was only just finding his feet. 

It was only shy of a decade since Rhys lost his sister and mother, leaving the male to wade through the trenches of grief alone, which were only deepened by the weight of responsibility as he assumed position as High Lord of the Night Court. You hadn't known him before he recruited you to the inner circle, but in your few years of working for Rhys, he had aged, maturing into his title and proving himself as a true and honest leader.

And in those years, not once had you seen him take to a lover or celebrate romance in his life. You knew that your love for Rhys would be nothing more than an imposition – a burden for him to manage in a world where he was not ready to love again, especially not someone like you. 

But concealing your feelings had a very true affect in physicality – you were plagued with guilt, rigid  by unrequited, unconfessed love practically bursting to come out. Skittish manoeuvres to avoid his touch, aloofness at times where you were known to share and console – you had done excellent work to distance yourself from Rhys, and with it the rest of the inner circle. 

Even the blatant probing by Cassian to open up, or gentle suggestions from Azriel to join them on flights went politely declined as you assured them you were fine. And the times where your work was too much, when you needed to tell your High Lord the burdens you were baring and seek comfort from him as a friend – instead you bottled it up, unsure of what you might confess and afraid of the very real affect of someone who was not yet ready to love. 

Rhysand had been particularly observant tonight. Your own behaviour was predictable as of late, but after the first bashful glances to the ground, reddened cheeks where you used to bite back, and the distant, distracted manner in which you watched on – you felt watchful violet eyes on you all evening.

The tipping point had been Rhysand’s speech, a glass of auburn liquid raised high as he spoke to his sincere care and affection for each of you in his circle. He was thankful for all of you, for being the self-made family he could have only ever dreamed of having. But as he spoke to each of the members, starting with his second-in-charge, followed by Mor, Cassian then Azriel, you had slipped from the room before he could get to you. 

Because in that speech - he had shown that he still loved, just not in the way that you craved. And if you had learnt anything through both your career at the Night Court and from Rhys himself – it was that happiness could be stolen in an instant. 

So you fled, heart thumping as you craved fresh air – overwhelmed with cyclical thoughts and foolish amounts of fae wine. 

After a polite ten minutes, Rhys had followed, finding the flattened patch of roof you often sought out after long missions, now stripping you bare under his gaze.

“Y/N?”

“Hm?”

Rhys winced with worry. “I asked what’s going on with you?”

You forced a small smile, keeping your breathing as even as you could. You were trained to stay calm when interrogated, but somehow this was harder than some of the life threatening circumstances you had endured. It was almost laughable.

"Nothing at all," you forced your eyes to his, your stomach dropping at his beauty.

Rhys’s face remained concerned, completely unconvinced. 

“Is it work?”

“No.” A half-truth.

Rhys nodded, a sense of relief that his court was not to blame.

A few moments of silence, you were burning from within, cheeks flushing yet again. You allowed for a moment to imagine his reaction if you were to tell him. Imagined his face as you confessed your feelings for him – your High Lord, your employer. How ridiculous and wildly inappropriate. 

Your face flushed a deeper pink at the shame of it. Rhys’s eyes dotted to your cheeks, not missing a thing.

He leveled a look at you. “You can always be honest with me.” You felt a gentle caress on your mental shields, and it was an instinct you cursed yourself for to seize them higher at his touch.

You moved your eyes back to the horizon, sighing with frustration. He was here, he cared – perhaps you could just, try?

“How did you do it?” you asked ominously, a pained frown pulling at your brow.

Rhys shifted at your question, brows raising in surprise. “Do what?”

You cleared your throat. “How did you let yourself love again, when you know how quickly it can be taken away?”

Rhys nodded slowly, violet eyes softening with understanding.

“Would you believe me if I said it was easy?” he replied.

You gave a small laugh, looking down at your hands. “No, actually.”

“Well it was.”

Another beat of silence. 

“Opening my home to all of you, creating this family is the easiest thing I’ve ever done, because it was meant to be.”

You nodded back. You would never tell him how easy it is for you to fall in love with him too. How quickly it had happened, how natural it felt for you.

“I would risk everything I have to have to keep you all safe and content, even just for one more day.”

His words struck you. Risk – there was too much to lose.

“I would risk everything I have for anyone I love, I think,” he continued. “I know that now, that it’s important to let go of what I can’t control, and let myself risk it all.”

He loved your family so dearly – it felt traitorous to indulge in the idea that your love could evolve past the sincere platonic form that it took now. You were greedy, spoilt.

“But that doesn’t just apply to my love for my court.”

Huh?

“As you know, anyone I care for is automatically a target beyond Velaris. My brothers, Mor, Amren.” Rhys paused. “And you.”

You looked up at him, his violet eyes unreadable as stars winked in their depths.

“I don’t want you to risk what you have for me,” your voice was barely a whisper, and you wondered if he sensed the deeper implication of your words.

Rhys wore a soft, sideways smile as he spoke. “You are well worth the risk.”

You were sure he could hear your fastened heart, no longer able to conceal your feelings. For a year your secret had lived at the tip of your tongue, threatening to ruin everything you had. It was too much to bare.

Silent tears started to run down your cheeks.

Rhys’s eyebrows clenched in concern, and he stepped towards you, reaching to brush them away with a stroke of of his cool fingers. You tried to step away, turning your face in shame – but he held your shoulders, a gentle hand pulling your chin to face him.

Violet beheld you again, and you forced yourself to not look away. Maybe you could face him, face your truth. Maybe, you could be as brave as him.

“You are so beautiful, Y/N,” Rhys said softly, his hands cupping your face as he brushed away your tears. “I don’t think I need to tell you that I’m very fond of you.”

Your heart thrummed, pulsing with instinct. Say it, out loud, risk it! it seemed to shout.

You bought your hands up to his, holding them as you took a deep breath.

“And I am fond of you.”

Rhys’s face lit up as stars twinkled in his eyes. He was devastatingly handsome, and the smile that pulled at his sharp cheek bones threatened your knees to buckle.

You couldn’t help the tears that kept running. You were given in, risking it all, and there was no coming back. 

Rhys leaned in close to your face, his fresh scent filling the air around you. He placed a gentle kiss on each of your tear stained cheeks before licking the salty liquid from his perfect lips.

You stared at him in awe, his beauty enveloping your view.

“Fond, on my behalf, is an understatement,” he murmured, tilting your chin upwards to him. 

A gentle hand snaked behind your back, pulling you against his body. The feeling of him softly pressed to you made you throb, and you continued to stare up at his face, unable to hide your own shock. 

He brushed your hair behind your ear, before cupping your jaw.

“So beautiful,” he said again, before leaning down and placing his lips on yours gently.

The kiss was soft, more attentive than you had ever experienced. You succumbed to it, letting your body relax into his hold as he pulled you in closer with the arm at your back, strengthening to hold your knees truly gave out at his touch.

You own arms naturally made their way to his hair and neck, trying to pull yourself closer.

Rhys chuckled into the kiss, inhaling as he traced his tongue along your lips, asking for permission.

A moan escaped you as you gained Rhys his entrance, his tongue sliding sensually over yours.

Your skin was alight, senses heightened and perked as every part of you ached and begged to never let go.

But a guilty conscience had Rhys pulling away from your lips, a small smirk pulling at your frustrated moan.

“Y/N,” he straightened, suddenly more serious. “I didn't come here to only confess my affection.”

“I wouldn’t mind if you did,” you hummed, fingers on your mouth as your lips tingled with his lingering touch.

When Rhys chuckled, you swore it pleased the Gods.

“The others are just as concerned as I am. You’re withdrawn, proper sleep has escaped you for months, and–"

Your mouth twitched, before you flew up to plant a quick peck on his lips, silencing him. “And what of you, High Lord? How much do you burry in that head of yours? It is hard to know how much to burden onto you, when you are already dealing with so much.”

Violet eyes danced between yours in thought. “Make a bargain with me.”

Your brow quirked. “Pardon me?”

“Promise me, to share the things with which you need support so you may not burden them alone. And I will promise to do the same.”

“Rhys,” you breathed, honoured yet anxious at the vulnerability weaved into a bargain such as that. “Do you know what you’re asking each of us to confess?”

Rhys smiled, shaking his head. “With conditions, of course. This will be for those things that you know you shouldn’t keep to yourself, the truths you know the other would want to help with.”

You couldn't help the grin that pulled at your cheeks. “You’re mad.”

Rhys flicked your nose. “I know what it is to rot from within, Y/N. And in a world of magic and power and darkness, I will not let you burden it alone.”

“Rysand…”

Rhys all but moaned, pulling you in for a searing kiss. “Say yes,” he murmured against your lips.

With clenched eyes, you nodded, aware of the itching sensation on your neck as Rhys enveloped you with another kiss, the etching of your bargain searing to your skin. 

A gentle talon stroked at your mind then, hinting with sensuality.

You opened your eyes, forcing your shields down for the first time in years. 

Rhys growled as he entered your mind, pulling you flush against him as he kissed you deeply. And as the night sky became alive with iridescent streaks of light, the beginnings of starfall went neglected as you and Rhys explored a world of your own.

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AN: Hello dreamers, I just had to get out a one-shot, and I had a few requests to write for the most handsome High Lord! I sincerely hope you liked this, I haven't done a one-shot in a HOT minute!! So glad to be back with them. Comment to join my main tag list anytime, MWA!

[netherfeildren]

FABLE OF THE DOG : 1. The Two Headed Calf

Series Masterlist;

Pairing: Joel Miller x FMC

Summary: Welcome home and buck up, cowgirl.

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Cowboy/Heiress AU; Slowburn(ish); Original Characters; Alcohol & Drug Use; Discussions of Grief; Daddy Issues; Graphic Descriptions of Vomiting; Description of a Dead Body; Death of a Parent; Parental Neglect; Older Man/Younger Woman; Jealousy; Past Teenage Crush; Unrequited Pinning; Yearning and Longing Galore; Boss’s Daughter; Complicated Family Relationships; A Home is a Place but ALSO a Person!; Found Family

A/N: Disclaimer, I know nothing about Wyoming and it’s geography, ranching, or being a cowboy and just made all this up. Any and all misrepresentations are fallacy of my laziness.

The FMC tag was decided because she has a last name. It was just too difficult for me to speak in depth about her father without giving him a name, and thus her one too. After that decision was made, she kind of went away from me and devolved into her own person who I have come to be quite obsessed with. It’s still written in ‘you’ format, anyhow.

I’ve been having a whole lot of fun with this, I hope you do too.

Word Count: 10K

Read on AO3

1: The Two Headed Calf

“She’s been shut up in that house goin’ on three days now, Joel,” Tommy says as the two brothers make their way across the lawn. 

The ride had been long and hard, and Joel is tired—he levels a dark look at him. “Just sayin’. Nothin’ you find in there’s gonna be pretty to look at.” He raises his hands in surrender at the brooding glare, that non-confrontational shrug that’s set Joel on edge since they were boys. 

“One of you’s should’a gone in there. Made sure she’s okay.”

“The housekeepers’ve been keepin’ an eye. And Frank tried to go in there and check on her himself, but she’s angry as a barn cat. Hissin’ ‘nd yowlin’, and just bein’ downright scary as hell, to be honest. You should be prepared is all I’m tryin’ to say.”

“Her father just died, Tommy. I’m not expectin’ pretty sights right now,” Joel gruffs, trying to swallow the panic that flutters in his throat as they crest the final hill up to the big house. 

The beautiful stone, oak, glass monstrosity that’s stood as monument to this place, this home that is not truly his, for over a decade now. The Kelly Ranch. The sky above is still a sultry, yawning blue, deep and tired, basking in the throes of dawn as the sun just now makes its way over the crest of the Tetons in the distance so that the house sits for just a moment longer in its pool of shadowed blues. 

Joel pauses on the border of that somber darkness, afraid suddenly of what awaits him inside; boots glued to the ground with the gum of cowardice. He doesn’t want to see her broken. He doesn’t want to see her hurting. But there’s no other recourse, he knows this. The death of the estranged father she’d fought with all her life, the inheritance of this world that seems suddenly too big for just one orphaned girl, all alone now. 

He’s afraid that he’ll walk into that house he’s always seen as other and home all wrapped into one—that Olympus that was so far removed and out of reach even when he walked through it’s halls to the man who’d given him sanctuary and salvation, to the man he knew mistreated her sometimes, didn’t love her enough—and not have the capacity to recognize her, this girl who’d always been familiar and stranger all in one also. 

Joel Miller suddenly feels afraid of the memory she exists as in his mind, in the face of the woman he knows she is now. 

When he lets himself in the back kitchen door, it’s still nighttime within. The cool dryness of the AC cranked up to inhuman temperatures makes him shiver once while sprouting a damp sweat along his nape. He should’ve showered before coming, should’ve washed the ride and the days of camp off his skin before walking into her presence, but all he’d managed were his hands and face. There’d been panic to make sure she was well, if not then alive, at least. But he should be more presentable for her. 

Hell, he should’ve been here for her when she came home for the first time in two years to the house where her father had died. He should’ve been here when the man died. 

But the herd had needed moving. He hadn’t thought it’d all happen so quickly, thought he had more time, that they all had more time. He’d hoped she wouldn’t return at all, if he was being honest. There was nothing here for her. Nothing except memories of a gilded and loveless, already motherless childhood. The reality of all she was set to inherit. The truth of an aloneness Joel didn’t know if she was prepared for. 

He moves through the house slowly, afraid to disturb the ghosts and the silence. The interior, immaculate and beautiful and solemn. Something out of a movie picture or the gloss of a magazine. Something covered not in dust but in sadness. The stairs are silent as his spinning mind makes up for the creak, the boots she’d sent him on his last birthday hit the richly piled rug at the top, and the hallway to the bedrooms yawns long and frightening in front of him. Two grand a pop, the boots—Lucchese, he’d looked them up on the iPhone she’d sent him the year before. A gift giver, generous to a fault, kind to a detriment. She sent something to all the ranch hands that’d worked for her father since she was a girl. Something for the entire ranch at Christmas. And all he managed each time was a perfunctory thank you card, like he did every year because he remembered, years ago, in her little voice, polite people send thank you notes, Joel, my grandmother told me so. Last year he’d written that they were too much, that she shouldn’t have, that he was grateful. There wasn’t much else to say. 

That was the extent of their communication, familiar and stranger in one, the far removed golden child of the Kelly. They’d all called him that, the Kelly, for as long as he’d known the man. As if he was some Scottish laird of old, ruling over his clan and half the world. Egotistical, was what it really was. He’d thought himself a god among men, in the face of his only child. Ridiculous was what Joel saw it all for, a put on play, a farce.

And wonder of wonders, she was entirely unlike him because of course she would be. Of course a man ruled by nothing more than ego and narcissism had been sent his polar opposite in the form of his only child. Kind hearted, was what she was—sending him a birthday gift every year. Remembering them all here always no matter how far she’d gone. He sent her a thank you note for each benevolence in return, a word of respectful gratitude for the fact that a person like her could ever remember a dog like him. 

Sometimes, Joel had wanted to go to him, the old man, Oswald Kelly, and ask him where his daughter was, why he wasn’t looking for her, keeping her closer, caring for her. He wasn’t the sort of man that could’ve ever understood such callous behavior towards one’s child.

The last time she’d been here, over two years ago: less than forty eight hours that had ended in screaming so terrible they’d all heard it down from the barn, sitting in uncomfortable, swollen silence, the spinning of tires ringing as she yelled at her father that he was never going to see her again, the man’s echoing laugh as she’d fled him. 

Joel hadn’t seen her on that visit, it’d been so quick and angry. Flying down on the jet from New Haven for her father’s seventieth birthday and not even making it long enough for the festivities. This was what her life was, as he’d observed it from a distance for all these years, the singular daughter of this great house, coming to her father, attempting joy and finding nothing but disappointment at the end of him. 

She’d been right, a knowing streak running through her. Kelly had never seen her again, and Joel didn’t know if the old man had regretted it or not, the anger and the estrangement and the lack of love. But the last time he’d spoken to him, hours before setting off on their move, the herd always came before everything else, the ranch was all that mattered is what the man had always said, with death scratching at the window, his frail and withered body licked down to almost nothing from the austere and imposing figure Joel had always known him as, he’d asked for her. His only child. Do you think she’ll come, Joel? The dying man had asked him. My daughter, do you think she’ll come see me? Joel had lied a lie he hadn’t known was one, said she would, that he’d call her as soon as he was back. 

In the end, he hadn’t even afforded her that decency, a personal call.

He comes to her open bedroom door now, pitch dark as grief within, and the stench of sorrow and liquor seeping from the living grave. He looks down the long and empty hall for a brief second, wishing it didn’t have to be him, that again, he didn't have to see her any way other than okay. And he realizes that there’s something about her, as she will exist now, that makes him cowardly. Something about this house without the man who’d granted him the absolution of a hiding place all those years ago, who’d understood and sheltered Joel in the midst of his own past grief, that makes him cowardly. The house feels wrong without Kelly within it, wrong with only her as its holder now. 

Joel steps into her dark, and it’s a battleground—

—You are silent and motionless in the blue room. 

Nothing of the gleaming splendor that dresses the rest of the home sleeps in here. There are clothes everywhere, an exploded suitcase lies open and massacred in the middle of the plush white rug, a turned over bottle of red wine bleeding into your clothes. Shredded pages with scratched on writing slashed across them, the dusted white mounds of crushed pills, as if you’d smashed each one individually beneath the thumb of your grief. The sight makes him more afraid, the scent of weed and cigarettes heavy in the air, as he takes the final step towards the wrecked bed, and a single small foot hangs limply from the edge.

He stares at it long and hard for a second, afraid, afraid again, still, of what he’ll find. He says your name once, short and gruff like a dog’s bark. It’s what he feels like. Animal, bestial, lacking any sort of cognizance amidst this minefield. His heart beats against his spine, and he thinks he should do something else, shake you, check for a pulse, his bones throb inside his skin. He needs to fucking move, but the smell of smoke is so cloying he’s choking on his own tongue. 

Your ankle twitches.

And Joel sucks in a sigh of relieved air without panic, saying your name again. His voice is level now, maybe gentle, no more barking dog. His eyes move up the length of one pretty leg, and then quickly, he averts his gaze when he gets high up enough he’s met with soft-creased asscheek covered in silk. Swallowing his tongue, his eyes roll in their sockets, looking for anything else to look at besides the sight of panty clad ass. He steps closer again, gripping the edge of the sheet to pull it over your scantily clad body, eyes flitting to the silver spun clock on the nightstand, the warm glow of the hall light shows that they have two hours to get you sober and presentable before the funeral. 

Joel should have been here. He does not feel that he is even here now. And the guilt eats at him like acid. The fear too. 

“Darlin’, you’ve gotta get up now,” he says softly, taking hold of your shoulder, scalded by the feel of fragile skin, realizing with the suddenness of a gunshot that you’ll be the Kelly now. He gives you a gentle shake, “We’ve gotta get you ready,” and his heart pumps blood like a machine. The sight of the dry liquor bottle toppled on the nightstand, the shattered glass glittering the floor in crystal, the empty pill bottles, it all taunts him. His guilt is a cacophony in his mind. He knows he’s going to have to stick his fingers down your throat, make you spit it all up, that you’ll hate him for all of this afterwards, but when his gaze meets streaked rust, dark and shocking against the white sheets, he’s kicked into terrified action. 

He turns you over, your head lolling sickeningly in unconscious stupor, hair a tangled mess strewn about your face so that he has to dig for your eyes, parting the curtains of your fringe to uncover you. He focuses on your closed eyes, the too long lashes clumped together, lips cracked and parched. 

He should’ve fucking been here. 

Smoothing his fingers along the lengths of your arms, he keeps his eyes on your face and averted from all the skin that keeps peeking out below, searching the divots and slopes of your arms for hurts. When he gets to your right hand, battleground of a long ago broken hurt, he finds the drying crust of blood, the ragged split in the soft, small palm, thankfully shallow.

 His eyes smart, looking down at the broken glass, feeling the tear in you. 

Gripping you gently below the elbows he pulls you into his arms, cradled like a child, light as loss. Your head lolls again, neck crooked at an unnatural angle as he carries you into the restroom, careful of your head, knocking the lights on and putting you down in front of the toilet bowl. He pulls your camisole to rights, making sure everything is covered, and gathers your mess of hair as carefully as he can, trying his best to not snag the fragile strands in his too rough hands, but gripping you firmly in position. And ignoring the sound of your awakening cry, he sticks two fingers into your slack jawed mouth and down your throat until he feels the hot rush of vomit. 

Crouching behind you, his thighs bracket you, keeping your form from slumping over as you empty the poison from your belly, flushing the alcohol soaked bile as you struggle. He wipes his messy hand on the leg of his jeans and rubs soothing circles on your back, his fingers woven through the soft silk of your hair to keep your head in place and your face clear. His heart thumps in rhythm with your heaves, your too quick, panicked breathing. There seems to be not enough oxygen for the two of you and your grief in the too small room of the commode, and Joel gasps like a dying fish, trying to swallow calm breaths. 

When you finally stop your heaving, you rest your arms at the edge of the gleaming porcelain, head hung low, defeated, wracked with shivers or silent sobs, he isn’t sure, a strange and horrible keening noise, so small he barely catches it, held in your throat. There’s the finest down of peach fuzz that covers the tender slope of your vulnerable nape, and it makes Joel feel suddenly, just as vulnerable, just as unprotected. At a complete loss for how to help you. 

“Finally decided to show your face,” you croak, voice ragged with your sick. 

His fingers tighten once around your shoulder, a panicked tick of reminder that he’s here now, that he’s him. “I was moving the herd. It had to be done. Your father, he—” he stutters, trying explain, tripping over his own guilt ridden words. “I didn’t think it’d happen now, so fast, that you’d get here so soon. I thought we had more time.” 

We. 

Your skin seems to cool by the second beneath his fingertips, and then you’re shrugging his touch away, huddling closer to the porcelain bowl, further away from him. 

“Get out.”

“Let me explain. I—” And he’s begging now. He can hear the note of it in his voice. Begging for forgiveness. For a chance. 

“I don’t want to see you.” You don’t say his name. “Get out.” It feels worse than anything. 

“I’m here now. I didn’t know— I didn’t think.” He reaches to grab for you again, but you turn to face him suddenly. Wiping the back of your hand against your mouth, pushing your heels at his shins to kick him away. Your eyes are red rimmed, the hollows beneath bruised with lack of sleep. But fire spits from the deep color, all anger and hurt. 

“Go deal with your fucking ranch,” you fling the words at him. “It’s all you care about anyways.” And they weren’t shivers, he sees now, they’re tears tracked as proof of all his guilt, all his lacking, along the slopes of your fine grained cheeks. 

Your, you say. As if this place and anything in it has ever been his. He’s never wanted any of it like that, only ever seen a thing that needed taking care of, and him, with the ability to care for it. 

“I needed you,” you whisper as if the thought comes along on a second wind of anger, a realization that sends your voice breaking, hitching, your chest caving in on itself as the tears come faster and faster now. “He’s dead, and I needed you.”

“I’m sorry,” he begs. “I’m so sorry.” His voice breaks now too. He thinks he’ll cry now too, for the man who he also lost, who despite it all meant something to him, as well. For you, who’s lost even more. For Joel’s own guilt. 

But he doesn’t think you see any of that, not his apology, not his regret, not his own grief. You turn away from him again, laying your temple down again on your forearm. “Get out. I’ll be ready soon.”

And so he goes.

-

Your father is made small and withered in death. 

One of the wealthiest men in the entire world. A stranger, a titan, a nightmare of a man. 

It wasn’t something you’d ever considered, that a human body could look so colorless and frigid and not alive. Like a shock or a ringing bell, it’s a realization that you’re an orphan now. That you’re all alone. 

You feel something like a memory of regret. Or something that’s like the idea that you should feel regret, that you should feel guilt for how it was between the two of you. But all that is overshadowed by the reality of what you weren’t. All you feel even more, or in actual reality, is the old loss of what you’d never been to each other. That, you realize, is the seed of your grief. That long ago wound, that child’s understanding that he wasn’t like all the other fathers, that he’d never care for you the way other children were cared for. 

Looking down at the frozen face that looks nothing like the one he’d worn the last time you’d seen him, the wispy thatch of hair that hadn’t been so jarringly white before sickness had ravaged his body, you realize that this is no new loss, it is only a continuation, a reopening of a very old one. 

The cavernous cathedral at your back is silent, vacated by the sea of people that had congregated here earlier. And with sickening curiosity, you uncoil an arm from where you’ve got it wrapped around yourself, reaching out to press a finger against the ice cold back of his hand. Shockingly not alive; he feels made of rubber. 

Everyone that’d been here to bid farewell to this behemoth turned slip of a man, to catch a glimpse of you, packed like teeth into Jackson’s grandest cathedral; business men and heads of state from around the world, the oldest family names in the country, figures of the highest echelons of wealth and society, vipers circling the barrel—half the world here to see this person who was supposed to have been your father but was really only a stranger. 

You take your hand back, and you don’t say goodbye as you turn away from his body. There’s no farewell to really tell. 

And at the back of the church, hiding in a bright ream of sunlight, Joel stands propped against the face of a saint. Dark and silent and maybe even more far removed than your dead dad. Watching sentinel. Oswald Kelly’s hovering man—come to watch over him one last time. 

The silk of your stockings slide against each other at the junction of your thighs, the hiss of your skirt around your calves as your reed thin heels click against the stone, and you pull your armor as tightly around yourself as you can. There’s a hollow echo inside of everywhere and everything, your mind like a gong, reverberating, and his gaze is so steady, hazel bright, deeply shaded by the lip of his dark hat, beckoning you towards him from beneath the brim. 

Large and strong and steadfast, your heart gives a painful, longing thump—stupid, writhing thing—and you can only bear to look him in the eye for a second, and if you were to really think about saying goodbye to that father that never really was, lying behind you, slipping further and further away, you’d say it to the man that always stood as his shadow before the world, before you ever said it to the man himself. 

-

The drive back home is cast in frigid silence and made all the more uncomfortable because you can practically hear Joel’s brain clicking and ticking away with worry. 

He’d sent your car and driver away with a harsh word while you collected your final goodbyes and words of respect from the last smattering of people congregated and waiting for the newly birthed heir to one of the greatest fortunes in the world. 

Hovering over your shoulder, he’d kept anyone from stepping too close or getting too friendly, so close you could feel the heat of his chest through the silk of your blouse, and then going suddenly full on aggressive when a reporter from the New York Times had approached, fishing for a quote on the future of the Kelly empire. Ushering you away with a hovering hand at the small of your back before the man could get half a question out, he’s opening the truck’s door for you as a haze descends over your eyes, the distant shutter and flash of cameras bursting in your peripherals, a latent hangover and sleep deprivation and not enough to eat in the last forty eight hours causing you to sag in his hold. Then it’s only his big fist wrapping around the span of your wrist as he lifts you into the truck, your eyes downcast and unable to take in sight or sound, vision all a blur. You murmur a barely there thank you with his hand fitting at the dip of your waist, big body blocking yours entirely from prying eyes trying to catch a glimpse or a stumble, and for a single second, your entire weight is suspended in his hold, allowing you to bypass the struggle of balancing your high heel on the step up, and then you’re sliding onto the leather of the seat, the whisper of your cashmere and silk rustling around you as he handles you like a child being spirited away from the scene of a crime. 

The door shuts gently behind you, face turned away from the flashing lights, the watchful eyes of the whole world, and worst of all, the assessment of his concerned gaze. All you’re afforded are thirty seconds of privacy to let out a single gasping sob. 

And now, an hour and a half of silent purgatory. 

You slip your heels off, flexing your smarting toes against the damp of your stockings and tuck your folded legs beneath you on the seat. Paying the frantic energy of his anxiety and lodged words no mind, you consider instead: your new reality. The burden of it all means very little to you now. The last of your worries is being readied for entombing as the two of you speed down the eighty nine, zinging past the bright Wyoming green. The thrum of his truck drowns out your thoughts, brand new, probably over a hundred grand, only the best for your father’s right hand man, and the Kelly Ranch insignia emblazoned proudly on the sides. A brand for the whole world to see just who exactly is being whisked away to her old home turned brand spanking new grave. 

You might be feeling a little bit dramatic. But then again— you’d just put your last remaining parent in an actual grave, surely that provides you some allowances. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see his big paw gripping the leathered steering wheel in a death clutch, knuckles white with his frustration at the dilemma you pose, his own discomfort. You’re sure if he thought you wouldn’t catch him, he’d be squirming in his seat. 

You do something to him sometimes, you know this. Not in any way you’d like, not in any interesting way, that of a woman affecting a man, but something respectfully harrowing. Maybe something a little bit like fear. 

There has existed between the two of you, always, that strange intimacy of two people who’ve known each other for a very long time, and yet, have always remained at a far removed, arms length distance from one another. 

A professional intimacy of sorts. Your father’s foreman, shadow, fixer. The man who guarded that treasure trove you’d inherit one day, today; the thing your father loved most in the world. Two people who’ve known each other a long time, and yet, don’t really know each other at all. 

There has always been, however, the fact of the birthday. 

The birthday. Your birthday.

The way you’d latched onto that small, immense, detail when you’d first discovered it at fourteen, when he’d newly arrived at the ranch and the true weight of your first real crush had really hit you, it was probably not entirely healthy. But you’d thought yourself in love with your father’s man, the first figure of the male species who’d ever drawn your attention in such a way. 

He’d never paid you any mind; you were the boss's daughter, a figurehead or a responsibility, maybe a nuisance, although he’d never ever treated you as one. But the day someone had let slip it was his birthday, on the same day as yours, your teenage heart had swelled with the naive hope of fate. It was meant to be, the two of you were connected, so on and so forth, swallowed by girlish innocence and made buoyant by fantasy. 

But you’d had something to share with someone, which was what really mattered. Something tangible, even if only in your inexperienced little mind, something to wield as comfort so that the first time your father had forgotten your special day, fifteen, and what a tender age it had been, you’d had something to cling to. That's when your gifts to him had started. It was your way of making sure there was at least one person in the whole world who’d remember that was your day too. That you were alive, that you mattered. A reminder of yourself. And as the years and birthdays passed, sometimes, when he sent those coldly gracious notes of his, you’d wished you could’ve written back with honesty. Said something like, I’m so lonely, wish you were here, wherever it was in the world you’d found yourself at the time. 

And of course, he was gorgeous and older, strong and patient and capable, entirely unattainable. Impossible to forget. You’d gone so far, traveled wide, gotten yourself an overpriced education that would probably serve you for nothing, had lovers and parties and splendor, and always, you remembered your gifts for him, you remembered him. It was the single most important detail of your birthday every year. 

The leather creaks beneath his fist again, chapped knuckles set to burst before he flexes his fingers out, long and straight. Thickly built hands, strong, made for working or hurting, on a man who you’ve never seen be anything but stoically patient. 

He was strange in that way, neither wholly impulsive nor precisely intentional in his mannerisms. More so, it was that there was something extremely neutral about him, a middle buoyancy of personality. Strict with the cowboys, exacting, wielding his title as ranch foreman with an iron fist and your father’s blessing, and yet still, quiet, serious, with that patient gentleness about him. You’d seen it in the way he’d handled Ellie when she’d first come to the ranch, young and skinny with that hollow look of trauma kids who’d seen things they shouldn’t have shamed adults with. She’d been a little older than you, and with an air you’d not understood, a sort of lived past you’d been naive to the existence of, frightened when confronted by it, and yet inevitably, the two of you’d become fast friends eventually.

You’d even experienced it yourself, on two treasured occasions, that gentleness that you’d held onto for years. Nurturing the memory of him in your mind like a delusional bloom. 

He stretches his hand again, wheel caught between his thumb and forefinger, cinching it there, back and forth. His nails are meticulously clean, cut to the quick, and you imagine he must spend a great deal of time cleaning himself up when he works so hard at getting himself so dirty most days. 

You can see him sneaking glances at you, and he coughs once, a clearing of his nervous throat. Averting your gaze, you turn your face away so that you’ll be able to watch him through the reflection in the window. He monopolizes the space in the cabin of the truck, broad shoulders and hulking form, all the fine leather smell washed away in the scent of him. That bay rum aftershave he’s always worn, the one with the distinctive notes of bay leaf, cloves and citrus. An old fashioned scent, masculine and crisp. 

You’d snuck into the bunk once with Ellie, before he’d moved into the foreman’s cabin, before Switzerland, when the two of you were still girls running rampant and free through the ranch, clutching desperately at the last vestiges of any sort of happy childhood you could scrounge up for one another. You’d peeked in his things, found a whole world of Joel shaped curiosities. The glass etched bottle of aftershave, a hole spotted t-shirt with a burnt orange longhorn across the front, Flannery O’Connor’s The Complete Stories—something you found comforting, knowing he could read about the small, the freakish, real life; thinking that perhaps he was homesick for the comfort of the South, hungering for a taste of the life he’d had then, through books. And then, in a spine cracked copy of Suttree, the pages almost falling apart beneath your fingertips, dog eared and well loved, her picture tucked between the pages.

It had been the first time you’d done something you knew you shouldn’t have and actually regretted it, looking down at that green eyed photograph. 

You’d run back to your room after that, ashamed and something a little bit like jealous, desperate to know who she was, desperate for someone to keep a picture of you like that—as if they loved you. And years later, you’d found the scent for yourself. The little molasses glass bottle you still have and pull out on occasion, when you’re feeling extra bad, extra lonesome, extra far away from the whole world, just for a reminding of home. 

Beside you, he sighs again, coughs again, brings you back to himself and the present. Just spit it out already, you think exasperatedly, say something, anything else besides how sorry you are. 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” he starts, and you roll your eyes, scoffing quietly. 

“You already said that.” Sullen. Mullish. You wish you were a child who could still throw a tantrum and get away with it. Letting your eyes go unfocused from his reflection in the window, you brood at the sight of everything that’s yours now as he turns off the highway, passing below the iron eave of the Kelly Ranch entrance. Eight hundred thousand acres of pristine Wyoming land nestled into the deep valley surrounded by the Grand Tetons mountain range. 

“Well, I’m sayin’ it again.” He’s driving too fast, and you refuse to turn and look at his face. Your heart beats blood in your ears, and you screw your eyes shut to the dizzying blur of green legacy, not wanting to see any of it—him. 

Your belly swoops, going slightly nauseous and gurgling. 

“I didn’t think you’d get here so quick.” He swallows, “Hell, I didn’t think it’d all happen so damn fast.”

“I was already in New York,” you tell him, voice clipped with breathlessness. “I left Paris last week.”

“What? I didn’t know— I—”

“Why would you?”

“I would’ve called you. I would’ve gotten you out here quicker.”

“Ellie called. It’s better like this, Joel.” Finally letting yourself say his name out loud, it feels wrong and molten on your tongue, a heaviness being spit up from the depths of your stomach. “We don’t have to pretend anymore. He’s dead now.”

“There’s no pretending. He wanted to see you—”

“Please, stop.”

But he urges on unheeded: “He told me so before I left. Told me—”

“Stop,” you snap. Finally turning to look at him and hating him for it. For how gorgeous he is, for all the things he’s always made you feel for as long as you can remember what it was to feel something for a man, for all he did or did not have with your father when you had none of it or so much of an entirely different thing. “Stop. I don’t want to hear any of it. It doesn't matter anymore, Joel.”

“But you should know. You deserve to know that—”

“What?” Because that one hurts. “I deserve to know what?” That he actually had loved you but had just never been able to show it? That now it was too late? That the only person the great Oswald Kelly had ever been able to speak to of the supposed care he had for his only daughter was the hired help? You’d read once that one should never let their parents anywhere near their real humiliations. You’d tried your damndest to follow that as soon as you’d grown up. “It’s not your place,” you seethe with teeth bared, an animal shoved into a corner and made to fight for its life, deciding you won’t ever let Joel near them either.  

He spits a cursing, growled sound of frustration, but doesn’t continue. The two of you find yourselves at an impasse, and you turn back to your windowed mirror of him, eyes pinching hot, filling with tears. One of the things your father disliked most about you, your easy tears, and a single salt marred inadequacy tracks down the slope of your cheek, dripping off the edge of your jaw into the bandaged cup of your palm, and you breathe slow and measured through your open mouth, watching the fog cloud grow and shrink against the glass obscuring your vision of him. 

-

The last time you’d missed your mother, the one you’d never known, in any sort of real and true way, you’d been eighteen. Returning to an empty house after celebrating your high school graduation in a far off school, alone. 

In the midst of your sophomore year, you’d been sent away to a Swiss boarding school. It had been something worse than devastating, losing your life in Wyoming, the only home you’d ever know, Ellie, the other people on the ranch… But it was far removed enough that you couldn’t bother, where you couldn’t ask for things like attention or consideration. The education had been excellent, the upbringing desperately lonely ending on a whimpering sigh despite your many accomplishments. You’d wanted her very badly then indeed, your mother. To have been there, to have helped you pick your dress, kissed your cheek after watching you walk across the stage. To have wiped your tears when she told you that your father wasn’t there because he was busy managing the whole world, but that he was proud of you, that he’d have been there if he could. You’d wished she could’ve been there to lie to you so that you wouldn’t have needed to lie to yourself. 

Peering down from your balanced perch atop the deck’s bannister, you survey the deep bed of Lily of the Valley, destroyed beneath the vindictive soles of your bare feet. He’d planted them for her all around the house after she’d died, her favorite flower. 

You’d always hated them. 

And that was the thing of it all, which you’d learned when you grew old enough to recognize such things like disdain. He couldn't stand you because you reminded him of her. Clichéd and old and tired. An excuse for being a neglectful father. The daughter who was too much like her dead mother, and thus did not deserve to be loved. 

You tip your head back, nursing at the lip of fine aged Macallan, and the sky is a glass mirror of blackened silver streaks. You’re almost positive that all the stars in the Milky Way are visible from right here at this very spot in the heart of Wyoming. The sight makes your broken heart feel full and falsely mended. 

You’re certain you’re painting a pretty picture right now: tipsy on a bottle of your dead dad’s sacredly hoarded whiskey that probably cost as much as someone’s house, staring up at the stars in your newly inherited home with a whole unappreciated life full of possibilities ahead of you. Basking in the title of your newly minted— orphan-hood? Orphan-ness? A peer of the orphans. 

You snort softly, sucking on the bottle again, letting the heat of it settle in your belly, smolder in your heart. Your head feels full of bubbles and sugar and sad. 

There’s a part of you that feels a little ridiculous, despite the circumstances. You’re good at compartmentalizing, good at being objective of your realities. Obviously: sad because your father is now dead, and it’d been nine months and eleven days since you’d last spoken to him. Sad because he’d never given a shit about you. Sad because you’re alone, dumped by the stupid French jockey boyfriend who you’d not even liked very much, just a few days before this whole pathetic ordeal of acquiring your orphan-hood, yeah, that’s what you’re sticking with, had occurred. Not to mention the army of looming lawyers and financial advisors and various heads of business vying for your attention, waiting for the what next?

And Joel.

A one man army of looming Joel. 

So you’re feeling morose, blue, maybe a little spoiled, but brought low and cut short. Depressed and unsatisfied with your life thus far. 

Poor little rich girl. Poor little orphan. Poor little me.

What you want? 

Someone to care. 

Someone to love you. 

Hard to come by. Impossible to buy. 

The stars gleam purple silver, winking at you. The bracketing black so dark it swallows the eye. Another taste of the nutty bouquet of smoked apple oranges, and soon you’ll be tipsy enough you won’t be able to balance your butt on the bannister’s ledge anymore. Maybe you’ll go humpty dumpty over the edge and crack your skull against your mother’s valley of destroyed Lily’s. 

You laugh again with sound now, not crazy, only an orphan, ha, but you think that it’s only that it feels shockingly as if you’ve fallen through the surface of your life. As if you are still falling with nothing and no one to grab on to, to help stabilize you. A really terrible, shit-out-of-luck feeling. 

Your eyes continue their infernal leaking, and you blow your nose loudly on the inside of your sweater. You’ve given yourself three days to do whatever the hell you want, be as disgusting as you may. When the three days are up you’ll plan to get your act together, take responsibility and hold of your life and become the woman you should be. 

Who that is? Still being decided. 

You think that maybe you’ll buy another jet before that time’s up. Or an island. Something ridiculous. Maybe you’ll sell the goddamn ranch. 

You eye the dark rolling hills of the valley with seething suspicion. Let’s see what Joel says about that. You, marching up to the highway entrance and spearing a For Sale sign in the dirt of the largest privately owned cattle ranch in the continental United States. Way more than that God forsaken surly frown is what you’d get. 

So long, Joel, it’s been swell. I’m done with this place. It’s time to pack it up and find some new hunk of land to care about more than you care about me or anything else. 

Maybe you’ll be real funny and put up a Craigslist ad. 

And it isn’t that you don’t love this place, the only home you’ve ever known. You do. In a way that is passionate and consuming and irreconcilable. Everything about it, the serenity, the guarding mountains and the deep woods, the home you’d been born in, that both your parents had died in. You do love it in your way. 

It’s only that every man you’ve ever loved—loved—had always cared more about the place than he’d ever cared about you. 

For the longest time, most of your youth until you’d decided that you officially felt an adult, you’d thought you’d hated your father. There was just so much anger and resentment and the resound of his ever furious words and insults and endless disappointment. The echo of no mother ringing so loudly in your ears that the confounding feelings had all been mistaken for hatred. But with age and distance and life, you’d realized you didn't hate him. You never had. You thought, actually, and this was a very good and mature thought of yours, that you were the only person in the whole world that had ever seen him as only a man and not a god. 

He was only a man, full of greed and grief and missing the mother of the child he’d probably never wanted. Nothing more or less. 

Maybe it was that you felt sorry for him. Not in the way of pity, but in the way of one person feeling empathy for another in a clinical and helpless sort of manner. And a numb, detached sort of sadness. A longing for something that you’d never had and had always wanted but eventually learned to live without. 

Ultimately, his disappointment had turned on him, and now it was all you felt you had for him at the end of it all. 

But, for some reason, and an annoying one at that, you do think that, if you try very, very hard, you could bring yourself to hate Joel Miller. There’s satisfaction in that possibility, vindication—resentment that even now, as practically strangers, you know he’d be able to pull that sort of feeling out of you which could result in hatred. Something strong and overwhelming and not easily escaped. 

Your stomach rumbles, and you smile blithely at all your inherited legacy, filling the hollow with more drink. Three days to behave very badly, as badly as you can. The whiskey is so good, and swishing it around in your mouth, you tip your head back further, gurgling it loudly at the back of your throat. 

“What the hell are you doing?”

You jerk, scrambling to keep your balance, choking a little on smokey apples and your own spit. A trickle of the golden amber liquor drips out of the corner of your mouth as you find him hiding in the dark across the deck. Accustomed to drooling over him, you wipe it away with the back of your hand. 

“Having a party. Would you like to join?”

“Are you drunk again?”

Tough crowd. Ugh.  “Never mind. You’re not invited. Go away.”

“You need to go inside and go to bed.”

You tip your chin at him, putting on doe eyes. “Alright. And are you going to be my new daddy also?” You say in a baby voice.

Fucking Christ, you hear him whisper under his breath, turning away to run an exasperated palm over his mouth. Frustration seethes off of him like sulfur. He’s tired. Of you maybe. Of the whole circus this place has become in the past few days—and rightfully so. 

“What do you want? I’m extremely busy, if you can’t tell.”

“Just thought I’d check on ya.” Courteous, always the gentleman, bullshit. You roll your eyes at him. 

“I don’t need you to check on me.” And you, ever the child. One day you swear you’ll grow up. 

But it can’t be said that you’re entirely selfish either. You have considered the fact of Joel’s own grief at the loss of your father. After all, they’d been much closer than you’d ever been to him for many years. And maybe, in his own cold and removed and superior way, your father had seen this man who you’ve thought yourself in love with since you were a teenager, as something like a son. 

Probably, that’s just your own wishful thinking: that Oswald Kelly had ever been capable of such tender feelings.

Maybe the fact of Joel’s own grief is the thorn beneath your nail bed that’s making you so angry with him, so needing of his attention. Maybe it’s that he’d failed to fulfill your silly and girlish fantasy that upon receiving the news of your only remaining parents death, he’d have been here waiting for you, at this home he’d guarded for you for so long, ready to take you into his arms and console and care for you. 

When instead, he’d been off doing what he’d always done for as long as you’d known him. Protecting your father’s interests, his legacy. 

“Is this how it’s going to be?”

“How?”

“You, being difficult.” Driving me fuckin’ crazy— he adds again under his breath. 

“I’m an orphan now, Joel.” You’re becoming quickly addicted to the word. “I think I should be afforded a tiny bit of leeway to drive people fuckin’ crazy,” you mock his Southern drawl. Enough of your time had been spent in Europe over the past two years, kissing Europeans, that you’d sloughed off the last of your American twang; something of a vaguely European lilt peppering your words every now and then that Ellie likes to tease you for whenever the two of you speak on occasion. 

A muscle under his left eye twitches at the jab, and you take another deep swig of the bottle, provoking him with your gaze. Wishing you had whatever it is a woman needs to entice this man. Like the fucking vet. Fucking world renowned, brilliant, highly coveted, beautiful veterinarian. You know about her. You’re sure he thinks he’s been discreet over the years with their whatever they’ve had, Tess, but you know. 

Maybe you’ll be insane and irrational and possessive, taking advantage of your three crazy days, and fire her with your new found power. See what he has to say about that. Ha.

Ha. Ha. Ha. 

Obviously not. 

Despite your current hysteria, your goal is not to send the ranch head over heels into a tailspin.

But the imagining is soothing. 

“Want some?” You hold the heavy crystal out towards him in a peace offering, held precariously between two sweaty knuckles. “It’s probably worth as much as your truck. Would be a waste for me to finish on my own.” You eye what’s left of it, about half, and give him a sheepish grin. It really is very good. 

He looks at you for one long, solemn moment, always so silent and pensive, this strange enigma of a man. You get to watch in real time as he loses whatever fight it is he’s trying to fight against you, victorious when he shrugs and comes over slowly, resting his butt against the bannister—a carefully respectful distance away from you. 

When he takes the bottle from your swinging clutch, gripped from the base, careful not to touch you in any way, you see the real sad in his eyes. The dim lights bleeding out through the big windows of the family room without a family shine on his face in strips and bursts. A shadow here, golden warmth there. He’s got more lines around his eyes than you remember from the last time you’d been this close to him. Smile lines made bright white in the center and gold burnished at the edges from too much sun. There’s little bursts of silver threaded at his temples now too, a gleam here and there in his dark beard. Forty four years old, he’d turned on your last birthday. 

You dig your nails into the soft meat of your palms, and your belly smolders as he brings the bottle to his lips, tasting the exact place your own mouth had just been moments ago. You press your knees together as hard as you can, head a little woozy with the color of his eyes; the most gorgeous green, caramel hazel. 

You’d graduated two years ago with a degree in art history and had done absolutely nothing with it since. It was just that everything appeared boring and pointless and shallow. Your whole life had one day suddenly seemed just a little silly. Useless, overpriced degree, nothing to be done with extensive knowledge in color theory when your world is expecting such different things from you now. 

But you sure as hell can appreciate the color of his eyes in extensive and meticulous detail. There is that. 

Watching the slow slide of the amber liquor down the bottle-neck, the long pull of his lush mouth, the ripple of his strong throat, and the way his eyes go a little wider, shocked at how good it is. You laugh soft: “I know, right.”

He takes another pull, another swallow. That’s what you want to be—swallowed just like that. “Damn, that’s good.” His mouth is a little wet, bottom lip shiny with thousands of dollars worth of your father’s favorite whiskey, and his eyes are sad. 

You’d said you were going to be bad, but you don’t want to be bad to him. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.

He swallows again, tipping his head towards you, trying to catch your too soft words—he’s got a bad ear, you know why—and turns to peer at you from beneath his low pulled brow, the tip of his tongue peeking out to swipe at the drop of liquor you wish you could suck off his tongue. 

“You’ve got nothin’ to be sorry for.”

The first time he’d shown you that gentleness of his: You’d fallen from your horse at school in your junior year. Something had frightened the beast, and she’d bucked you, sent you flying ten feet in the air, ragdoll-like, before you’d landed badly on your right arm, a comminuted fracture in your radius that you’d needed surgery to fix. At your insistence, and with only a few weeks left to spare, you’d been sent home for the remainder of the semester. Your father had been incensed but eventually allowed it. He’d been away from the ranch on business, after all, at no risk of being truly disturbed by you. But when you’d been readying to return to Switzerland at the end of the summer, arm healed, courage not, you’d not been able to get back on a horse no matter what you tried. Joel had helped you, before they’d shipped you off again. Trotted the corral with you for hours and hours before you’d finally been able to relax and sit on your own without tears and vertigo. No questions or admonishments, nothing but the quiet burr of his deep voice, guiding you and the mare along. 

It had been a kindness unlike any you’d experienced in maybe your whole life. 

“I’ve been bad.”

“Nah. You couldn’t ever be.”

The second time: “Did today make you think of Sarah?” Years after you’d found that green eyed photograph, he’d shared her with you. 

His gaze turns suddenly sharp, but you’re not worried you’ve stepped in unbreachable territory. “Yeah.” The echo of her name rings around the two of you. 

“In a bad way or a good way?” He takes another long swig, a low whistle through his teeth and a shake of his head before he’s handing the bottle back to you—again, carefully. 

“Both.”

You take your own swallow, slicking your tongue all around where his just was, and you’re drunk for real now. Drunk on a man. 

“Do you ever regret telling me about her?”

“Nah.” He tips his head back, looking up at the thick beams of the deck’s awning. He’s got the longest lashes you’ve ever seen on a man, thick and curling. The deepest voice you’ve ever heard too, sultry, a bedroom voice. A voice for fucking. Your belly swirls and dips, and you want so much you’re dizzy with it. 

Heart beating like it’s about to burst, out of breath on the verge of hyperventilating, you can taste his mouth in your mouth, the imagination flavor of it. This is what it must feel like to die. This is what your father must have felt like three days ago, this agony. 

His Adam’s apple bobs, and it’s so pronounced, the skin of his throat sun pebbled. There isn’t an inch of him that isn’t all rough-hewn man. “You needed to hear about her then, I s’pose.” 

Yes. “You told me when I needed you to.” After that lonely graduation, the last time you’d missed her really very badly, longed for a mother. Alone, alone, alone little girl. 

“You were missin’ your momma somethin’ fierce. Needed to know you weren’t the only one that felt like that sometimes.”

You laugh a not-laugh, butt scraping against the railing, slipping off your perch, socked-feet thudding beside his gifted boots. The pleasure you feel whenever you see him use one of the things you’ve given him is indescribable. 

“Silly,” you say with barely any sound, his bad ear reaches for your voice again. “At the time it felt like I was the only person in the whole world that had ever felt like that.”

“We all feel like that at one point or another, I reckon.”

“Will you miss him a lot?” You ask looking up at him, the beautiful profile, the strong jaw. You’ve always wondered how he sees you. If he’s ever thought you were beautiful. Other men do, it’s a common thing, a nothing sort of thing. There are always men, there will always be men. But this singular man—this one is not like the rest. 

“Maybe. Can’t tell yet, don’t think. But it felt wrong earlier, walking through his house without him in it.” His house, not yours. 

“Do you wish he’d been your father?” And he turns to look down at you at that, gaze snapping, and you can tell you’ve shocked him with the question. But you’d always wondered. 

“No. Never,” he says with such assuredness, an uncompromising shake of his head. 

And the answer doesn't necessarily shock you in turn. You don't think anyone could have ever wanted a father like that. But it also doesn't help you understand what it was that lived between them either. 

He sighs, perhaps reading the confusion in your gaze. “He helped me at a time when I needed it real bad. Gave me a place and a purpose and a thing to do and take care of. You get me? It was gratitude—maybe. He saved me in a way, after Sarah. Nothing more.” He thinks for a moment, and then, “Perhaps it was that we understood each other about certain things.”

You gaze across the sprawl of dark land as far as the eye reaches, that point of no return where the earth shoots up into the sky, purple blue behemoths in the shape of mountains. 

From this spot, rooted to the deck of your family home, it seems like the whole world is yours to keep. Also, like you’ll never be able to touch any of it with fingers or taste or meaning. 

Your love for this place is complicated—tied up in the people, the memories, the could’ves and should’ves, the whole dreamscape idea of the monument of childhood and all it’d really never been. The time away had felt eternal, like you’d never really been here to begin with, like the young girl who’d grown up on this land had never really existed. But you’d not forgotten them, this, despite your distance. Your home, the father that wouldn’t want you, Wyoming and all its splendor, the people you’d left behind, Joel and Ellie and shared birthdays that meant a secret world to you. Morsels of small happinesses interloped amidst a largely lonely and sad childhood. That’s what it was at its core. 

“Would you be angry with me if I gave it all away?”

He thinks for a moment, maybe you’re making him sadder, but then finally says with a swallow, “No. It’s yours to do with as you please.”

You eye the quarter of whiskey left, but your belly isn’t hungry for its warmth anymore. You want something heavier now. 

“Could you even do that—legally—sell it or somethin’?”

“Probably not. He probably tied it to my fucking life. Sell and die.” You mime your name in an imitation of your fathers deep voice, frowning at yourself the way he’d always frowned when he looked at you, but it pulls a laugh from him, and the painful memory is worth it. “But I have a billion dollars to spend now. More?” You tap your chin—you want to make him laugh again. “Gotta think of something interesting to do with it all.”

His mouth slides into an easy half grin. Like the moon—that beautiful. And he turns to face you fully. “You’re gonna be just fine. You know that, right?”

You turn to face him too, gripping the bannister for dear life. “What? Will you make sure of it?”

“That’s my plan.”

“How’re you gonna do that, d’you reckon?” The American twang bleeds back into your voice, and you’re all swollen lush on the inside, heart a beating fist in your chest. 

“Haven’t gotten that far, if I’m bein’ honest with you.” God. His eyes, the strong bridge of his nose, his mouth. He’s so tall your head has to crook back to look up at him. “I’ll figure something out.” And after another pensive second, and still with that soft, sloped eye smile, he asks, and nicely, “Will you stop drinking now—for me?”

“Maybe tomorrow,” you say with the same sort of smile in return. 

And then suddenly, like vomit again but maybe more humiliating this time: “Did you respect him?” Because you don’t know all the things about him that there are to know, but you do know that Joel Miller’s respect is a thing hard earned. 

He clicks his tongue, and you hear the pop of his jaw as he shifts it like he’s chewing on an honesty. His eyes, his eyes, they’re serious, mercurial, warm and deep also. You worry he won’t answer, that he wouldn’t want to disappoint you or something, but then: “No,” said real simple like.

“Why not?”

And the way he looks down at you, you know already, and it makes that falling through the surface of your own life feeling rise up inside you again, makes your ears pop with embarrassment. Ah. “He never did a very good job of hiding the way he treated you, sweetheart. I couldn’t ever respect a man like that.” 

This is reality right here, this is you falling through your life, this is the realization that it wasn’t only you imposing yourself, your existence, on someone with gifts they didn’t want or ask for. Joel had seen. Joel had understood. 

Someone else had noticed that you exist, and it had been him. 

What else had you ever wanted?

And in the blink of a desperate, yearning eye, drunk on a man still, you’re throwing yourself at him, pressing your mouth hot and heavy to his, kissing him full on the way you’d dreamt of since you knew to dream of such things.

Chapter 2; Sugar, Not so Sweet

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

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[unattainablesillygoose]

Love You Like I'm Never Gonna Love You Again

Evan 'Buck' Buckley x Fem!Reader

angst with a happy ending

summary: Reader gets shot on a job. When she flatlines on the way to the hospital, Buck is worried she won't make it out alive.

POTENTIAL TW : : mentions of gsw, blood, grief, guns? I think? If there's any I missed or should add lmk! Enjoy 🫡

I only have one thing to say for this... sorry 🥲

It was times like this that Buck wondered why he did what he did. Everyone was silent as they sat at the dinner table. No one bothered to try and say anything, and no one looked up either. They all focused on their polished black shoes, not having the stomach to look up and see her empty chair.

He hears people say, "it all happened so fast," but when the shot rang out and he watched the blood spread on her shirt, everything was in slow motion. The shot echoed in his ears. He was too shocked to scream as her body fell slowly to the ground. Realization hit when he felt her blood on his face, and everyone rushed to her aid. It was like someone shocked him, like he jolted awake from a nightmare. Only, when he woke up, she wasn't better.

"No..." He said. "No, no, no!" He screamed, rushing to her.

Bobby and Eddie held him back as he fought to get to her, Hen and Chim working with shaky hands.

"This can't be happening..." He whimpered.

She looked at him, a weak smile on her bloody face, blood pouring from her wound."It's okay. It'll be okay." She muttered fraily.

She nodded, as if trying to convince herself as well.

"Please- let me go!" He yelled desperately, "please! I need to go to her!" His eyes watered as he begged Bobby and Eddie to let him go.

They, too, were on the verge of tears, trying to hold them back for his sake. It wouldn't have made much of a difference, though. All his focus was on her.

Once they got her loaded into the ambulance, they let him go. He ran to her side and sat down. He took her hand, brushing the stray hairs that fell from her braid away from her eyes. She looked up at him with watery eyes, swallowing thickly because she knew it wasn't good. A bullet wound is supposed to hurt. It isn't good when it doesn't.

"Try not to move, okay?" He said shakily.

She nodded, squeezing his hand to assure him. She felt somewhat guilty that she was even trying when she knew she probably wouldn't make it to the hospital. She couldn't bring herself to lie to him. She couldn't find the words to tell him how much she loved him either.

"You're gonna be okay. You have to be." He said firmly, denial dripping from his tongue.

She shook her head. "No." She whimpered. "I'm not."

He shook his head defiantly. "Don't say that. Say anything but that." He said, his voice cracking.

Hen and Chim had to choke back the words 'she's right' because they themselves didn't want to believe she wasn't going to be okay. They wanted to believe she'd be okay like Buck did.

"Okay." She said. "Then I need to tell you something. Before I don't get the chance. I-" She started.

But he cut her off with a shake of his head. "No, you can tell me when you're better." He said.

They all knew what she was going to say, but no one said anything. Everyone, including each other, knew about their feelings for each other. Y/n was afraid of it all going sour, however, and she didn't have the courage to take the plunge and risk losing her best friend. Evan, he wanted to save them both the heartache in case it didn't last. Mostly himself, if he was honest. He knew they'd come back from it, but it'd never be the same. They didn't want to take that chance, and everyone thought it was stupid. Anyone with eyes could see they were crazy for each other. Absolutely head over heels.

"You can't leave me. Please don't leave me." He said desperately, tears streaming down his blood stained cheeks.

She reached up and wiped away his tears, her hand lingering when he leaned into her. "You'll be okay." She said sadly.

"No." He croaked. "I won't." He shook his head, placing his hand on hers.

"You'll have Maddie, Bobby, Chimney, Hen, Eddie, and Christopher. You'll be okay." She tried to convince him.

"But I won't have you." He whispered. "You can't give up yet. You have to fight." He said defeated.

"I'm so tired." She said weakly. "I'm sorry." She said, struggling to get the words out.

"I know it hurts-" He said, but she cut him off.

"It doesn't. It doesn't hurt." She whispered.

"Please, it's not supposed to end this way, I still need you. We still need you." He said.

She smiled weakly, wiping his tears once more. She gasped, her chest heaving, before she stilled, her eyes going blank. For a moment, her hand remained against his cheek, but he knew she was gone. Her smile faded, her mouth agape as blood spilled from the corners. Her hand fell, and Buck never knew silence could be so loud. The constant beep, the solid line, seemed to taunt them. Hen angrily shut it off. Chimney slowly took his hands from her wound where he attempted to stop the bleeding.

"No." Buck said, getting up and starting cpr.

He wasn't ready to give up on her. Henrietta shut her eyes tightly, fighting back tears of her own. Chimney shook his head, determined to see her smile again. To see them finally happy together. To see her in a white gown as he watched his best friends say their vows. To see little baby Buckleys running around with Jee-yun. He reached into her wound, closing off the source of the bleed. Hen sniffled as she turned the machine back on, the consistent beep sounding again. What was a taunt became motivation to them, and Buck continued to try recesutate her.

"C'mon..." He said. "C'mon!" He yelled desperately.

Tears mixed with the dried blood on his face, but he hardly noticed either. Hen tried not to look because seeing one of her best friends lay lifeless on the gurney, while another desperately tried to bring her back, would be too much. She knew that would break her. Break her faith in the job. She needed to try to remember why she did it instead of seeing a reason not to.

As Chimney ran beside the gurney, Hen filled in the doctors and nurses, but Buck didn't hear. He just heard a ringing in his ears, the gun shot echoing in his head. Her lifeless eyes stared back at him, the blood still spilling from her mouth. It gave him a little hope, though, because if she was totally gone she wouldn't be bleeding... right?

"Sir, we can take it from here." A nurse said, easing Buck from his position above her as he tried to get her heart beating again.

Chim was eased into paper blue covers as they rolled them into surgery.

They hadn't been ushered away yet. They could see nurses starting chest compressions and giving her O2. They could see the doctors gently ease Chim's hand from her wound. They could see the blood pour from the wound as a result. As the minutes droned on and her heart didn't start, he felt his own shatter.

It wasn't quick. It was slow. Painful.

Hen could see her blood spilling onto the floor. Her hope quickly diminished seeing the amount.

Finally, Buck could see her heart re-start and her chest rise, and he released a breath he wasn't aware he was holding.

Then, Buck finally broke down. He fell to his knees, sobbing. Hen knelt down with him, pulling him into her embrace, but it offered neither of them comfort. Bobby, Eddie, and Athena rushed to them.

Athena's face fell. "She flat lined. Didn't she?" She said sadly, defeated.

Hen nodded weakly. Eddie dropped to his knees, hugging Buck as well.

"I'm gonna get this son of a bitch." Athena growled, storming out of the trauma bay. "Call me when she's out of surgery." She said as she determinedly walked away.

Bobby hung his head, unwillingly letting the tears fall. None of them could bring themselves to leave. None of them wanted to.

It wasn't until Chim finally returned, covered in blood, and said they wouldn't know anything for several more hours.

It took some convincing, but they finally got Buck to leave to finish his shift. But none of them truly left the ER.

Buck had an empty plate in front of him, but he couldn't bring himself to eat. Not when he saw her blank expression every time he closed his eyes.

Their families all came out to support them, the community coming together to put out candles and figures of good luck and healing, hoping and praying for the firefighter and her family and team. Praying for good news. The sight was bittersweet.

Buck couldn't stand the silence. He stood abruptly and left, heading to the locker rooms.

He had to choke back a sob. He didn't want to live without her. He didn't want to love anyone else but her. He didn't want to do this job if she wasn't beside him.

"Evan, you were made to save a life."

His mother's voice rang out in his head.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to sob. He wanted her back.

He missed her smile, he missed her laugh, he missed the stupid jokes she'd tell to cheer everyone up on a hard day. He missed her warm hugs and how she smelled like roses and lillies: her favorite perfume. Her hair always smelled fruity, and her skin was always so soft. He missed her giggles and the way she'd gently caress his face. He wanted her back.

He wanted to hear from the damn hospital. Wanted to hear them say she made it through. It was nearing six hours after the shooting, and it felt like the longest six hours of his life.

He stood in the locker room, leaning against the metal doors of the lockers, his head down. He squeezed his eyes shut, desperately trying to think of her in any way that wasn't the lifeless look in her eyes. Even if she made it, that sight would haunt his nightmares. He mentally kicked himself for not telling her he loved her sooner. He knew she knew. Hell, everyone else did too. But he needed to know she heard it. And right now, he was praying for any miracle. He was praying that he'd get the chance to tell her, kiss her, hold her, anything.

He screamed and stood, hitting the lockers to try to ease the pain in any way. He punched and punched, angry and distraught and so many other things. He wanted order. He needed something to ground him. Right now, that was the stinging pain in his knuckles. He punched the doors again and again until his fist was as numb as he was inside. He fell to his knees, crying weakly.

Maddie came in, silently sitting next to him on the floor. She didn't try reassuring him that she'd be okay because truth be told, she was terrified too. She also knew nothing she said would help ease his pain. So she simply laid a gentle hand on his cheek, turning his face to her. She smiled softly, pulling his head forward and placing a gentle kiss to his forehead. He leaned on her, laying his head on her shoulder as he sobbed tiredly.

"I just need to know that she's okay." He croaked weakly. "I just need her to be okay." He sobbed.

"Shh," she cooed softly, "I know." She whispered. She held his shoulders, letting her own tears fall.

"I'm not going to lie to you and say it'll be okay. I don't know if she's going to make it, and I won't try to pretend that I do. But I know one thing: she is incredibly strong." She said, pulling him away just enough to look him in the eye.

"She's got a lot of fire left in her, still got a lot of fight left. She doesn't give up easily, and I refuse to believe that this time is going to be any different. She's too stubborn and bull headed to let someone else decide when it's her time to leave. And I have that to hold onto." She said.

He smiled faintly. "Thank you." He whispered. "That helps." He said, nodding as he closed his eyes.

"You need to go home and rest." She said concerned.

He shook his head. "I can't sleep without knowing she's okay." He said defiantly.

Just then, Chimney ran in, Jee on his hip. "It's the hospital." He panted. "They've got news on Y/n." He said.

Maddie and Buck shot up from the floor, running out to the main floor where Bobby was on the phone with the doctor.

"Here they are, I'm putting you on speaker." He said when Maddie and Buck approached.

"I'm relieved to call with good news. Ms Y/l/n made it." He said relieved.

A collection of cheers sounded throughout the firehouse. And for the first time since she was shot, Buck felt all the tension leave his body. "Thank god." He muttered to himself.

"She suffered slight head trauma when she fell, and with the pain medication she's on, she'll probably be out for a while." He said.

"When can we see her?" Hen asked antsy.

"You can come down now if you'd like. Visiting hours are over, but I'll make an exception this time." He said.

"Thank you. Thank you so much." Bobby said.

Before he even ended the call, Buck was running to his jeep. He sped to the hospital, probably breaking several traffic laws on the way, but at the moment, he could care less. All he could think was, 'She's alive. She's really alive. She's okay.' In that moment, nothing else mattered to him. She was alive. That's all that he cared about.

He ran up to the receptionist, and as soon as he had her room number, he was running up the stairs.

The elevator might've been quicker, but the burn in his legs and the sharp jab in his gut as he took the stairs two at a time reminded him that he was awake, that it was real. She was really okay.

He saw her through the large window in the wall, the door slightly ajar. All the air left his lungs. He couldn't describe the immense relief any other way.

He rushed to her side, dropping into the chair beside her bed. The back of her gown was open, the bandages peeking through. Before he even registered it, he was tucking the blanket over her exposed skin. He took her hand in his, feeling her warm skin against his. He sighed, leaning his forehead against their intertwined hands. Up until now, he hadn't realized just how tired he was. His face was probably all red and puffy from crying, but he didn't care all that much anymore. He'd hang the moon if it meant she would be okay. He'd hold the sky up for her if it meant he would see her smile again. He didn't care. All that mattered to him was that she was safe.

She groaned, squeezing his hand in hers. "Hey, Buckley." She croaked out with a dry throat.

He smiled, remembering when she would call him that when they first got to know each other. At first, it was because she was bad at remembering names and relied on the name tags. Then, it became a way for her to tease him because she knew he didn't like it. He would always respond with her last name, too, but it was only her and a few other people who were allowed to call him that. The few other people being Hen, Chim, Bobby, and Eddie. And of course, his sister, but she only really did when he was about to be reprimanded for something. Other than that, no one else was allowed to use his full name. She was even allowed to call him Evan, but she only used it when it was just them.

"Hey, Y/l/n." He responded softly. He gently handed her the cup of ice water from the table beside her bed, helping her sit up slightly so she could take a drink. She nodded when she was finished and he set it down.

She smiled at him fondly. "You were right." She said. "Maybe I was being a little dramatic." She joked lightheartedly.

Maybe he wasn't in the mood, but that struck a cord with him. "You weren't being dramatic, Y/n, you flatlined. You almost died." He said seriously.

Her eyes widened and she sat forward slightly. "I- what?" She asked shocked.

His eyes began to water, and his had shook slightly. "You were dead. I thought you were gone. I was so scared." He whispered meekly.

She frowned, pulling his face to hers. She rested her forehead against his, gently wiping his tears away. "Hey, I'm right here, okay? I'm not going anywhere anytime soon." She whispered.

"You almost died. I didn't know what I was going to do if you didn't make it. I wasn't sure I could live with myself." He said softly. "I need you here. I've never loved anyone the way I love you." He admitted. He wasn't too particularly happy with the time and place, but he couldn't wait any longer. He needed to know he told her. He needed to know he said it.

She kissed him deeply, putting everything she was trying to tell him in it. That she was real, and she was alive. She wasn't going anywhere. That she loved him too.

"I love you. God, I've wanted to tell you for so long but I was too scared." He said.

"What made you not be scared anymore?" She asked.

"Oh, I'm still scared. I'm scared if we go all in and it ends badly, that I'll lose my best friend and the best thing that's ever happened to me. But seeing you lay lifeless on the gurney scared me way more. I'm still scared, but not as scared as I was when I thought you died." He said.

Her face fell. "Oh, God, you saw me flatline?" She said, a mix of emotions crossing her face. He just nodded sadly.

"I saw through the window. There was so much blood. It's something that's going to haunt my nightmares for the foreseeable future." He said.

She stroked his cheek gently. "You said I could say it when I was better. Can I say it now?" She asked.

He closed his eyes and nodded. "Please."

"I love you, Evan Buckley." She said smiling.

He smiled relieved. She leaned her forehead against his again. "I love you so much." She whispered. "I love you, I love you, I love you." She said, peppering his face with kisses until he finally smiled. "There it is." She said softly.

"I'm never letting you go again." He said, gently pulling her into his chest to hug her, just wanted to hold her for a little while.

"Well, that's good, 'cus I'm never leaving your side." She said, sinking into his embrace.

Eventually, after a grueling 30 minutes of being stuck in traffic due to a pileup, the team finally made it to the hospital, only to find Y/n and Buck asleep.

Y/n lay back, the bed sitting up slightly, but not much. Buck lay right next to her chest, her arm over his shoulders, and their fingers entwined. It looked like they fell asleep talking and watching 'Gone With The Wind' on some channel. They all smiled at the sight, happy to see the two finally relaxed.

Each one took a seat somewhere and eventually fell asleep themselves. They weren't about to leave without giving Y/n a hug and reminding her how much they love her. Besides, they were all exhausted. Physically, emotionally, and mentally. The hospital wasn't the best place to sleep, but they weren't about to leave their youngest member alone in a hospital room, let alone let Buck be there by himself. And maybe it was to make themselves feel better because they were all worried sick about her. Or maybe it was for her and Buck. All they knew: they weren't leaving her alone again.

[bloodandoranges]

Talk To Me

Astarion x Reader/Tav

comfort / doting Astarion / short fic

Tav let out a soft sigh as an arm wound tight around her waist, a cold nose pressing into her skin. She’d be deep in though, hadn’t even heard him coming…

“What’s wrong?” Astarion whispered; voice like a song. She tensed, and he immediately felt it, gently urging her into his lap. “…You can’t flit around your feelings with me, you know… I can read you like a book, dear.”

She gave a laugh, but it was barely there as her head fell back against his shoulder and she caught his gaze.

“I just-… I’m so tired. We’ve fought so hard.” She whispered out, afraid to speak her feelings…not because she thought her lover would judge her; not for a second. Because she was terrified of letting her guard down. To be vulnerable.

“And it’s still not over,” he sighed, nose nuzzling into her hair now as he breathed her in, arms tightening around her waist. She’d been just about to say that… “I know how you feel.”

She smiled a little, a soft hum escaping her as she leaned into him… right. She wasn’t the only one going through this. And yet, she felt so alone… Maybe because everyone looked to her for guidance. Because she was the light, holding the party together…always strong, always there to lend a hand, an ear…

She never dared to rely on her friends, all of them victims of their own fates. She wouldn’t put her own issues on them. And so she carried them all…until Astarion. He was brash, and a prick… But he was the most honest person she’d known.

“…Rely on me, darling. I want it all.” He whispered after a while, gently cupping her face, tilting her chin so he could gaze at her. Tav blinked, smiling so adoringly up at him, before she was turning in his grasp to wind her arms tight around him, the two falling back against her bedroll with soft laughter.

“I may not be fit to carry the world on my shoulders…I’m not you; but then again, who could be?” Astarion cooed to her, fingers moving through her soft hair. “My love, share your burdens with me…I’ll carry them all if it helps you.”

She stared at him, a thousand thoughts running through her mind; he’d dealt with so much…the thought of putting anymore on him felt sickening. But that’s what a relationship was about; she’d shared his grief. And so he would happily share hers. Instantly, tears were welling in her eyes. “…Oh, Darling, you know I can’t stand when you cry…” he gave a playful sigh, but held her tight as she let loose her feelings, kissing softly at her hair... he’d do anything to keep her happy.

[desceros]

fuck it blurple time donatello/reader; female reader; rated t

...He can smell you, here.

You must've taken a nap here this afternoon, he thinks, turning his face into his pillow. His eyes close, his lungs filling with the proof that you were in his bed. Using his pillow. Inside his sheets. You sleep here more than you sleep in your own bed sometimes, it seems.

He's having trouble remembering that that shouldn't be the case. That you have your own room in the lair. That you're not... his. Even as much as he wants you to be. Even as much as you are, in almost every way that matters.

...God. God, he wants you. He wants you so fucking much—

A soft, familiar sound has him unfurling his fingers from his pillow where he'd been gripping it to his face like it was the softness of you he craved to consume. He turns his head and sees you hovering in his door, your back to him as you shut it as quietly as possible so as not to disturb his brothers. They're both asleep, he assumes from the way you're trying to sneak. It's not like you think he's the one asleep. That he wouldn't know you were here.

It's a familiar ritual, this dance, like all of the others. How you pad across his room, kicking off your slippers next to his bed. How you pull away his blanket off his body. How you slide into his sheets and pull them over the both of you. How you curl against his soft shell, tucking your knees into the back of his, pressing your thighs close and nuzzling the edge of his carapace with your nose. You're warm, just like always, and yet the feel of you makes him hot.

"...Donnie?" you ask, your voice soft in the darkness between you.

"What?" he asks, going still when you hesitate.

"...Is... Is everything okay?" you ask, voice small, and oh. Oh. Not this question again. Not the question that he can't answer, not to a face as open and honest and perfectly not his as yours.

"Yeah." It's a lie. He knows it. He knows you know it.

...He wants to turn around. To bury his face into the crook of your neck. To wrap himself around you and press you to his heartbeat. He wants to kiss you. To trail his beak down your throat. Feel your pulse beneath his tongue. He wants to slide his hands beneath the shirt that was once his but now is only ever found hiding your curves from his covetous eyes. He wants to taste the sound of his name in your mouth. He wants to feel your skin against his keratin; purposeful, damp with sweat, smelling like the two of you twining together. He wants to—

God. He wants to consume every piece of you you'll give.

But he knows he won't. He won't turn around. Because it's different. A violation of the pact you've made. Something new. Something frightening.

...And, he silently admits, staring at the wall before him—he's afraid of who else he'll smell on your skin. Whose sharp canine teeth have been tracing your pulse, writing his name into it like a brand of ownership. Taking the space that should be Donnie's like it's just that easy.

He hates Leo, he decides, feeling his brow ridge furrow, for that, more than anything else.

Then, because you're you, because you are the most perfect creature he's ever known, because you are the other half of him, you seem, almost, to sense his turmoil. Then, as easily as you do everything else, you soothe it.

Gentle hands press along an old wound. He doesn't regret them, the scars. It's the proof that you're here. Unmarked. As perfect as you should be. His blood for yours, traded willingly on an altar that had brought him to his knees before he'd known how to pray. He sees the grief on your face, sometimes, when you look at them, and it's... it's a conflict. On the one hand, it infuriates him; to think that he'd ever let any harm come to you when he's at your side? Maddening. But, on the other—knowing that you'd give your flesh for his, that a piece of you feels the same, even if only for this—god. Donnie only hopes the sound stays in his lungs where you can't hear.

And, in an instant, in the inky black of his room, everything changes.

Your lips, soft as moonlight, ghost against the memory of his devotion. His lungs catch on a gasp, eyes staring, unseeing, his heart itself seizing in his chest. It's—It's impossible, what his keratin is feeling, and yet—

Like rain, your brushing kisses trace the line of his scar. Each inch bathed in relentless love, warm and soft and aching. He feels himself tremble, feels the way you press into him in response, your mouth only more sure against his shell. Only then does he remember to breathe, his eyes clenching shut against the barrage of you.

The sensation is like ecstasy. Stupid with it, he arches his spine, pressing into you, silently accepting anything, everything. Softly, your palm glides along the edge of his carapace, holding on as you dip your head, kissing and kissing and kissing. He can't think of anything else. Every thought is obliterated, leaving only the smell of you in his pillow as he turns his face, fingers curling into his sheets, entire body quaking to the tempo of your care.

Only the years of training ironed into his soul keeps him from turning, from pulling, from showing you everything he's kept safe behind this wall. But he can't help but let one little piece through—the soft lovesick whimper that he can't hold back; the proof for your ears, should you hear it, of exactly what you do to him.

Do you know? he wonders, sinking into the sensations as if embracing a dream. Do you know how much he—?

[numberonecolinbridgertonlover]

What the Bridgerton character you relate to the most says about you (based on the show and my opinion) *mostly unserious edition*

Anthony - older sibling part one. That or you are the certified glue that holds your entire family together. Also, fake arse cynic, I know you want to be loved and cherished you’re just scared it will never last or no one will ever see you that way. Control freak but I get it.

Benedict - You are the personification of the quote about grief. (In case you don’t know which one I’m talking about: "How do you process grief? By running from it until it finds me in the middle of a sunny street on a beautiful day?") You have been running away from something your entire life, whether that be yourself or a feeling. Newsflash it’s gonna catch you one day. That said, you’re probably also lgbtq and camp.

Colin - gurrllll… read Benedict’s first and then come back here, you also need to hear that. You are a quote on quote pathological people pleaser. SAVIOUR COMPLEX. Girl, they’re not gonna love you even if you can bend the laws of nature for them. You’re naive, sensitive and desperate for someone, literally anyone to understand and care for you. Also, babes… you’re not unworthy of love, you just have imposters syndrome.

Daphne - I bet you loved watching Zoella in her prime. I also feel like you’re the sort of person that is constantly expecting/hoping to bump into the love of your life whenever you’re in public. You’re a hopeless romantic but I get it.

Eloise - You’re probably LGBTQ. You might have started out a feminist with the girl power quotes but have since delved deeper and have since been more radicalised. You probably struggle to connect with overt "femininity" for numerous reasons including the patriarchy and the media’s portrayal of women but you support all women regardless. Your fashion sense consists of baggy tops, jeans and jorts (RIP Eloise, you would’ve loved baggy clothes 😔) Do you own a carabiner? You’ve probably had a fuck arse bob era at some point in your life.

Francesca - girl I get it, I really do. I hate human civilisation as well. It’s loud, it’s overwhelming, it’s scary. You’ve felt like the odd one out everywhere you go and people always seem to pick up that despite how hard you try to hide it . You just want to live in peace, maybe with someone who understands you. That said, how’s that autism diagnosis coming along-

Gregory - You are the personification of that vine where the kid has a knife. ("What have you got there? A KNIFE. no-)

Hyacinth - I just know you’re funny asf. Haters hate to see you coming because they know you’re about to gag tf out of them.

Kate - older sibling part two, probably older sister. If not, just like with Anthony, the glue the holds the family together. You can stand up to haters but you can’t say no to your friends when you want to. Sometimes you’ve just got to bite the bullet and prioritise your own happiness girl.

Penelope - …where do I even begin? You were probably the person that everyone just unanimously decided they thought was weird or unapproachable and it has messed you up indefinitely. (That’s on them though girl, there is nothing wrong with you I promise 💋) Family issues. You have imagined getting revenge on everyone who has ever wronged you. Body issues (girl, you’re beautiful don’t let anyone tell you otherwise) Short.

Simon - Daddy issues daddy issues. Emotionally constipated. You can’t believe meaningless sex and substance abuse didn’t cure you.

Philip - You have anxiety.

John: Introvert™️ honestly just read Francesca’s you’re both in the same boat. You are not afraid to dip once the social battery has ran out and I respect that. You know how to set up boundaries. Though, I think you wonder sometimes if you have protected your peace a bit too much because your only friend is your pet or your mum let’s be honest—

Michaela: LGBTQ. And you’re right because she is beautiful- I bet you love the film Bottoms. Favourite artists include Chappell Roan, Renee Rapp. You like Bridgerton in a gay way (the women)

Violet: You’ve never quite gotten over that one relationship have you… you would love the song loml by Taylor Swift 😔✊.

Portia: I feel like you have been told one thing you’re entire life and you’ve kind of based your entire personality upon that only to realise when you have grown up and met new people that it’s all worthless and the very foundations of who you are are crumbling as we speak. But you look slay while it happens.

Lady Danbury: I bet you’re expecting me to tell you how much of a baddie you are… which you are but don’t pretend you’re not wearing a facade to ensure you never get hurt by anyone ever again.

Queen Charlotte: Alexa play right where you left me by Taylor Swift.

Brimsely: your gay situationship has messed you up.

[ravensinthedaylight]

City of Ash - Daenerys Targaryen x Daughter!Reader

Request(ed by @violetromanova): i’m not sure if you’re taking requests or not right now (so if not i’m really sorry pls ignore this) but i had an idea for a daenerys targaryen x daughter fic where her daughter is there at kings landing and is so afraid and horrified by what happened that she struggles to be around her mum, and you can take it from there i think, i have no clue what should happen next,

Notes: For the sake of the fic Rhaegal never died lol, I also made some minor adjustments to the plot.

Summary: You struggle to look at your mother, Daenerys, after the burning of King's Landing.

Reader's Age: 13

masterlist (Got)

You didn't know what to think as you rode over the burning city.

Parts of King's Landing had been reduced to ash, it had only been two hours after the initial attack and your mother had finally given the go for you to be brought to the city.

The city that she had just conquered. the city whose people she had just cold heartily burned.

Even from high up, on top of Rhaegal, you could hear the screams and cries of the people. Your people. Your mother's people.

The more you looked the more tears flowed from your eyes.

Your mother couldn't have done this. Not the woman who had given birth to you and raised you even though your father, Beltar Celtigar, had died in battle in Essos before you were even born. Not your sweet, kind, fair, and honest Muña.

At first, you had told yourself that she had just lost control of Drogon. But the further you road with Rhaegal the more you realised that that wasn't possible. Drogon didn't have such a blood lust, Drogon was as loyal to Daenerys as you were, even at the age of three and ten you remain one of the people who are most loyal to your mother.

You knew that your loyalty probably didn't mean as much as that of Yara Greyjoy and the Tyrells, but your mother had been insistent that you were the person who mattered most.

As you neared the Red Keep you began to see the castle, or at least what was left of it.

Most of it was just a pile of stone. You didn't see how this could be rebuilt within just a few years.

It had taken your ancestors decades to build the Red Keep and now look at it.

You could hear the pitiful noises coming from Rhaegal. He seemed to share your grief.

You knew that the cries of the women and children would haunt you for years to come, and the images of the burning buildings and castle would forever be engraved in your brain.

The cries were so loud, so very loud, you could hear them so well despite being so far up above.

Rhaegal seemed to slow down, and stayed flapping his wings in the same spot.

When he stopped moving forward you could see everything. The full scale of the destruction caused.

You found it hard to breathe.

Daenerys had once promised that she would never attack King's Landing. She had said that she was not here to be Queen of the ashes.

But then what was this? What was she doing?

She had gone back on everything that she had ever said.

You were happy that Jorah and Missandei weren't here to see this, to see what your mother had done.

Because now, as much as you wanted to deny it, you knew that your mother had done this.

Your mother had shown no mercy.

She destroyed King's Landing.

There were no other words for it.

I'm sorry. You thought as you looked down to the flames that were no doubt burning thousands of innocent civilians this very second. I'm so very sorry.

The army of Unsullied stood in rows in front of the steps to what was previously the castle.

You had wiped your tears from your face, refusing to show her your tears. You had the feeling that this would be a different woman than the Daenerys Targaryen who you had said goodbye to just a few moons ago.

You didn't know what she would do to you.

Rhaegal let out a roar, landing in front of the steps.

As you dismounted, you felt a shiver up your spine.

It was freezing, even the furs that were wrapped around your shoulders didn't do much for the cold.

It was rarely this cold in Essos. You missed Mareen. You wanted desperately to return there. The atmosphere was happy there, and the people were treated with a kind yet fair hand.

You missed the warmth of the weather and flying the dragons alongside your mother. Of course, you were too young to ride by yourself back then, it was just the two of you on Drogon as Viserion and Rhaegal flew nearby.

You had made friends in Mareen. Here you were all alone.

You petted Rhaegal's scales and patted his head, signaling for him to stay.

You looked up. Daenerys Targaryen stood at the top of the steps, Greyworm to her side, and Drogon was perched on a nearby ruin watching over the army of both unsullied and Dothraki.

The Dothraki made room for you as you went to climb the first step of many up to meet your mother at the top.

With each and every step your heart rate increased, and you caught sight of the familiar silver hair that you had inherited from her, you refused to meet her eyes, you were afraid of what you would see in them.

But you saw her hand, a hand that was outstretched to you. Your heart was filled with hope.

You wanted to reach your own handout and touch hers, to feel her familiar warmth, but then the sound of the wailing children, mothers, and widows filled your ears and your yearning was quenched.

You saw her smile, the same smile which had made it a priority to tuck you in every night. The same smile that had been used after freeing the slaves from their masters back in Essos. Bile threatened to surge up your throat over the fact that that very smile was being used right at this moment, right after she had done this.

But no matter what you avoided the eyes, you didn't want to see her eyes. What if they were the same as before? In many ways, you knew that that would make you feel even more sick and horrified, for you felt nobody could commit such a heinous act and still be able to look at their child the same.

You were halfway to the top and the only sounds to be heard were the sounds of your footsteps, the wind, and the crying of the civilians. You didn't know which sounds were more deafening to your ears.

Daenerys hand was still outstretched, but as you got higher up, the more you looked to the nearest step in front of you.

When you finally reached the top you still refused to meet her eyes, she was - in what your mind perceived - stalking toward you. You felt like the prey. You didn't feel safe.

She ignored your flinch as she grabbed onto your shoulder softly, whether she noticed it or not you weren't sure.

"Oh, my sweetest love." She whispered lovingly as she pulled you closer and eventually into an embrace.

You were tense in her arms. You felt even sicker as she caressed the silver curls that cascaded down your back.

Your arms were pinned to the side, while your mother's arms were around your shoulders.'

You refused to give in to the affection.

"You missed my speech." She hummed, placing kisses to your head.

You said nothing, you were cracking, like when your mother's glass vase back in Braavos cracked when one of the baby dragons accidentally knocked it over.

"I hope you had a safe flight."

You forcefully pushed her off of you, breaking the embrace and making her gasp in anguish, in the corner of your eye you could see some Dothraki shift where they stood and Drogon's gaze sharpened.

Daenerys looked hurt and... confused... which irked you greatly.

"Sweetling?"

You promised yourself you wouldn't look in the eyes, you promised, but you couldn't stop yourself.

Her eyes were the same.

And you felt hurt everywhere. You felt betrayed even though it wasn't you she had betrayed.

Despite your promises not to cry you let out a distressed sob as you tried to turn away. Thousands of eyes were upon you, but you failed to care very much. For every eye that was on you another ten people were left burned by Dragonfire.

Daenerys put her hand on your shoulder and guided you away from the scene, knowing that this was a conversation to be had privately.

"Shh, shh, shh." She tried to tell you, but you just tried to pull your arm out of hers, but Daenerys wasn't having it, she wouldn't let go, which made you cry out more. "It's just me, Y/N. It's Muña." She said softly.

"Let me go, please." You cried, Daenerys finally did as she was told, releasing her hold on your arm.

You protectively wrapped your arms around yourself.

"What have you done." You whispered brokenly. "How could you have done such a thing."

Daenerys stared at you and her gaze faltered. "I did what was necessary. I did it for us."

You stared at your mother and took a step back.

"The city surrendered. It surrendered and you still killed thousands!" You spat. "You won, gods be dammed you won! Have you been down there? Have you seen- heard what I've heard, children, women, babies, innocent civilians are dead, you slaughtered them like sheep." You sobbed.

"You overcame Euron's fleet, you annihilated the Golden Company, you eliminated all the city's defenses, Cersei surrendered and you still killed them!"

Daenerys thought for a few seconds, she needed to gather her words. "I needed them to know not to mess with us, to never endanger my dragons, my army, my reign, my kingdom, and most importantly you."

You laughed bitterly. "Them? Who's them? The tens of thousands you have just slaughtered? Don't you understand that the start of your reign is now marked with the bloodshed of innocents?"

"I needed to make sure you would always be safe."

"You think I feel safe now?!" You cried out, bringing your hands up to your face. "You think I feel safe around you?!"

Daenerys looked hurt for just a split second, she goes to pull them away from your face, and you kept going.

"You've just murdered Lord Tyrion's family, you really think he'll stay loyal to you?" You snarked.

"I've granted him Casterly Rock." She responded dryly. You scoffed.

"If someone murdered me would you take Dragonstone and leave it at that?"

"You are not Cercei! And you already know the answer to that, Cercei was a tyrant and Tyrion understood that. Nobody will ever harm you, I've already told you. I've just guaranteed that." You could tell she was getting fed up with your comments.

You shook your head in disbelief, how did she think that this was ok?

"Do you even feel sorrow? Even just a little bit?"

You desperately wanted her to say yes, you desperately wanted to believe that what she did was truly necessary.

"I did what I needed to do, sweetling."

You looked down, you couldn't look at her, not right now. You didn't think that you would ever look at her the same.

"I'm sorry I scared you."

A new round of angry tears came to your eyes. She may have scared you, but that's not what was wrong here.

Your mother could sense your anger by the way you clenched your fists and how your eyelids started to squeeze tightly.

She placed a hand on each side of your face, making you flinch harshly, something that shocked her. Her hands felt as cold as her words, but the main reason you didn't want her to touch you, the reason being clear to both of you.

"Look." She uttered, adjusting your head so that you were facing the Iron Throne. "That's mine now. This is all mine now, the seven kingdoms and soon it will even be beyond that. And when I'm gone this will be yours."

You shivered. You didn't want this.

You were happy in Essos. You wanted to go back to Essos.

You didn't want a throne, you didn't want the titles, you just wanted your mother. You wanted her how she was.

You thought of the stories Viserys would tell to you before his death. The story of King Jaeharys was always your favorite, coming to the throne after Maegor the cruel had finally passed.

You wondered if you would have a similar story, as you didn't know if that was the last of your mother's ruthless slaughters.

"You should have grown up in the Red Keep." Daenerys whispered. "I should have too."

Her hands felt warm again.

"Even though neither of us has been here before, this has always been our home, this has always been where we belonged, My dragon. So welcome home."

You wanted to cry again. You were finding it so easy to forgive her, even though you knew she didn't deserve it, you had never met the people of King's Landing before, but you still felt as though you were betraying them.

"I don't ever want you contradicting me again, am I understood?"

You go to open your mouth, but no words left it.

"At least not like that. I'm your mother, you're but a hatchling. I can understand that you're slightly shaken, and I'm sorry for that, but we have finally reached our goal. You're confused, I know that, sweetling. You're so young and confusion is natural." Daenerys fingers traced your cheek soothingly. "But we need to be strong, especially now. Can you be strong for me?"

You nodded, you didn't even know what you were nodding to, you just knew that somewhere deep down you would always be desperate to please her.

"Thank you." She spoke with such love and adoration. "Now come here, please."

The second you were taken into another warm hug sobs wracked your petite frame.

"There, there, I know my love. Don't fret, I'll take care of everything."

You hated that she was so warm. You hated that you still craved nothing but her love after what she had done here, the number of people she killed. It made you sick to your stomach

"Muña." You whimpered. "Please don't do anything like that again."

Daenerys didn't respond.

taglist: (comment on liked to be added):

@earlyspectrum04

[kickthecan-revolution]

I’ve had a very odd experience at the airport. I was on the escalator to a train that takes me to my gate and a panicked young woman yells “please let me by I have to run!”. I scooted quickly to the right and could feel her panic. We were on the same train and I could tell she was crying - I asked her if there was anything I could do and she said her grandfather was dying and she barely got on the last flight out to his city, that if she didn’t get on this one, he’d be gone by tomorrow.

I can’t explain it, I felt this rush of…..maternal love, I guess? I took my mask off and said you are absolutely going to make it to the gate on time and you are going to make this flight. It’s all going to be fine. You need to be first to the escalator so when the doors open, run straight to the right and don’t worry about being polite.” I checked on her at her gate and they weren’t going to let her in but between the two of us, we explained what was happening. He was kind (as so many Alaska Airlines employees are) and he made it happen. She got her ticket and I backed away but she turned and gave me the biggest hug, her whole body shaking. I looked at her straight in the eyes and said she needs to drink a lot of water on the plane because she is in shock and likely dehydrated. That I believe she will see him again and he knows how much she loves him, and he’ll carry that with him in his ears, eyes and heart on the Way to whatever is next.” We were both emotional. Wild.

Then at my gate, some drunk dude was screaming at these two older men about the election. apparently it started out as a civil conversation and when he discovered they are moderate Conservatives, He was yelling how he’s a radical Leftist and “isnt it weird how Conservatives have become the scum of the country.” these guys were showing a lot of restraint and being kind - I on the other hand said “well I’m on the Left too and think you need to just shut the fuck up.” He got up and left, and I spent the rest of the time talking to these guys who are going to Alaska about all of the different types of whales they are going to see, so excited for them.

I’m a Karen, I know. I’m so sick of the meanness and the strident, black and white positions and how we reduce each other to objects. We choose that, no politician has made us do that, in my opinion. We’re grown. I’ll admit, I’ve frequently made this choice that it’s ok to not actually see people as human beings because of what they value and how that shows up in their politics. It’s always been here, when the first Black kids went to a white school. Fucking horrifying. Shell shocked 19 year olds coming back from Vietnam getting spit on - fucking horrifying.

Passion only takes me so far. Staring down the barrel of a cancer diagnosis has forced me to appreciate and embrace the duality of ideas, values and feelings in myself. I’m rethinking and being honest about how frequently I ask myself, “what if I’m wrong? What if I don’t have all of the information? Is it really that simple that if someone doesn’t do X then the totality of them means Y?” that makes me a little sick to my stomach to consider. I’m afraid of that question. It’s concerning how quick I was to shut that guy down. He wasn’t human to me in that moment compared to a few minutes earlier where I had an important moment between two humans who had a shared experience of grief.

Is this what this all is? Are we all grieving?

I reblogged something from @hthrrloooo that is profound, how behind kindness can be real destruction. I saw myself in that. I saw people I care about.

Maybe the veil is lifting and being ugly about each other and to each other is the season we need to wake up. Maybe virtuous people are dicks, the saints certainly were, maybe they don’t care about being liked so that coat of performative civility isn’t there and we judge them for it. Mr Theresa had a shit ton of enemies and in the end, not too many friends. Or was she full of shit at times too? Anger and loss are activating agents. Is shame? Maybe, in different parts of the world, Shame vs Honor is a value system continuum much like in the west, Good vs Evil is. It has been for me at times. Where does love come in? Ultimately, I don’t think a lot of people believe in the power of collective love anymore. I think it’s disappeared. Was it ever here? I’m wondering if we know how to talk about what we are afraid of and if we had that capacity, how it might help. Or do I define “love” as being liked and I’m just too chicken shit to take a stand where I might not be. That tracks.

It’s beyond tone, at least it is for me. I felt so virtuous when I shut that guy down and now all I feel is gross.

Anyway. I’m sitting here waiting for the plane to take off really wishing I could think about this over a gin and tonic with my friends. The Libra in me sees every aspect of every side and feels it deeply. This week I become a cancer patient again and I’m oissed about it. so that’s what I’m focusing on.

[vickyvicarious]

I have cried over the good Sister's letter till I can feel it wet against my bosom, where it lies. It is of Jonathan, and must be next my heart, for he is in my heart.

It feels like Mina has been holding back tears over everything happening to her and around her for a month but now that Lucy is well and Jonathan is alive she burst out completely, making the letter soaked and displaying such emotion...

I must write no more; I must keep it to say to Jonathan, my husband. The letter that he has seen and touched must comfort me till we meet.

Another instance of preferring to SAY something than to write it down?

Also I love that the letter is precious because HE has touched it <3

I just answered another ask about her reaction to this letter, but I totally agree. It is so sweet. She loves it because he's touched it, it has his words, it is as close as she has been to him in a long long time. <3

...It also carries such intense relief. As you say - she has been holding herself together out of sheer force of will and a sense of responsibility. And while this letter arriving doesn't free her entirely from the role of caretaker, it grants her such a sweet reprieve, coming when it does. Lucy's health is returning, Jonathan is alive - now that things are going to be okay, she finally is allowed to break down. I imagine her getting as far as "I write by desire of Mr. Jonathan Harker" before just absolutely sobbing and starting to cry. The rest of the letter she reads through tears, sobbing and beaming and returning again and again to every line that says he's recovering, he will be well, he sends his love, he's talked of her, he's alive, he's alive, he'll be okay...

And her tears are of relief, of joy. But they also are, finally, an open expression of all the grief and fear and stress that has been building up throughout these weeks. Not all of it is made better now; Mr. Swales is still dead, Jonathan is still suffering. But finally she can see the sky through the clouds.

As for Mina saving up her words for Jonathan... yes, it's unbearably sweet. It's not like she knows that her words in her private diary are being read by anyone, but she still has that instinct of saving certain things just for herself. The things she wants to say to him... those are for his ears only, and not even the page will receive them. It reminds me a bit of Lucy's first letter:

I wish I were with you, dear, sitting by the fire undressing, as we used to sit; and I would try to tell you what I feel. I do not know how I am writing this even to you. I am afraid to stop, or I should tear up the letter, and I don't want to stop, for I do so want to tell you all.

Mina doesn't seem to have the same level of difficulty admitting or speaking her feelings as Lucy does. But she does still self-censor in a minor way pretty frequently, insisting that things will be okay, downplaying her distress, and so on. She shares that with Jonathan as well, who was much more willing to write about the extremes of what happened to him than he was to write about how he felt about them. And there are reasons for all of these instances - Lucy didn't want to commit herself too far when as yet Arthur hadn't told her he loved her too; Mina was trying to keep her spirits up so she could keep it together for others; Jonathan was likely limited on writing space, trying to keep sane, and not succumb to total despair. But it's also just a general trend. For as much as these documents are all fundamentally honest... they try to hide a bunch of smaller truths along the way. There are some things they only say out loud, only to someone else. And for Mina especially, it seems like certain very meaningful moments deserve a sense of privacy. They remain off the record.

[namorthesubmariner]

Namor & Talokan

So these are my thoughts upon watching Black Panther: Wakanda Forever twice now.

I loved Namor. I truly feel they captured the characterization so well in so many ways and it’s amazing how good of a job they did in this movie, how Tenoch owns that role, how perfect everything is. This is what it means to adapt a character, changing things but keeping the essence of the character and tbh the changes were such a great choice because in the end it served to enhance the character and bring him to new audiences and fans to enjoy and he is still NAMOR. So many people complaining about how bad it is they stripped Namor of everything obviously think that Namor begins and ends with Atlantis and know nothing of his character.

The overarching theme of Mothers, and their children, Namor & Fen, Shuri & Ramonda, play a central role amidst all the grief of the past/losing someone. Colonization is the enemy, not Namor who was just Wakanda’s antagonist. 

Talokan mirrors Wakanda but asks the question: What if Colonization had won, what happens to the survivors who escaped? Wakanda never had to deal with the Invasion of their homeland, while Talokan did.

In the comics Namor is often the “Voice of Reason” when placed within a group dynamic, such as the Illuminati, it’s Namor who points out their plans are stupid or finds the most straightforward path to his goals, he is a very honest character and doesn’t hold back his words/thoughts. So it makes sense that just as Coogler holds up Talokan to mirror Wakanda so he would hold Namor up as a mirror to Shuri and gives her the option that others in Wakanda could not, to take on the world and give into those feelings of Rage. Ramonda (and by extension Wakanda) wants Shuri to grieve properly in a healthy and begin to move on with her life, which Shuri cannot do because in part she blames herself for not being able to save T’Challa. Survivors guilt is strong within her even though she really couldn’t do anything but that’s how guilt works. Which plays off really well because Coogler wasn’t afraid to let Namor be exactly like his comic counterpart and follow through on his word/promises even if that meant he was going to do things no Morally White/Good aka Hero character would do, since Namor is a Morally Grey character he has the space to make and follow through on choices he finds benefits himself and his people.

Spoilers beneath the cut, so this is your warning.

While Namor is much older and had time to rule over his people and deal with the grief of losing his mother for hundreds of years he chose Rage & Vengeance as his crutch to get through losing her. He focuses his anger on the world. He isn’t wrong, the Spanish Colonizers are the root cause for all the evil done to him and his people and by extension the surface world. Namor is a Hero to his people and he is their Protector. Which means he will be viewed as an enemy of the surface world. Namor was superhero comics first anti-hero and Tenoch!Namor is the same.

As a general overview before I get into details, Namor’s arc is very complete. His goal was an alliance with Wakanda, he makes it clear the first time he comes to ask them for help because Namor does not ask for help, not in the comics, not unless he trusts that person or is willing to trust that person. Namor + Trust is a very important trait. Listen if you think Namor couldn’t find the scientist and kill Riri where she stood on his own than you don’t know how capable Namor is. He and his people are not primitive/lacking of skills or smarts, he doesn’t need Wakanda’s help but he recognizes it would be smarter in the long run to have an ally that would empathize with him and his people. He chooses Wakanda because its the Nation his mother told him about, and he recognizes that they and Talokan are both very similar. Namora and Attuma were literally using a hunting trick for Riri, have someone else draw her out into the open before taking them down. Why else would they have been waiting close enough to take Riri if Namor had asked the Wakandans to bring her to him? If Namor had truly trusted them to find AND bring Riri to him he would have waited instead he had a back up plan which were Attuma and Namora. Namor’s trust of the surface, even Wakanda only goes so far. 

Let me get into details. You don’t know how much it’s killing me to not have pics to go along with my text but I will have to wait till the movie is out on dvd to be able to gif/screencap everything.

I’m starting off with character design first:

Wings.

His wings are AMAZING. There was no easy Superman gliding and swooping here! His air walking was astounding, at times it felt like he had to really push himself to get up to a certain height level like a bird putting more effort into its wings getting off the ground vs catching a air current. He was so agile and FAST, turning on a whim and aware of his surroundings, honestly some parts felt like he was just swimming or dancing through the air, the way he twists his body/hips to change positions. I am so happy they included the wings because it’s so important to his character.

His wings flap rapidly like a hummingbird, and it’s always been one of my personal headcanons that’s how Namor’s wings move and it was really cool to see! There’s a sound you hear when his wings move, like a rattlesnake/buzzing, I think its because he is called K’uk’ulkan, Feather Serpent God, so that rattlesnake buzzing is a nod to the serpent aspect of that.

Edit: AresisKander on Twitter added this comment after reading this post and I am including their comment:

About the sound of the wings or when he flies, I think the reference is to the ayoyotes or chachayotes many people in Mexico still use to do/reenact traditional dancing

A photo of Ayoyotes.

/End Edit.

I did some searching online today to try and figure out what bird/feather pattern they modeled Namor’s wings off of because in the movie it’s not pure white wings and had some light patterns of grey/light brown with the white. I think its modeled after the Osprey (Pandion Haliaetus).

The parts I’ve highlight here are what stood out to me the most in the movie, the tops of his wings had the same white feathery look and his lower feathers had that pattern. The bird makes sense for Namor as the Osprey is found near rivers/bodies of water and is a fish eating bird of prey, with excellent eyesight to see underwater to hunt their fish. They are excellent divers too.

Tenoch’s ears were so cute, and while Namor has pointed ears, the rest of his people do not, so some people like Namora, use jewelry to give themselves the pointed ears like Namor, others use jewelry on the outside of their ear to mimic the pointed ear shape.

GILLS.

THE TALOKANIL (or is it Talokaneil?) HAVE GILLS. I AM SO HAPPY THEY KEPT THAT FROM THE COMICS!!! The Gills have always set Marvel’s Atlanteans apart from DC, and even Namor has gills in the comics even though artists forget to draw it but it was an important plot point in a couple of comics. Seeing their water masks covered not just their mouth/nose but also the gills on their necks was so cool. I can’t wait until high res stills come out so I can show you all how cool their costumes were! the gill masks were soooo pretty!!! There is just so much detail on their look/costumes/mayan influences that I can’t do it justice with words but it was beautiful, Namora had a few outfit changes through the movie which I loved.

Speaking of Namora, she was not at all like her comic counterpart and like I guessed before she is basically a mix of Namora and Andromeda. It makes sense why they wouldn’t use the character Andormeda since she is Attuma’s daughter in the comics so they wouldn’t have time to explain why his daughter is the same age as him etc. since comic atlanteans are long lived and look the same ageish. Andromeda operates as Namor’s right hand woman, the captain of his guards/army, a highly respected close friend and long time ally who would always fight beside Namor and offer advice.

Namora is smart, loyal, and such a badass in the movie. Mabel played her beautifully and I adored her. Anyways I loved this interpretation of Namora and I hope we get to see more of her and Attuma. Attuma’s character does not get alot of lines, we have no clue to his motivations and if he hates Namor or not like in the comics, in the comics they were enemies, but the recent King in Black: Namor tells the story of Attuma’s origin and friendship with Namor before it all went bad.

Namora, Attuma, and Namor all wear different outfits throughout the movie. The character designs were brilliant, and the costumes were gorgeous, so I really hope they win an award for that again.

It also feels like they each have an “Avatar” of sorts. Namor is the Feathered Serpent, Attuma is a Shark, and Namora is a Lion Fish, remember the Lion Fish is a deadly venomous creature so those spines Namora wears are a warning threat to her enemies.

The Plot

I will be focused on the Namor/Talokan plot mainly.

The first scene we get with Namor is literally ripped from the pages of Marvel Comics (1939) #1. In the comic, two divers go exploring a ship and Namor darts by too fast for them. Later Namor cuts the lines of one diver killing him, then goes after the second diver.

In the movie the divers are sent to check on a drill in the ocean, it had struck vibranium, which the Americans were after since they had a Vibranium detection machine. Namor swims by too fast for them to see, they are too focused on their find, however one diver’s life support signal stops, when the scientist lady on the ship asks the second diver to turn around to check on her partner and see if he was ok, she turns only to find cut life support lines. Namor comes for her next. I want to say very quickly that while Vibranium was included in the backstory/plot of the movie it also has it’s roots in the comics but only since the 90s:

Golden age - two divers on an exploratory mission - Marvel Comics (1939) #1 Silver age - expanded: two divers were sent there because the captain of the ship was Captain Leonard McKenzie on his return to the Antarctic waters after decades to search for Fen. The Sub-Mariner (1968) #44 Modern Age - The original cause of two ships coming to Antarctica is because the first one (The Endurance) was on a mission to find Vibranium, while the second one {The Oracle, Namor’s father’s ship) was on a mission to find The Endurance. Namor, the Sub-Mariner (1990) #52

So as you can see they just cut off the Leonard part since Fen’s origins have changed as well, and they kept the scene from the first comic and their motivation is Vibranium. There was a very Depths!Namor vibe to the character which I adored because Sub-Mariner: The Depths is such a good comic.

Meanwhile above there is a siren song luring the crew to their deaths in the sea. I loved the Sirens, they are a highlight of the Talokanil. The ship is now under attack by the Talokanil, and the scientist lady escapes into a helicopter. Attuma and Namora arrivals are great! The Talokanil are efficient at their tasks.

Namora watches as the helicopter goes higher into the sky but doesn’t do anything because she knows Namor will stop them. The first scene showing Namor’s full strength is amazing, it cannot be understated how Namor is a Power in the comics, he is literally called a one man navy. Namor is the guy the other characters call in when they need the Big Guns. He wrecks that helicopter and the scene ends with a visual of Namor hover over the sea in the dark, it really reminds me of this visual.

Marvel Fanfare (1982) #16

So as you see Namor has been called Devil, Sea Devil, Sea Demon in the comics which makes the Spanish Priest’s words to a young Namor really hit home because humans have always viewed him as something not human, evil, and otherworldly even though they themselves are not good people.

The next time we see Namor he is rising out of the water in Wakanda to speak with Ramonda and Shuri, he carries with him a shell, a conch shell, which in can be symbolic of a declaration of war or something else depending on the context as written here and here by Aztec Empire on twitter. The soundtrack to Namor’s arrival is freaking awesome, and Namor’s first show of pure astonishment/wonder at Wakanda is so endearing. Alot of people complained about this online saying he wouldn’t do that, but the truth is Namor does know how to smile, he loves the wonder and beauty of Nature, he isn’t a scowling angry fish man all the time. Tenoch’s micro expressions are amazing, he goes from wonder to being a Threat in the space of seconds. What I really like is how he captured Namor’s humor which is not an easy thing to do since in the comics Namor has a very dry gallows humor that makes people around him think its very serious but he’s actually telling the joke more to himself than for the benefit of others. Namor says “- I took care of it” meaning he totally killed all those people but he’s acting like it was nothing more than a small chore or something. lol. Also there is something else I wanted to point out about the beginning of this scene, Ramonda and Shuri are alerted by elephants who sensed Namor and ran, in the comics when Namor is running amok in New York for the first time he releases several wild creature from the zoo, which also had elephants. Now I don’t know if that was in reference to that scene in Marvel Mystery Comics (1939) #8 but it did remind me of it.

And as stated earlier, Namor was willing to extend his trust but still Attuma and Namora followed Shuri and Okoye in the later scenes.

MCU!Attuma is strong and a capable warrior, I greatly enjoyed him baiting Okoye on the bridge into a fight. The way he looks at Riri (whom Namora told him to kill) and decides she isn’t going anywhere so he might as well have a fight for fun with Okoye was Peak Character for him. Namora is annoyed and snaps at him to stop playing around. I love their dynamic with Attuma playing the Strong Muscle character and Namora though tiny was clearly in charge. Both of them have consistent characterizations, both are very loyal to Talokan and they get stuff done. Attuma is 100% ready to kill Riri and so is Namora. They are looking out for the future of their people. BUT when Shuri asks them to take them to Talokan alive they confer with each other, they treat Shuri like the royalty she is and they take her wish seriously since they also know Namor wants an alliance with Wakanda. If Namor had ordered them to kill the scientist at all costs, I don’t doubt they would have been done there on the bridge.

When Shuri and Riri are in Talokan, Shuri is treated as according to her social status, a Princess, with all the respect given to her from one Nation to another which really stood out to me. They give her traditional clothing, and they aren’t unknind, they care for Riri and give her food while Shuri goes to speak with Namor. I’m just pointing out that Coogler isn’t depicting the Talokanil as some hostile people who are unreasonable in wanting to kill Riri, they are only hostile when the safety of their people is in question.

The biggest change I would say character wise in regards of the transition from the Atlanteans to the Talokanil is that the Atlanteans actively hated and looked down on Namor for being half human/atlantean, its a major source of isolation for Namor. Namor’s character is rooted in his biracialness, is rooted in being a man of two worlds without fitting into either world and struggling with his two people. Changes seem to have taken away that biracial aspect in the form of two different races of human/atlantean since it seems Namor is a full Mayan/Talokan now however it doesn’t mean it’s lost, Namor is never a part of the Talokanil proper, he is respect and revered yes but also set apart in isolation because of his slowed aging meaning he would outlive all of his people, and that he is seen as their deity. When Shuri meets Namor he is open and honest with her. He RESPECTS her in a way the Elders of her people didn’t, because they saw her as a child. He respects her because she is a Princess and because Namor respects women. I know there is alot of bad Fanon out there regarding Namor’s treatment of women in the comics but as a person who has read all of his comics, so much of it comes down to out of context weird fanon and also some moments of really bad writing however Comic!Namor was raised by his single mother Fen and has great respect for women, so of course Namor would respect Shuri and treat her in accordance with her social stature.

I’ve already begun to see NamorShuri shipping discourse so let be preface this by saying I literally do not care. I don’t care what people ship. However this meta is my, a comic fan’s, thoughts on Namor’s character and the rest of the movie, and I would appreciate it if people don’t use my words out of context nor they drag me into any shipping wars. Once one of my other metas was used out of context to promote racism and I don’t appreciate that. Also I personally believe that shipping is not the end of all things. I believe shipping is a fun addition to the source BUT it’s NOT the end all reason behind character’s actions. So people saying Namor was totally hitting on Shuri, or flirting with her, or whatever, that’s fun fanon for you but I personally do not see it that way.

Namor is charismatic in the comics and Tenoch!Namor captures Namor’s charisma, anger, sorrow, and light heartedness but most of all he captures Namor’s loneliness. When Namor opens up to Shuri and tells her the story of his people, of his mother, he is trying to find a connection, some empathy, a friend.

Princess Fen and her people.

They don’t say Fen is royalty or some high ranking woman in their Nation, however they don’t not say that either. Until we get more information about her then I will only speak on what I saw. Fen and her people are suffering from smallpox brought over by the Spanish Invaders, her people are dying, and she is pregnant. We see Fen place a stone, a funeral rite, into the mouth of a dead man who was placed in a dug grave, he had already passed. The unnamed man died of smallpox, and I personally believe this could have been Namor’s father but also it simply could have been a person who was her family/friend/she had some connection to since we aren’t exactly sure who he was. In the comics Fen is the most beautiful Atlantean ever, and I love the actress they chose for Fen, Maria’s beauty takes my breath away to be honest. In the comics Fen meets Namor’s father after she was sent to spy on the Americans and she falls in love with him. She is strong, smart, and fierce princess of her people. I have very strong feelings about Fen as she is one of my favorite characters.

The Shaman creates the potion/serum they drink to turn into water breathers/Talokanil, however Fen hesitates because her concern is her child. The Shaman promises her that this will save her child and her and then swears that her son will be their new king since he will be the first born of their new people. This new backstory for Namor fits the tone of the movie. I loved both Fen and the Shaman, their actors were so good.

Fen being a central character in Namor’s life is so important and I’m really glad that the movie didn’t skip over that. Fen is a guiding force, the reason why Namor is the way he is in the comics, her love and protection, even her naming him “Namor” which in the comics/atlantean it means “Avenging Son” all shaped Namor into the character he is. Fen and Namor are so important to me.

Namor speaks about how he grew up slowly and his mother aged normally, and how for her death she wanted to be buried in her homeland on the surface. Namor carries out his mother’s wishes. Fen in the comics is also buried in her homeland in the antarctic waters of her youth.

Now. This scene. The Child without Love. It hit me like a ton of bricks. I have not been able to stop thinking about this since.

Namor is the AVENGING SON, he gets his identity from his mother. When I learned she wouldn’t be naming him that I was honestly very upset because its so central to who Namor is, but then I saw the adapted scene and I feel it works in this context. In the comics his name is a warning to the surface world/white people who hurt his people in the original comics. In the movie the name was bestowed upon him by a Spanish Priest who calls him a devil after Namor saw their evil and punished them for it. Namor wears his name as a promise to his people and a threat to his enemies,“My enemies call me Namor”.

Honestly the burial of Fen was so sad, Namor even places a stone in her mouth as well. She missed her home and wanted to be returned there. This really speaks to me about immigration and displacement, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard my own family members, the older ones, who don’t live in the homeland anymore talk about how they must be buried there. I think its something that only people who leave their homeland (not out of choice but a need for a place that will be better for lives because their home isn’t safe or they have better opportunities in foreign land) can really understand that no matter how far away they are, the need to return there, be buried there for the rest of time is a such a human need. The themes of immigration/displacement/colonization is prevalent throughout their story.

In the comics Namor’s first motivation is to wage war against the surface (white) people who hurt his people and he does cause a ruckus but then he faces the true Evil of Humanity when he finds out about the Nazis, he fights alongside the humans to stop them in WWll because he knew that they would come after his people next. 

In the movie, the Evil of Humanity is the Spanish Colonizers. There is no romanticized version of this, there is no Spanish colonizer myth of them being benevolent people bringing advancement to the Natives. They are shown in their full evil glory as colonizers who hurt, killed, and destroyed Nations of Native people. This is the first time Namor sees humans, and its the worst they have to show.

When Nakia is searching for Namor/a way to find Shuri and Riri, she speaks to an old woman who tells her where Namor was sighted, and how he returns, and those who go after him with ill in their hearts do not return. So it means Namor is standing on a beach, returning over the years, because there is only one thing that would bring him to the surface world, his mother’s grave. Namor was visiting Fen’s grave in her ancestral lands.

The Sub-Mariner (1968) #17

Namor’s core character is that he is a hero to his people, and their protector, which the movie displayed so accurately. After the story of his people’s origins, Namor takes Shuri on a tour of his capital city. Another time one of his jokes comes into play, he is telling her all the ways her body would die under the deep water, and then goes “We have suits!” he neglects to mention its the SAME suits that he had taken from the scientists he had killed in the beginning of the movie! lmao. I love him. I really love this character even more now even though I’ve been such a huge fan of Namor for years.

Talokan’s Capital City is so pretty. I can’t wait to zoom in on all the details.

I honestly wish I could get my hands on that 400 page Talokan design book of it’s history/lore. I wish I had better pictures of the stone ring in which Namor does the Rising Sun hand gesture to activate the water currents that take them from the cave to the capital city. It’s clear the Talokans have advanced science/machines which they use all the time, and how they harrassed the power of undersea vibrainum like the Wakandans. Namor even says “I brought my people the sun”. I know there is like 30 minutes of cut footage so I will be waiting for that to come out in an extra dvd feature soon I hope.

¡Líik’ik Talokan!

The term means “Rise Talokan” or “Talokan Rises” the Mesoamerican symbol is the hand symbol connected to the sun (source & source) Namor and the Talokanil use it in greeting to each other.

The Mesoamerican worldbuilding of Talokan is more than I ever hoped for. One of my main ongoing complaints of Namor’s world in the comics is that Marvel is more interesting in destroying it than building it up so it’s just really great to see that Coogler and team had Mesoamerican experts and a language teacher (who played the Shaman) to make sure everything is the best it can be. I know this is a fantasy take of Mesoamerica but I feel they really respected the source material, and Namor’s transformation from Prince/King of Atlantis to  K’uk’ulkan is a wonderful way to bring about the comic fantasy coding of native (atlantean) people to actual native mesoamerican people representation.

After their tour Namor gives Shuri his mother’s bracelet. The bracelet is made with fibers of the blue vibranium plant that the Shaman gave to Fen and her people. I know people are saying “it’s romantic, he gave her his mom’s bracelet” but like, if y’all could just take off those shipping glasses for one second to understand not everything has a romantic intention behind it. Imo Namor gives it to her as a gift, a sign of trust, everything he’s done so far has been to extend his hand in trust to what he hopes will be allies to his people. That has been his motivation, that’s what compels him to go to Wakanda, he is seeking an ally, and why not the Princess who has a chip on her shoulder, who wants to burn the world as he does?

While Namor is gone, answering Queen Ramonda’s summons/falling for her distraction tactic, Shuri and Riri escape with Nakia and in the process one of Namor’s people, a young woman, is killed. Namor and Ramonda’s confrontation is tense, and again he carries the shell, remember it’s significance of a object that represents war or other intentions.

Until now Namor had been trying to reach Shuri and get her to see things from his POV about why the scientist should die, but he makes it clear to Ramonda that he will kill Shuri along with Riri if it ensures his people will be safe. That is a character who all throughout the movie has made his goals very clear and then the rest of his character follows through on his threats/promises.

When Namor comes back to Talokan he finds that the entire ruse had been a betrayal, a trick, to get him to leave and in the process it costs him the life of one of his people. If there was one thing in the comics that was always sure to set Namor off was one of his people dying, and it’s no different in the movie. He gathers his people to make a speech about how his hopes was for naught.

The attack on Wakanda was Namor’s retaliation for the murder of one of his people.

In the comics the first time Namor attacks Wakanda, he was possessed by the Phoenix Force and not in control of his mind/actions. However there is a Namor and Shuri plot where Shuri sends her warriors to slaughter Atlanteans because of the Phoenix Namor attack, and then he sends the Black Order to Wakanda. Shuri in the comics does have innocent Atlanteans killed and Namor retaliates. Again they adapted stuff for the movie, and it plays out differently but I just thought to share that to showcase how different things were done. You can read Namor and Shuri’s interactions (they don’t have alot in the comics) in my Black Panther (T’Challa) & The Sub-Mariner thread here.

Edit:

I forgot to add another scene that was Comic to Movie:

Black Panther (2009) #1 - there is a scene in the movie that is exactly like this, where they fly above and comment on how fast Namor is in the water.

/End Edit

The action scenes, every time Namor is flying around fighting and breaking stuff. Once again they show that Namor is A THREAT, and he will follow through on it. And again, the Sirens are so pretty, I love them. One thing I really found interesting is how we see Namor’s moral code even in battle, even after Ramonda, he knows he could crush them but instead he gives them time to grieve. Some people might go “why did he give them a week, etc.” but like, it makes sense for his character, he isn’t a murderer because he likes killing, everything he does is in accordance to his moral code and no one elses, honor is a huge thing with Namor in the comics too. Not to mention Namor’s over all goal throughout the movie, he wants Wakanda on his side, he will do what he can to get that. He points at Shuri and says “You are queen now.” He puts the heavy burden of caring for an entire nation on her shoulders, now she will finally be forced to either step up or let it crush her. Namor is pressure that presses Shuri’s character into change, either she will crack or become a diamond.

Good characters are not stationary, good characters grow and change.

The final three scenes I want to talk about:

The big Wakanda vs Atlantis fight takes place on the Sea Leopard, now this could just be a fun name they gave the ship but it could also be a deep dive reference into a Namor comic character, a villain called Sea Leopard. 

Okoye vs Attuma fight again and I loved it. Namora was such a badass!!!! I didn’t mention the water bombs the Talokanil use but its so freaking cool, they use it all throughout the movie and they also use Whales to launch their people out of the water with their tails, or the people ride them. I just love all the worldbuilding of Talokan. I know I haven’t talked about other parts of the movie so far, but my favorite characters are M’Baku, Okoye, and Nakia. I enjoyed every moment M’Baku was on screen!!!

Namor vs Shuri, the big fight, Shuri has finally taken the mantle of the Black Panther, and this action scene was so freaking good. Shuri’s plan to use Namor’s weaknesses against him gains her the upper hand and to be honest all those whiney fanbois crying “but SHE is a girl and SHE can’t fight and beat Namor!!!!” need to shut up because they are WRONG. They aren’t jobbing Namor, they aren’t writing him out of character, these weaknesses are the same weaknesses Namor has in the comics!

Namor’s main weaknesses are: Pollution/Poisons, Being dried out/overheated, his wings being hurt, and some forms of mind control/amnesia.

The fight was more than fair imo and Namor isn’t flawless, he has weakness that were used against him. Honestly I would have been mad if he somehow was unaffected. ALSO I LITERALLY FREAKED OUT WHEN I SAW “IMPERIUS REX” ON SCREEN. lol, my arms were flailing for real.

Shuri weapon is against Namor’s throat and she has the power to avenge her mother, to kill Namor, to take that step further into violence and vengance, to burn the world and move further away from healing and dealing with her greif.

“When my mother died, the last person who truely knew me died with her” Shuri’s loss drove her to become the Black Panther.

Namor’s mother dies, and the last person who truely loved/knew him for him, for being him, not a protector, not a leader, that love dies too.

Ramonda’s words “Show Him Who You Are!” is echoed to Shuri, it’s the same words Ramonda yells at T’Challa in Black Panther, when he fights M’Baku at Warrior’s fall. This is Shuri’s defining moment, her path forks and she has to choose mercy and moving on, dealing with her grief or accepting vengence to forever take a place in her heart. Shuri demands Namor yields, and  Namor yields, he got what he wanted, Wakanda’s alliance.

When Namora confronts Namor about him yielding, he even says as much, that what he hoped to achieve he got, and now Wakanda would turn to them when it was time (for them to face the surface world/colonizers)

The action scenes in the movie are amazing, I could watch it a hundred times, the final confrontation between them ends in peace between their peoples.

As I’ve said, this post was mainly focused on Namor & the Talokanil, and I didn’t go into depth with the other plots/characters because I’ve been a Namor fan for years so all my interest is hyperfocused on him and his people.

My complaint: Everett Ross’s entire plot was not needed in this movie, it literally could have been a phone call with the first scene and we could have gotten more scenes with Namor & the Talokanil.

Personally my one biggest gripe is that in the end Wakanda & Talokan should have gone after the main people who were a threat to their nations which was the american government, it was a earlier plot point with Queen Ramonda at the United Nations that was just dropped as the focus shifted over to Namor. I do wish they had keep that plot thread going and both Wakanda and Talokan had teamed up to fight the Government/Surface World etc. but this is a MCU Marvel/Disney movie and Disney/Marvel is never going to do anything so controversial as calling out the American or other governments in present day for their colonizing ways, which is why I feel keeping Colonization as something that happened in the distant past isn’t true. I know the realities of the studios politics and the message the movie was sending and tbh it really followed through on alot of things and my complaints are minor and doesn’t take away the sheer enjoyment and happiness I felt watching Namor and the Talokanil on screen. Also I’m so glad we got to see Namor’s artistic side, which he has in the comics as well.

Once again I am so glad that Namor is shown as a Man of Color and his people are Native Mesoamerican. I’ve always personally felt the coding in his comics meant that we would lose the impact of his story if they stripped him of his biracial poc coding and cast a generic white man. It was always my biggest worry when it came to thoughts of Live Action Namor.

I love how multifaceted Tenoch’s acting was with Namor. Tenoch Huerta is MY Namor, he is the perfect choice for Namor and I’ve stood by his casting since it was first announced.

Created in 1939 by Bill Everett, Namor is imo one of the best characters ever created in comics, and the mcu version is one that is equally as wonderful and complex. I love both versions very much.

[desultory-suggestions]

This is probably one of dozens of break up related asks but how do you move on from an amicable break up? I feel like it's easy to hate someone that did you wrong but much harder to move on from something good. We really cared about each other (we communicated problems, actively try to solve them, etc) but ultimately we have conflicting futures and it's not possible to have one together. I don't want to get rid of everything he gave me nor do I really want to separate. I still have the urge to hug him and hold his hand and call him pet names it's driving me insane :c

Thank you for being there for people, I hope you know that you've helped a lot by just listening!!

Hello, love!

Thank you for reaching out, it is lovely to hear from you. Never be afraid to ask me about a specific situation even if I've answered the genre before. I truly don't mind!

Amicable breakups are a special kind of uncomfortable. When so many suggestions for breakups are based on the assumption that you were terribly wronged and hate your ex-partner, it's frustrating to know how to deal with an amicable breakup.

My first suggestion is to examine deeply and honestly why you broke up. I have had multiple amicable breakups, and I felt the same way. They didn't do anything! It was all so good! However, we broke up. So was it all so good? Why did you break up? Is this temporary grief over the end worse than the ongoing mediocrity of a relationship that's loving but not working out? What do you feel has improved because of the breakup? Many answers to these questions will come over months, even years. It is still wise to examine them because it is so easy to romanticize the perfect thing you had even when it really wasn't. Sometimes two great people are inherently incompatible as romantic partners.

Second, it's okay if it was a lovely thing that simply didn't work out. Sometimes the reason is only that there wasn't a spark anymore, the timing was wrong, etc. The answer to this is the same, which is that even if it is not a reason that feels validating the breakup was necessary. A breakup doesn't mean the relationship was bad, just that it wasn't meant to continue in this form. It takes time to settle into this, but it does happen.

The first month or so is the hardest for these things. You still have the instincts for dating, as you mentioned. These do fade, but when they happen do not punish the urge. It's okay to feel that it's uncomfortable, it's also okay to smile over the beauty of the past. In a deeply amicable breakup, it is fully possible to shift into the role of friends. I do suggest giving each other some time without each other to gain stability on your own. However, after even a few months some people can reconnect with clearer outlooks and feel prepared to be friends. I am friends with my most recent ex, and I still text with her intermittently. It was awkward for some time, and also that feeling has faded into comfortable familiarity. You do not have to get rid of everything he gave you. I think it can be healthy to keep items from past relationships as long as you are honest with yourself about why. I still have some things from past relationships. The treasured memories do not disappear just because you are no longer dating. If you find yourself clinging to the memory of dating them via the items, it may be time to let them go. Additionally, be honest with any future partners about these items. A casual "oh yeah that painting was actually a gift from an ex" can be totally okay. Some items such as intimate ones may not be okay to keep, which is up to your discretion.

My common but important advice for any breakup is to focus on yourself. To release someone else from a role they held in your heart for a long time, we need to look and work within. Establish your life, hobbies, mindset, and outlook on your own. When you have a stable and powerful individual identity, it is so much easier to work through feelings over relationships. Don't be afraid to do the things you feel "belong" to your past relationship and remake them as your own. Engage deeply with yourself as you would with a partner, and dive into self-enjoyment.

Most of all, take tender care and allow yourself some heartache. It is okay for it to hurt. I cried and cried after my last break up and I needed it. You don't have to pretend it doesn't hurt. As you move on, focus on letting things flow by. You will be okay, see something that makes you think of them, and get a little heartache. Let it happen and pass until it no longer comes. Draw or write your feelings out, make a playlist for being bummed out (the trick is to make a second playlist for being happy!), and let yourself explore the feelings. Breakups feel like the end of the world but they are only the end of one phase out of millions of our lives. You will be okay, and you are so loved!

I hope this helps, as longwinded as it is. Take care and reach out anytime!

Evan

[arliedraws]

Hi! Hope it's ok to drop in here. I've been thinking a lot about if Sirius had been able to take custody of Harry (let's just imagine he was able to prove Peter was Secret Keeper/killed those Muggles) in GoT, how would that have changed things for Harry?

I think he would be an extremely devoted guardian, he already threw himself into being there for Harry wholeheartedly in the text. However he has his own trauma and grief, and unresolved emotions.

I can see this taking a toll on him and maybe impacting their relationship. Both of them are extremely closed off emotionally, and I kind of wonder how they would interact when difficult subjects or situations come up, or disagreements. Well, I can imagine how they would react, but I guess I'm not sure how they would resolve conflict between themselves.

I like to think Sirius would eventually realize he needs to deal with anger/his feelings differently, and try to convey more to Harry how much he cares for him. Harry, I can see it taking a while for him to really understand he won't lose Sirius over conflicts.

What do you think? Sirius was my favorite adult character in the books, I'm still not over how he was killed off 😭.

Would love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

Omg this has been sitting in my drafts for a week! I meant to publish ages ago! Anyway…

More than okay! I live for these discussions! (Your local high school lit teacher here 😅…)

Sirius and Harry is something I have written about extensively but most of it is through the lens of OotP and how their fears make their relationship deteriorate (for the sake of saving each other).

I think your thoughts depend on a lot of factors because the situations that Sirius and Harry face change their dynamics dramatically. For example, if Sirius had not been trapped in Grimmauld Place, he would have been a much more supportive parental figure. If Voldemort had not come back, it all would have been very different too. One thing that would remain consistent, however, is Sirius’s tendency to hide his weaknesses. Very much like a wounded dog, he does not want to be seen when he is suffering—he takes to disappearing, “sulking” (not actually sulking), and drinking.

Okay, also, the way Harry interacts with the people closest to him is so interesting. With Ron and Hermione, he’s willing to yell at them and accuse them of shit (not having his back), while with Sirius, whom he loves most, he is unable to be completely honest. Could we interpret Harry’s tendency to berate his friends in OotP as him having a secure attachment? Or is he trying to push them away so they can’t reject him first? When we look at Harry and Sirius, however, is he too afraid of losing him to be completely honest with him?

Like I said, different situations bring out the best and worst in people (obviously), but I there would definitely be cycles of Sirius withdrawing and Harry perceiving his behavior as rejection. I explored a little of what this could look like in my fic “Scars.” However, if Sirius were to take custody of Harry, I believe Sirius, who is most certainly not living at Grimmauld Place, would eventually recognize the patterns of their behaviors to be like, “Hold up, we need to talk about this differently.”

Also, also, I love drama, so my hope would be that they would 1) Be so happy to have each other then 2) Get disillusioned 3) Yell at each other and finally, 4) Explore their traumas together and work through them, drawing them even closer :)

[h-c-u]

Eye of the storm pt 1

Summary: You can't cope with your grief and Beau is there for you.

Pairing: Beau "Cyclone" Simpson x fem!reader (Iceman's daughter)

W/C: 8k

Rating: PG, age gap, canon character's death (Tom Kazansky)

TWs: Grief, unnamed ED, Panic attacks.

A/N: It's going to be long and slow. And there is a lot of feelings. Is it healthy...? Wellll.... What in life truly is healthy...? Also - the next chapter is almost ready, and will be most likely posted on Sunday.

Part 2 | Part 3 Masterlist | List of tags | Eye of the storm playlist

Personal note: I am aware that grief is a very heavy topic for some people, and if you're not in the right mindset, please skip this story. A lot of what I described here is based on my personal experiences, so if you could, please don't comment on the amount of sleeping, crying and panic attacks. From the outside perspective, I know that there are a lot of them, and that it might even sound unrealistic for someone who was able to deal with loss in a more healthy way than I did. Everyone deals with it differently and I wish none of you, my dear readers, will experience what I did. Love,  G.

The last few weeks were rough for you... Mostly because you just couldn't process your dad's death properly, and you were having terrible nightmares every night and panic attacks when you were awake. And yet, you were afraid to go back to therapy; you just... weren't ready yet, because actually going there and talking about it somehow made it more... true. And because acknowledging that would break you even more. 

You couldn't spend more than a few minutes at home, because everywhere you looked you were expecting to see him, to hear him... Every time you looked at your phone you were expecting to see a text from him... Every time you looked at your driveway you expected to see him getting out of the car... But none of those things happened, and every time you realized that the won't happen ever again, it was crushing you over and over. 

You cling to his clothes, desperately seeking the remains of his scent... You re-read his journals every day, hoping that somehow the last unfinished sentence magically fills in with his neat handwriting the next time you get to that page... You were obsessively listening to the recording of My Funny Valentine he made for your mother a few years ago when he still had his voice... 

You knew that none of those things was healthy. And yet, you just couldn't let them go, making yourself re-live the pain of realizing that he's truly gone multiple times every day... 

To say that you were close with your dad would be a severe understatement. You told him everything, and he told you even more than he was sharing with your mother. You were almost inseparable, especially during the last couple of years. You learned sign language with him and you were with him in every unofficial meeting, translating, because it was much faster than writing on a computer. You were with him at every doctor’s appointment and every round of chemo, talked him through every panic attack and moment of self-doubt, when your mother just couldn't handle it anymore. 

And you missed him with every breath you took and with every heartbeat...

But ever since the funeral... you just couldn't handle it. And you had no one to help you, so you hid in the place where you could weirdly still feel his presence... 

You never got into military; you knew you weren't built for that life. You craved personal freedom too much and the strict routine would kill you. And yet you found yourself seeking the comfort of that, even if only by existing in the same space as it was happening. 

To be honest, you assumed that getting on base would be much harder, considering that you weren't even in the academy, but almost everyone you came in contact with got sudden amnesia and selective blindness when they saw you entering the base or walking the corridors... You usually just sat on the floor somewhere, tucked in the corner of the hangar, or in the furthest part of a cafeteria, being completely quiet and re-reading one of your dad's journals. It was the only place where you didn't feel like dying...

You were extremely careful not to accidentally stumble upon something you weren't supposed to see or hear, that's why it took you so long to get into your fathers office; because you assumed it was reassigned and you didn't want to be confronted by the new occupant... 

But you finally gathered the courage to open the familiar door and enter even more familiar room. You've spent a lot of hours here... Sure, all the personal belongings were packed and sent to your mother's house, but you could still see the marks he made there... 

The worn place on the edge of his desk, where he rubbed his thumb over and over, when someone was saying something extremely stupid during meetings. Blinds were still in the 2/3s of the window, just as he liked. The place in the carpet where he liked to keep his right foot perpendicularly to the floor, resting it on his toe was still visible. And many, many little things that gave unimaginable comfort when you saw them again. He was still here... Maybe not alive, but he was still here, and that took that heavy weight from your chest and shoulders, even if just for a moment. 

You couldn't force yourself to sit in his chair, it felt almost sacrilegious... Instead, you opted on curling up on the couch you helped choose, just for few minutes... To catch a breath from the constant grieving, even if for a moment... You didn't even notice when you fell asleep, and for the first time in weeks, there were no nightmares haunting your dreams... 

- Cyclone...? - he heard a familiar voice, and he instantly turned around. - Are you ok, buddy? - Warlock looked a little bit concerned but got curious when his friend put his finger on his lips, shushing him, and closing the door to his office a bit more. 

- I'm fine... - he lied smoothly, trying to position himself in front of his door in such a way, that his friend wouldn't see inside, but he failed. 

- What the...!? - to say that Solomon was surprised and confused would be an understatement, when he caught sight of the young women sleeping on the couch in his friend's office. 

- Shush. - Cyclone pulled his friend by the elbow further into the corridor, so their conversation wouldn't be so loud. 

- Why the hell she's in your office, and more importantly, why the hell were you watching her sleep? - Warlock crossed his arms on his chest evidently judging, and Beau's shoulders slumped as he looked at the floor. 

- Because she thinks this office is still unoccupied... And it's the only place where she doesn't have nightmares when she sleeps... - he bluntly avoided answering the second question, because if he did, he would actually have to admit few things out loud, and he definitely didn't want to do that in front of his friend. 

- And you know that because...? - Solomon dug deeper and Cyclone sighed heavily. 

- Because I overheard her conversation with her mother after I caught her for the first time...

- Jesus Christ, Beau...

- I know, believe me. - he was evidentially ashamed of what he did, and Sol didn't even know the half of it. 

- How often is she here? - Warlock sighed again and let his arms fall to his sides. 

- Every day... - even though Beau was much higher than his friend, right now he felt much, much shorter. 

- Every...!? Cyclone, what the actual fuck!? - vice-admiral wanted nothing more than for the ground beneath him to open and swallow him whole. - Wait... If she's in your office every day... Where have you been working from? - the judgement disappeared for a moment, replaced by curiosity. 

- From a conference room on the 3rd floor... - compared to the previous things, this one was easy to admit, and now Solomon just laughed quietly... 

- Shit, you're in deep, aren't you... Working from that shoebox just so she can catch some sleep... For how long exactly? - usually very sure in himself and confident Beau Simpson was currently folding onto himself in front of his best friend. 

- Almost two months... - he mumbled under his breath, readying for the next wave of laughter. 

- Have you even talked to her? - Cyclone didn't have to reply for Solomon to know the answer. - Why? 

- She's very obviously grieving. And she's Iceman's very young daughter and he would... - he couldn't even finish that sentence. 

- He would what... kill you? A bit late for that, isn't it...? - if looks could kill, Solomon would be dead then and there. - And I didn't mean it like that... Everyone treats her either as a ghost or like an egg which could break any second. Just treat her as a human being, not as a daughter of a dead father. Talk to her. And don't creepily watch her sleep ever again, because you won’t have to wait for Kazansky to kill you, I'll do it for him, I'm serious. - his expression told Beau that indeed, he wasn't joking. 

Cyclone sighed heavily and straightened himself, trying to put on his usual expression of confidence and nonchalance, which came surprisingly easy. 

- Could you...? - he asked before they went their separate ways. 

- Yeah, yeah... Your creepy little secret is safe with me... - he just shook his head when his friend's face showed nothing but relief for a short moment. - But seriously, she's a human being first, just remember that. - Cyclone only nodded, straightened himself and readjusted the flies and laptop he was holding in his hands. - Atta boy. - older man couldn't help but laugh and patted his friend on the shoulder. 

But when Beau was passing his door, he couldn't help but take one last look at the sleeping girl in his office... She looked so innocent and peaceful, curled up in a tiny ball on only one couch cushion, desperately trying to occupy as little space as possible. Her breathing was steady, and he could see her chest slowly raising and coming down, even from that far. He didn't have time to study the light freckles on her cheeks that were glistening like gold in the rays of morning sunshine. He took this sight one last time and gently closed the door, leaving her completely alone, which was much more true than he realized at the moment. 

Next time he saw you was on the balcony of the hangar. He was looking for a quiet space to eat, because he hated eating in the canteen with a passion. Someone was always either staring at him, or trying to talk to him, and he wasn't sure which was worse. He also didn't want to eat in his office, because he honestly thought, you were still there and he didn't want to disturb you. So, he was a bit surprised when he saw you in one of the biggest hangars, where the lights were off and the only sound that could be heard was planes landing and taking off on the tarmac. 

He didn't say anything, just sat about a meter away from you, took a smoothie from his lunch bag and placed it right next to you, wordlessly giving it to you, and started to eat his sandwich in silence. He didn't ask any questions, didn't make any remarks, just... kept you company, while you couldn't stop staring at the glass bottle, he presented you with. You eventually placed your dad's notebook on the ground and cautiously took the glass bottle into one hand. Even though the intention was obvious, you still weren't entirely sure if it wasn't happening in your imagination. 

- Peanuts...? - you asked quietly, without even looking at him. Your voice hoarse and rough from all the crying and screaming. You honestly weren't sure exactly when was the last time you spoke to anyone. Even your mother wasn't calling you that often, tired of your constant grief; you didn't blame her though. Cyclone only shook his head for no, which you caught with a corner of your eye. 

- Cashews, apples, kiwis, coconut milk and fresh, young nettle. - he said after he swallowed the bite of his sandwich. You still held the glass bottle as if it was about to explode any moment, but eventually you opened it and took a sniff before you put it to your lips and took a sip. It was... good. Tasty. 

- Thank you... - you whispered and started slowly sipping on the smoothie while he continued eating his breakfast. He only nodded once in response, letting you know that there’s nothing to thank for. 

You of course knew him... For the last couple of years, you were interpreting your dad's words in the meetings with him at least couple of times a week. You didn't know much about his personal life though. But right now, he was the right person in the right place, at the right time. His mere presence brought you weird comfort, taking you back to simpler times. 

He finished the meal first, but he didn't go, just reclined a bit, seeking support in the wall behind. He wasn't rushing you and didn't even give you impression that he was in a hurry, so you continue to take small sips of something that had actual sustenance, instead of tea or a single fruit that you could barely stomach. You knew you should be eating more, because you started to see bones through your skin that you weren't able to see before the funeral. The clothes were secondary, because you were mostly wearing your dad's old t-shirts and jackets, which were already much too big for you, but they brought you comfort, and you held to that small piece of support with all your might. but because of that, you haven't noticed how much weight you actually lost. 

So, you were extremely grateful for that smoothie, because you just didn't have the energy to even think about the food, you just didn't know how to show it or say it, so a simple "thank you" had to suffice, at least for now. 

You weren't sure how much time had passed until you finally finished the drink and closed the bottle, but it was at least half an hour, maybe even closer to an hour. You suspected that he had other things to do, yet he was sitting on the cold, metal floor of a balcony with you, as if you were kids who just met in the kindergarten. And if you had to be completely honest, you didn't mind that. Because he didn't do or say anything that was supposed to make you feel better. You were just two people. Eating breakfast. And for the first time in weeks, you smiled... 

He joined you later that day again; you were still sitting on the same balcony, so you weren't exactly hard to find. This time he brought you a wrap with smoked salmon, avocado, sunflower seeds and Philadelphia cheese. He had sushi... And you sat in complete silence again, not even one word between you this time, because even simple "thank you" seemed too heavy for you.

You didn't know why he was doing that, but deep inside, you were grateful. It was your second meal of the day since forever, and he stayed with you till you ate it whole, which took at least thirty minutes, because the bites you were taking were small and far apart. And yet he didn't say a word, didn't complain, didn't rush you... Just sat there and ate his sushi, and after he finished, he leaned again on the wall behind him. It wasn't easy for you to relax, but you at least didn't find his presence overbearing, which was progress. 

Small, yet somehow significant. But Rome wasn't built in a day.

After you finished eating, he took the wrapping from you to throw away and left you alone again, saying goodbye with a simple smile.

In the afternoon he brought you hot black tea, a caramel cookie and a blanket, which you let him drape over your body while you were holding thermal mug in your hands. He was really careful and made sure not to actually touch you, because in his mind it was a line, he wasn't ready to cross just yet. He again sat with you while you were slowly nibbling on the cookie and sipping tea. You suspected that the mug he brought the tea in was his personal one, because you seriously doubted that navy had yeti mugs just laying around, but you didn't say a word. Commenting on that would require much more energy than you had left in your batteries for today. Maybe tomorrow... 

This time he didn't bring anything for himself, so he was just sitting next to you with his eyes closed. He was breathing slow and steady, and that quiet, rhythmic sound somehow managed to ground you enough that you finally looked at him. The sun was slowly setting over the horizon and shined its rays on both of you... He looked... tired. But at the same time calm and content. You could tell that he wasn't in any hurry to get anywhere, and if he had any worries on his mind, there weren't reaching him this high up. You could see his chest slowly rising with every breath... Unknowingly, you focused on the same things he noticed about you, when he was looking at you sleeping. 

You eventually looked forward again and went back to slowly sipping from a giant mug of tea. You were surprised to learn that it was your favorite - earl grey with bluebottle flowers, with a little bit of honey. You doubted that it was an accident, but you honestly didn't care right now; it didn't matter.

Only after you finished your tea, you realized that he wasn't just sitting there... He fell asleep, and that made you smile for the second time today. You placed an empty mug on his left side, and moved a bit closer to him. The metal floor was getting colder this late in the day, and he was bound to get cold sooner rather than later, so you unfolded the blanket he draped over you, and put it around him as well. If he was tired enough to fall asleep here, he definitely deserved to get some rest. The blanket was big enough that it covered both of you, without forcing you to touch, so you could go back to re-reading your dad's journal in the last rays of sun for the day. 

At first you didn't notice his scent, because the detergent on the blanket was so strong, but it finally got to you, after few minutes of sitting in such close proximity. He smelled faintly of either pine or spruce, and a hint of very good quality soap. At first it distracted you, but it didn't take long for you to stop consciously noticing it. It still surrounded you though... 

You weren't sure what was the exact reason... If it was the heat radiating of the body next to you, his calm and steady breath, the fact that you actually ate today, or maybe the combination of all three, but you eventually joined him and fell asleep, sitting under one blanket with vice-admiral Beau Simpson. 

When he woke up, he didn't know where he was at first. His back and ass were cold, but the front of his body was pleasantly warm. It was dark all around him and he had trouble identifying anything. But finally his train of thoughts caught up with reality, and he realized what, or rather who, was responsible for the additional weight on his thighs. 

He gave his eyes few minutes to adjust to the darkness and he was finally able to see the familiar outline of your head, which made him smile. He still couldn't say what exactly possessed you to lay on him and, but the realization finally got to him, based on the blanket placement. You must have fell in your sleep, without even realizing it, and it made him chuckle a little. He couldn't help but move your hair from your forehead and you took a deeper breath when he did that. He didn't want to wake you up, but at the same time, he knew that it wasn't the best place for you to sleep, mostly because of the temperature, and he didn't want you to get sick. 

But he selfishly didn't move for few more minutes, just taking in your presence. He was watching you from afar for so long, that actually being so close to you seemed... surreal, almost like a dream. Especially in the moonlight that was coming through the giant windows above you. In his eyes, you looked as if you stepped straight out of a fairy-tale to bless him with your company. 

You looked so peaceful and he hated that he had to disturb that, but to his surprise, when he touched your arm and gently shook it, you didn't wake up... You didn't even react in the slightest. 

At first, he wanted to try to call your name, to shake you a bit stronger, but another, admittingly more creepy plan won in his head. 

Very gently he hooked your arm on his neck, turned towards you, and grabbed you under your knees and your back. You weighed almost nothing in his arms, and he could feel your shoulder blades even through the jacket you were wearing. Your head moved forward and rested on his chest, instead of lulling back, following the gravity. He left his mug on the balcony, making a mental note to come back for it later, when you'll be out of his arms. 

He walked slowly and carefully, trying his best not to wake you up. There wasn't a lot of people in the corridors this late, and those who were, suddenly went quiet and found something else to look at. At first, he wanted to get you to his office, but he selfishly didn't want to leave you there alone, and sleeping on the rough carpet didn't sound that appealing... Instead, he took you to the quarters that were assigned to him. It was a small room, with almost no decoration. There was a bunk bed built into the wall, even though he was the only one assigned to this room, a small desk, a wardrobe, armchair in the corner. 

He didn't spend a lot of time here, preferring his house off the base, but this room was still available to him if needed. And today definitely qualified under "if needed". He didn't even turn the lights on because he knew how harsh they were, and he was afraid that you would wake up. 

He gently placed you on the lower bed.

He was torn about what to do next, but he eventually unlaced your shoes, took them off, and placed them under the bed. Not creepy at all. At last, he slowly moved the duvet from under you and covered you with it, even though you were still wrapped in a blanket. But when he was covering your shoulders, you desperately grabbed his wrist in your sleep and pulled it closer to your chest. He tried to gently pry your fingers away, so he could climb into the top bed and fall asleep, but you didn't want to let go.

He honestly considered climbing in the bed with you for a moment, but Solomon's voice slapped him over the head and instead he sighed heavily. Without moving too much, he grabbed a cushion from the armchair and placed it on the floor next to the bed. he also grabbed a pillow from the top bunk and did his best to find the most comfortable position while sitting on the floor. He eventually unbuttoned and loosened his collar. In the ideal world, he would be able to take his shirt of completely without waking you up, leaving only his t-shirt... That was a lie... In the ideal world, he wouldn't have to worry so much about you because you wouldn't be grieving... He also took his shoes off and put a pillow on the shoulder that you were currently trying to pull closer, and rested his head on it, trying to find the best angle, so the edge of the bed wouldn't be stabbing his ribs.

He looked at you one last time before closing his eyes and focused on your breathing for a moment.

It was calm and steady, which told him that even though you were clutching his arms like a lifebuoy, you didn't have a nightmare; at least that's what he was hoping for...

You woke up in an unfamiliar place, yet somehow you felt calmer than you felt in weeks. At first you didn't even want to open your eyes, in fear that if you did, that bubble of serenity would disappear in a blink of an eye. So, you laid there without even moving a finger, allowing yourself absorb every second of that bliss. 

Only after good five minutes you realized that you were holding someone's hand and your eyes shot open in a slight panic, which only grew when you realized your current position. 

Vice-admiral Beau Simpson was sitting on the floor, draped over the edge of the bed in which you were currently laying. Your heartrate immediately jumped, and your brain slowly started to fill in the blanks with the most rational possibility. You fell asleep. He took you to this room so you could sleep in the bed. But you didn't let him go... 

So, he slept next to you. On the floor. In a very uncomfortable position. 

It must have been very early, because the sun wasn't fully over the horizon yet, painting the sky with a muted orange color, that filled the room almost completely. 

You took a closer look at his sleeping face for the second time during last twenty-four hours; the calmness of if somehow rubbed off on you, and you weren't panicking anymore... You couldn't place exactly why you were reacting that way to his presence, but you did... And now it was your turn to do something creepy and stupid... 

Without letting him go, you gently cupped his cheek with your free hand and his eyes immediately shot open, but he calmed down when he saw you. You didn't say anything... Instead, you pulled him towards you, and moved closer to the wall, making space for him under heavy duvet in the very narrow bed, and he followed... Like a puppy on a leash... He climbed into bed with you, ignoring all the sirens in his head.

You let go of his hand and he pulled the covers over both of you, and just as he was beginning to feel unsure about what to do with his limbs, you took his arm again and guided it around your body, letting it rest on the top part of your stomach, and covered it with your own. After that his other hand easily found a place under your pillow and his left ankle rested on top of your right. 

At this moment in time, this was the only thing you needed from life... 

You didn't even realize how quickly your breaths synchronized, lulling both of you back to sleep. 

When you woke up for the second time, the sun was high up, and he was gone... You couldn't help feeling a bit sad. You knew that he had to work, and there were total of... 12 words exchanged between you two. But to your surprise, that sadness had a different taste than the one you felt constantly for the last two months... But you knew that if you started analyzing and dissecting it, you would spiral again. 

When you turned around and looked around the room, you noticed your bag resting on the floor next to the desk, your dad's journal on the desk, and a another glass bottle with a short "no peanuts" scribbled on a post-it note stuck to the side of it. But... you didn't want to get out of bed just yet. Your rational brain was screaming at you that you definitely should, because you were already abusing vice-admiral's hospitality. Not to mention that you used his body... Well, not in the most obvious way, but still... On the other hand, he wasn't exactly yelling at you and protesting. 

So, staying in bed it was... 

But first you took your jacket off and hung it over the ladders edge. You also took of your jeans and socks because it was extremely warm under the duvet. It definitely wasn't navy issued and even only in your underwear and your dad's much too big for you t-shirt, you were hot. But it was pleasant, because for the longest time you were always cold... It was partially to the fact that you weren’t eating enough, and partially because you were... well... depressed. So, you welcomed that warmness with your whole heart, covering even your head, leaving only a small gap for the oxygen to come in. 

It wasn't long before you fell asleep again, surrounded by a very subtle pine or spruce smell. 

Next time you didn't wake up on your own... Vice-Admiral Simpson was kneeling next to the bed and gently moving your hair from your forehead. 

- You need to eat something... - he whispered quietly. He didn't want to wake you up, but when he came back with lunch and saw that you didn't even touch your breakfast, he got a little bit worried. You wanted to shake your head for no, because you already ate so much yesterday, and you were still full from that... Sleep sounded much better than eating. But instead of refusing you ended up following his nods. - Just a quick small meal, and you can go back to sleep, ok...? - he asked, but it wasn't a request. You propped yourself on the wall behind you and took a glass bottle you saw earlier from his hands. 

It took you a good minute to hype yourself up to actually take a sip, but when you saw relief on his face... Well... It helped with every sip that followed the first one. 

He stayed with you until you finished the whole smoothie and gave you a gentle smile when he took the empty bottle from your hands. You moved your pinky just by few millimeters, so you could touch his hand. You weren't entirely sure if you did that consciously or subconsciously, but he didn't pull away for few more seconds, allowing the touch to linger. 

He wanted nothing more than to climb to bed with you again and protect you from both the outside world and what was happening in your mind, and you were so naively allowing him to do so... He couldn't help but feel like he was taking advantage of you, but you were a fully grown woman... Much, much younger than him, but still.

He wanted to tell you how much of a good girl you were for drinking the whole smoothie, and how proud and happy he was that you were finally getting enough sleep, but that would cross so many lines, that he wasn't even sure if he could count that high. 

You were so obviously depressed and grieving, that even an idiot would have noticed, and instead of getting you professional help, he was selfishly keeping you in his room, feeding you food he prepared and occasionally climbing in the bed with you... 

He clenched his jaw and finally pulled away, breaking this small point of contact between your bodies. And everything would have been fine, if you didn't follow his movements, and kneeled on his bed, and cupped his face with your right hand, forcing him to look you in the eyes. He almost immediately looked away, afraid of what you could possible find there, but you followed his gaze and intercepted it again. 

- Thank you... - your voice barely a whisper, because you couldn’t make it any stronger... Not yet... He only nodded in response and moved away from your hand by finally standing up.

- I will leave the lunch on the desk... It's a crab sushi roll, please try to eat it when you'll wake up next time, ok...? - he pleaded and you simply couldn't say no to that, so you nodded - Also, there is grape juice... - "your favorite..." he wanted to add, but he didn't want to explain exactly how he knew that. But your soft smile told him everything he needed to know. - Do you... want a book? - he asked with one hand on the door handle, and you considered your response for a moment, but eventually shook your head for no. You didn't think you had enough in you to process anything new. He gave you one last, soft smile and you were alone again. 

Usually, it would the prime time for a panic attack, but you stayed calm, grounded by the subtle scent vice-admiral left behind. 

You laid back in bed, and closed your eyes, even though it was the middle of the day, and harsh rays of sunshine would make it extremely hard for a regular person to fall asleep. But you had 2 months of catching up to do. And you were going to squeeze everything you possible could from that bubble of calmness, because you honestly didn't know how long it would last.

Next time you woke up, it was still bright outside, and nothing in the room changed, so you assumed that no one visited you while you slept. At first you wanted to go back to sleep immediately, but you remembered that you promised Beau that you would at least try to eat... With a heavy sigh, you got out of bed; but before you got to the food, you opened a window, to let some fresh air in. What you didn't predict was, that the fresh air was cold. So, you took your lunch and grape juice, sat in the armchair, curled your legs under you and pulled a t-shirt over them. 

It took you good five minutes before you actually took a first bite, and even longer to take the second one... But you kept at it, slowly but surely eating the lunch that Beau prepared for you. And you were sure that he made it because you knew canteen menu well enough to know that they didn't have sushi. If you weren't so cut from reality, you would be wondering what all that meant, but at this specific moment you could find the energy only for slowly eating. And with every bite it was easier to take and swallow the next one. It wasn't a big portion, and yet you still weren't able to eat more than half. 

And this time you didn't go straight back to sleep after eating... Instead, you grabbed the journal and continued reading where you left off yesterday. 

That's how vice-admiral Simpson found you... Curled up in his chair, completely hidden in a tent made from your dad's t-shirt, so even your toes weren't visible, with a very old journal in your hands. One look at the desk told him that you did your best to follow his request, and then was that feeling again... The one that demanded that he tell you how proud and happy he was, but he squashed it before it grew any bigger. 

- I brought you some towels, a toothbrush and a change of clothes. You don't have to do anything, they will just be here, in case you'd want them... - he placed the small bundle on the edge of the desk. He also brought with him a thermal mug full of tea. "I'm sorry I can't stay..." he wanted to apologize while holding you closely in his arms and showering you with gentle kisses all over your neck and chest. Instead, he just put a yeti mug on the desk close to you, and was gone before you even managed to thank him. 

For a few more minutes you tried to focus on your father's handwriting, but your eyes kept wondering to the bundle he left for you. You didn't have to, he said it himself... But you were curious enough to stand up from the armchair and take a closer look. Towel was nothing special... Well, at the first glance. Another thing that might have looked like it was military issued but wasn't. The one you were currently holding in your hands was much, much bigger, and softer than the ones issued in the common area. Inside the towel there was a plain white t-shirt, soft grey shorts, plain black underwear and... fluffy dark-green socks. To say that you were surprised would be an understatement. Not only underwear was in your size, but you couldn't help but wonder where he got the socks from. You gently run your fingers through the soft material, and you couldn't help but smile. 

Now you definitely had to take that shower. 

You correctly assumed that the second door indeed led to a very tiny bathroom. You took your clothes off, folded them neatly and stepped into the shower. Both the water pressure and the temperature were perfect, and you spent much more time in the bathroom than you initially planned. It was spruce, not pine... you realized when you saw the shampoo on the small shelf. He was using a natural, spruce scented shampoo... And now you will smell like him... 

You dried yourself with a towel and put on the clothes he gave you. Both shorts and t-shirt were too big for you, but you honestly didn't mind. You did your best to dry your hair, but they were still very damp when you left the bathroom. You hang the towel on the radiator, so it would dry faster, and finally put on the fluffy socks. It was such a small thing, and yet it brought you so much joy. Not only they were extremely soft, but they were also in your favorite color. You settled back in the armchair and looked first at the journal and then at the unfinished roll... You sighed heavily and reached for the latter. 

It took you more time than taking a shower to finish your lunch, but you finally did, after which you got up again to wash your teeth. You noticed that he gave you the same toothbrush as the one that was in the cup on the sink, and since you didn't want them to mix up, you just placed yours on shelf next to the mirror, which you avoided more than a plague. 

All that food and hot temperature started to knock you out and you climbed back to bed, hid under the covers and almost immediately dozed off. 

When Cyclone came back to his temporary quarters, he felt that nagging feeling again... You not only ate everything he left for you, but also found enough energy to take a shower, which he knew must have been huge, ever since you stopped running on that harmful autopilot and had to actually think about what you were doing. He took one look at you and the warmth spilled inside his chest... You were laying in his bed, wearing his clothes, smelling like him... He couldn't help that feeling of possessiveness that crept in and demanded that he marks you in so many more ways, but he squashed it again. Now was not the time... And he was better than his basic instincts. 

So instead, he went to the bathroom and took a quick cold shower. He noticed with a soft smile that you kept your toothbrush separated from his; he should have thought about it earlier and bring you one that didn't look like his, but still... A very small thing, yet it left a mark that you were there. 

You didn't wake up to the quiet hum of the water, or when he took a fresh set of clothes from the wardrobe to wear to bed. And before he climbed up to the top bunk, he took one look at you, only now noticing that you were shivering. He quickly closed the window and put the duvet over you. He wanted to kiss your forehead so badly... but he didn't, settling on tucking your hair behind your ear, so he could see your face better. You looked... a bit more like you today, than you did yesterday. 

He sighed softly and finally climbed in the top bed. 

You knew that something was wrong before you even woke up. Your heart was pounding, your hands and legs were shaking, your cheeks were completely soaked with silent tears, and when you finally woke up, you couldn't catch your breath. You tried to stay as quiet as you could, while attempting to take gasp after gasp of air, but your lungs just weren't cooperating. You knew what it was, you knew how to deal with it in theory. Yet when it came to actually calming down... You were desperate... 

You got out of your bed and as gently as you could, put your cold fingers on Beau's shoulder, which jolted him awake. And when he saw in what state you were in, you didn't even register how he got down; you just felt his arms pulling you to his chest and surrounding you from every angle. His embrace was strong enough to ground you in reality, and his scent only amplified that. You were openly sobbing into his shirt, not really caring about the potential consequences. You didn't register when exactly he sat on the lover bunk, and pulled you with him, letting you curl up in his lap, with his arms still tightly wrapped around you. He pressed his cheek you your forehead and was whispering something you didn't understand in your current state, but his voice alone was enough to pulled you out of that spiral and try to match his breathing, even if that hurt your lungs in the short term. You knew from experience that it was the best option to pull you out of that self-loathing spiral. He realized what you were trying to do and started breathing a bit quicker so it would be easier for you to match that tempo, and only after you did that, he slowed down again... 

Only now you started to process what he was saying to you... How well you were doing, what a good girl you were, how brave you were, how he was proud that you started to calm down... You weren't even sure if he realized what he was saying, because as soon as you went stiff in his arms, he immediately stopped, as if it hit him too. 

The rational part of your brain was screaming at you that it wasn't normal and that you should get out, but everything else was telling you to stay near him at all costs. You weren't sure if you were getting addicted to him or what any of it meant... You just knew you felt safe, and for now... That was more than you could have said about your own home. At this specific moment, you didn't give a shit if he was using you, or if you were using him, because it just felt so good... not to feel numb.

- I'm sorry... - you mumbled against his skin, still clinging to his shirt with one hand, as if you were afraid that if you let go, all of this would disappear, and you would be alone again. 

- Shhhhh... It's ok, it's ok... - he started to gently rub your back and pulled you even closer, which you thought was impossible... - What do you need, babygirl…? - a pet name left his mouth before he even realized that it started forming on his tongue, and when it reached your ears, it was already too late. For both of you... 

- Just... Don't leave... Please... - you finally whispered, and he could swear you would be able to hear his heart break for you... You needed so much more than he felt he was able to give you and it broke him, but heavens and hells be damned, if he didn't at least try. 

- I'm here, I'm not going anywhere... - he whispered against the top of your head. - Just let it all go, I'm here to catch you... - he said and that was enough for you to start sobbing again, but this time not because of the panic attack... 

After two months of suppressing everything you possibly could, you finally felt safe enough to actually let some of those things go. It was stupid and small, but you were slowly accepting one small thing after another... You will never get a message from your dad wishing you a good day. You will never wave him goodbye from your childhood bedroom when he'd be leaving to DC or somewhere else... You will never clean up after his botched breakfast... You will never sneak into his workshop to scare him. Never fight with him about your non-existing parking skills. Never watch him start a fire in the fireplace. Never get a handwritten letter from him on your birthday. Never bicker with him about the correct way to store chopped wood. Never sing another Christmas song with him...

So many small things that clumped together into one giant monstrosity that consumed every aspect of your life, and letting it go in one move was simply impossible. So, you slowly chipped away one thing after another, spent a short moment holding it close to your heart for the last time and finally let it go...

You couldn't stop crying, but a moment came when you run out of tears, so you ended up quietly sobbing into Beau's shirt, clinging to him, as if he was the last thing on Earth.

And he didn't lie... He was there to catch you when you were falling. Every time you started sobbing harder, he gently soothed your back, started whispering sweet nothings straight into your ear, and what was most important, he didn't let you go, not even for a second. 

Both of you were lost in time, holding each other to give and receive comfort you both so desperately needed, just for entirely different reasons. 

It took him a moment to realize that you passed out from exhaustion, because after a while, you started to sob without making any sounds, only shaking against him from time to time... He dried your wet cheeks with his thumb and just looked at you for a long moment. The sun was getting ready to raise up again and started creeping into the room but wasn't reaching the bed just yet. He no longer gave a fuck about what was proper and what was not... Not when you broke in his arms, and he couldn't do anything more than just not let you go... He laid you down and he couldn't believe how peaceful you looked after what just happened. 

Before he joined you, he lowered the blinds and shot a quick message to Solomon, so he'd be able to keep his promise to you. It was dangerously easy for him to slip into bed next to you and find the perfect position to wrap you in his arms and pull you as close to him as humanly possible. In your sleep you grabbed the front of his shirt and tightened your fingers around it, and he didn't mind that in the slightest. He rested his face in your hair and was content with just being surrounded with your scent, which was dangerously close to his own now. He placed a soft kiss on the top of your head and felt your fingers relaxing a bit, but he didn't do that again, afraid of what he could do if he'd start moving that line further and further away. 

He wasn't able to fall asleep for the longest time, because he was afraid that you might wake up in the middle of another breakdown, so he just laid there with his eyes closed, listening to your breathing mixed with familiar sounds of a military base waking up... Somehow this tiny room became its own microcosm in the last 24 hours, and it felt like it was disconnected from anything else, despite being so close to, well... everything. He could hear the laughter of young pilots, running water somewhere far away, people complaining about the breakfast. And yet, all of that felt at least few universes away, when you were in his arms. But finally, this part of the base became quiet with everyone getting to their duties, and only now he was able to doze off... 

Part 2

A/N 2: Please don't feel obligated/pressured to reblog, because I write mostly for myself. But I would really appreciated if you commented :) Love, G.

A/N 2: Please don’t feel obligated/pressured to reblog, because I write mostly for myself. A comment would be appreciated though :) Love, G.

[scrollsfromarebornrealm]

curiosity (an outsider)

Augustine sighed, leaning back against the wall. There was still a crush of fans outside the gym. Reinhardt had slipped out around the back door, intent on heading to the Neon Stein to ask Oblivion for help leaving. Riven and Sebastian were entertaining Neyuni, while Mathye was tending an injury on Sebastian’s back.

“Hey.” Augustine blinked, jolted out of his thoughts. Yaana was in front of him. Her arms were crossed and her tail was twitching.

“Yes?” Yaana didn’t answer. Instead her eyes narrowed, and she leaned forward to scrutinize Augustine.

“…You’re like the real deal. I mean—you already were, but even more so!” She exclaimed. “Like an honest-to-goodness real knight from out of the histories and fairietales! No wonder a lot of the fans are going nuts! Aside from those good looks.” Augustine blinked at the Hhetsaro.

“Thank you?” Then he frowned as the rest of Yaana’s words sank in. “Wait. Are knights not a rank of the military here?”

“Haven’t been for centuries, least that’s what I remember from my schooling.” Yaana gestured. “In fact, there’s not that many actual living people in the army in the first place. They’re mostly there to just order the machines around.” She frowned. “Guess that might change now, what with the pipsqueak in charge and the Dawnservants helping him. Not many people feel safe with what’s left of the machine army guarding things.”

“I see.” Augustine replied, careful to keep his voice neutral. Memories flashed though his mind of robot Otis, and a pang of grief made his heart twist. Yaana continued, and Augustine gratefully forced his attention back towards the teenager.

“There’s something I was meaning to ask one of you about. I remember our parents used to tell us stories, and one of them was about warlords across the salt. Is it true all they ever do is fight over there?” The paladin blinked in surprise, then chuckled weakly.

“Well…” Gods, Yaana’s parents weren’t technically wrong, but at the same time… “It…depends on the location. And up until recently, much of the fighting has been to keep invaders out. Except for where Mat, Reinhardt and I are from. We were in a thousand-year war against dragons.”

“Wait, that part wasn’t a lie?!” Yaana exclaimed. “Folk here said Oblivion’d been talking about that! That you and those other two been trained from birth to fight—and dragons are real?! They’re really real?!”

“I wouldn’t say trained from birth…and yes. Dragons are real.” Augustine replied. At least on the Source. “But as for myself and Reinhardt—while our situations were different, we were Neyuni’s age when we first started to learn how to fight. And I was your age when I went to the Bloodsands for further training.”

“Bloodsands?” Yaana repeated.

“Our…well, version of the Arcadion.” Augustine explained. “Only minus the regulators, technology…it’s gladiatorial combat.”

“Hold on! You mean like…the old, old, old ways?!” Yaana screeched. The ruckus got the attention of Riven and the others, who turned their heads as the rookie fighter continued.

“Like fight to the actual death against beasts and other people?! You trained in that?!”

“Not so much fight to the death anymore, they changed that some time before I started.” Augustine struggled to not laugh at the shocked look on Yaana’s face. “But yes. There were other fighters, fiends…I remember hearing that well before my time, they used to flood the area to even have mock navel battles.”

“Holy shit!” Yaana crossed her arms, considering the paladin. “I suppose then fighting here’s a piece of cake then.” To her surprise, Augustine shook his head.

“Fighting anywhere is dangerous.” He said. “Only a fool goes into battle thinking that they’re invincible and they’ve seen it all. I’ve lost my fair share of battles and expect to lose many more. Some will be because I’ve not encountered that type of enemy before, others will be because my skill may not be on par with my foe.”

“And you’re not afraid to die?” Yaana asked. Augustine paused for a few moments, considering the question. He inhaled, then exhaled.

“I am.” He admitted. “But…you get used to the idea. When you’re a soldier, it’s a fact of life. You might get lucky, you might not.” Yaana watched as his eyes flicked towards Riven, then at the others.

“If I could die protecting the ones I loved, it would be an honorable death.”

“An honorable death.” Yaana repeated. “Is there such a thing?”

“It would depend on what you consider honor to be.” Augustine replied.