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bibliocratic · 4 years

Text

litany An exploration on endings. Or: all the ways it could have gone wrong and right.

jonmartin, spoilers for 200, content warnings in the tags

This is not what she thought victory would feel like.

Basira’s fingers tense and smart with overexerted aching when she stops to stretch them out. There is a geography of broken blood-vessels under the bruising that lies puddle-splotched over her hands which scrabble and claw talon-bent at the rubble. They are scored with scratches and tears where her exposed and dust-ruined skin has snagged on fractured brickwork.

She uncovers a foot first, as she pushes up and over the twisted mental of a window frame with an exhausted clatter. A trainer, the white doused with mud, the trailing laces caked stiff and russet. More heaving and hauling, her breath purging from her faster now – maybe, maybe, maybe, but she has lived too long now to believe in miracles. Overturning a fire-blasted section of what could have been once part of the imperious and grand stone stairwell, she reveals the leg the trainer is attached to, pulverised and off-angled by the weight of the collapse, the fabric of it drenched in soot. She peels back a cascade of plasterboard with a grunt, and there is a twisted pelvis, shattered ribs caved in under an acrid-smelling jumper. She’s not surprised at the dull punch of revelation, when she digs out hunched shoulders, coils of hair turned grey-white like swans’ down with the dust.

Martin is obviously dead. She hopes it was quick, fears it was not. His body lying stringless is curved around something, clutching it to him with his bruised and broken fingers. It takes many minutes of labouring, her spine seizing with complaint, sweat pooling at her brow and under her arms, but eventually she reveals Martin’s tender quarry, bundled up against his chest, blood-soaked from a wound long congealed. His own long and bloody fingers clenched and moored into the weft of Martin’s jumper.

She doesn’t need to check his pulse. She is cursed with enough sentiment to do so anyway. Crouching for a moment in the thick of the settling devastation, the fug of dust coating her nostrils, before she murmurs ‘I’m sorry’.

As she stands, she takes off her coat to lay it over them respectfully, the only shroud she can offer.

When her voice is composed, its cracks flattened out, she shouts the others over to tell them to stop searching.

The knife does not go in easily. There is force behind its thrust, a manic wave-shock of hysteric intent, and Jon’s lips part in a gasp as skin and sinew and flesh split. The noise wrenched from Martin is soiled with ruin, tremulous and saw-toothed, and he will never be able to forgive himself.

Jon’s eyes close. Peace of a sort granted to Magnus’ last and most beleaguered of Archivists.

And then they open. All of them, like the unfolding back of petals during blossoming, a meadow’s expanse of sight flowering on his face.

“No,” Martin whispers, the refusal almost lost over the tumult of the building around them. He pulls the knife out, and it drips onto the floor, making damp the material of his trousers. “No, nononononono.”

The wound presses together like lips, and then it is gone.

“I think it’s too late for that, Martin,” the Archivist says in that calm and reasoned voice of his.

It is a surreal, poorly-rendered mirror of before. A way the record of the world has slipped, juddered aground in a repeat. For all they have both changed, outgrown the casings of the people they were, for all they have endured both together and apart, it is a sick homecoming of sorts to stand again a second time round at the entrance to his hospital ward.

She’s brought supermarket flowers bunched in plastic, the last of a bad crop and too late to get the freshest, the stalks of baby’s breath drooping, the petals on the carnations mottled slightly and past their glory days. Jon lies submerged in sleep, the focal point in a placid storm of machines and wires. This coma chemically induced with no inkling of the supernatural, a last-ditch effort by the doctors to reduce the swelling on his brain. To give the body a chance to heal from the damage sustained during the collapse, his frame bludgeoned and punctured like a shrike-caught mouse, the smoke that has snarled like brambles in his lungs. The almost comically neat wound punched into his chest, nicking his heart.

She hopes his sleep is dreamless.

It takes him weeks to wake up.

“… Georgie?” he finally gasps out on an otherwise uneventful Thursday. His vocals are ribbed and scored with smoke damage. He’s sluggish as he blinks and turns and groans at the complaint of his body around him. “What – er?”

“Hey Jon,” she replies. “Good to have you back with us.”

She lets him acclimatise. Without his glasses, he squints and peers owlishly, like an inquisitive bird, absorbed by the novelty of his environment, the mundanity; the hospital-blue curtain that’s been pulled back around his bed, missing a few rungs and so hanging lopsided in places. The wilting flowers on the side table. The IV needles threaded into his arms.

“Did it work?” he asks finally.

“We think so.”

Georgie doesn’t add more. The conversation is one she knew they’d have, but it still feels like stepping out on frozen water. She is waiting for it to give beneath him, for the drop and drown in the unmoored cold.

His relief muddies in increments. His brow crinkling with a frown, glancing around again at the other beds. Their occupants dredged up and out and recovering from their private terrors, bringing the lessons of their landscape with them.

“Where - ?”

He looks up at her. The ice cracking.

“I’m… I’m so sorry, Jon,” she says.

“We made it. L-look, see, we’re – I don’t know where we are exactly, b-but that doesn’t matter, does it, because we’re together, yeah? We’re together and that’s… that’s what we promised.”

The blood is drying on his trembling fingertips, the crevices of his palm, and it flakes off like decaying leaf-fall. The front of his clothes is clogged and sodden, the slick slow to harden. The weight in his arms is making his shoulders scream but he can’t let go.

“We – we did it,” he repeats hollowly. Desperately. “We did it, s-so you can come back now. You can come back. Together, you promised.”

The winds of this new world blow as cold as the old one did, and it is Martin’s only reply.

“It’s for the best, Martin,” the Archivist says.

“Shut up,” his furious watcher snarls. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Don’t play st – Like him! Like he would! Using his voice.”

“It’s my voice. It’s me, Martin.”

Martin doesn’t respond to that. Their arguments are cyclical as roundabouts. He tells Martin he loves him. Martin tells him to fuck off.

The place where Jonah Magnus met his End, crumpled up on the dais of the Panopticon, has been cleared of blood. It distressed Martin to look upon, as evidence of his ascension rather than his capacity for brutality, so the servitors saw to its removal. The body he gifted to the mulch of the bone gardens, and the wailing growths flourished beautifully with the nutrients it bore.

The screams beyond the walls of the Panopticon cut off faster as he hastens them towards the End. He observes a world in its twilight. There is still torment, and it is unendurable and unfair but it will end under his reign, for good and for ever, and he will ensure that there is no more.

“You don’t have to stay,” the Archivist says. Considered. Gentle. “I know… seeing me like this is not what you wanted. I want us to be together while it ends, but I won’t force you.”

“And how is it any better out there?”

“It’s not,” he admits. “Here, I can keep you safe. I want you to be safe. I want you to be happy.”

“Well, you fucked up there then,” Martin snaps.

His anger is righteous and flint-spark, makes barriers that almost waylay his grieving. He looks at him, and for a moment, his gaze shakes. He will see nothing less than he expects to see, a man, unkempt from travel, a bit grubby. Coarse hands he has held, lines he has attempted to smooth. In many ways, this makes it worse.

Martin turns away, and the Archivist lets him go.

He needs time and they have more than enough of it now.

He is inconsolable when they dig them out. A horrible, anguished keening like he’s being struck, a gasping that violently gags and stoppers in his chest. His face twisted, blotching, his eyes swollen, and the picture he makes is ugly, rent-open, decimated, bawling into the body he’s crushed up against him. Rag-doll limbed. Ashen.

They can’t make him let go. His cries transform and degrade into wails, garbled wordless, the horizon of language lost. They aren’t even sure if he knows they’re there. The sound pouring out of him is frenzied, delirious and anguished by surviving the unsurvivable alone. He fades hoarse through the ruin he has made of his throat and then he just weeps into Jon’s chest, and still he will not let go.

Melanie’s the one that stops him using the knife the first time. Wrestling it from his grip more out of surprise than shock at Georgie’s shout, and her anger is poisoned with her panic, throwing it to one side and hearing it clatter, snarling that I’m not going to fucking bury both of you, you hear me, don’t even think about it, fuck you, you think this is what he would have wanted, you think we want to lose you too?

Martin doesn’t reply.

They are not fast enough to stop him the second time he tries.

There are two men, strangers to these parts, who moved into the village from elsewhere like seeds caught on breeze. They plant their roots in uneasy soil. They talk to no one, versed in polite but guarded pleasantries, their greeting smiles to-the-point and weathered like coastal walls to withstand even the most inquisitive of questioners.

The one who is tall has the pared-down appearance of someone who has lost a lot of weight through some wasting that gnaws upon him. A gauntness that accentuates the furrows and gulleys and crags of his face, worsens the snow-stark white of his hair. The one who is short has been formed naturally sharp in features, although the brown of his eyes is mellow, prone to distance and otherwise unremarkable. The rumour mill, that tumbles in cycles of chatter that rolls from suspicious to musing, supposes some great and devastating fire to account for the injuries on his hands and the exposed skin of his face and neck, the pocked divots like scattered spark burns, ragged scars from shrapnel of some kind.

The one who is short limps on a sturdy walking stick, fashioned from an oak branch divorced from its tree in a storm. Any travel ventured upon is slow and demonstrably an effort. His free hand clasped in the hand of the one who is tall, who decks himself in layers even in the mildest of weathers, whose eyes are biting as hailstones, awashed grey and framed with bruising as though his dreams are rarely kind.

They re-painted the outer walls of their house last summer, when the temperature wallowed sticky and dense and glorious. The tree in their garden has fruited its first pears, few and stunted but a start that promises better crops come next year.

There is the hope that the strangers are happy.

If they are, it remains nobody’s business but their own.

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redstainedsocks · 3 years

Text

Wrong

I've had this half-written in my docs for a long while, under the heading "doorstep collapse" so I think it was for a prompt or whump event but I don't remember which one...

Normal story this time, not the AU!

Content: sick fic, fainting, delirious whumpee, hospital setting, use of sedatives, reference to noncon drug use, mentioned death threat and manner of death, overwhelmed caretaker

[Masterlist]

One or two of the team had taken to sleeping at the office at a time so that Zach was never there alone. Archer wanted to stay every night, always eager to be nearby in case something happened, but he’d been convinced to go home at least one out of every three nights.

He’d spent last night at home, sleeping guiltily in his own soft bed, miles and miles from where his best friend was holed up in a sparse, grey room that was as far from homely as Archer could imagine. Though he knew for Zach it was probably the most comfort he’d had in years, which made Archer feel even worse.

He’d slept well at home, exhausted from late nights and stress, but he would much rather have been here. The pull out couch in the break room was lumpy and not long enough for his tall frame but he still preferred it these days. Zach was just down the hall and it soothed a tightness in Archer’s chest to be close by. To know he could walk down the corridor and lay eyes on the person he thought he’d lost.

He was still untangling his own mix of grief and disbelief, but he knew it was easier to bear the guilt of having left Zach with his kidnappers if he was at least around to make sure it didn’t happen again; if he could be there to help Zach feel safe now.

It was easier not to have to examine his emotions and thoughts at all, if he was so exhausted that he couldn’t think straight.

Zach had gone to bed a couple of hours ago and he had sat up flicking through paperwork, trying to keep busy even as his eyes itched with tiredness. His ‘bed’ was made up ready for the night but he was sprawled on top of it, putting off the moment of sleep until he could close his eyes and be instantly drawn under.

He was surprised to hear a soft knock at the door, tentative, the sound of someone off balance slumping on the other side. Maybe Zach couldn’t sleep either? Maybe he’d finally had a nightmare and come for company—something none of them had seen him do yet.

“It’s open,” he said, half sitting up.

The door swung inward and Zach teetered on the threshold. His eyes roved across the room, landing on Archer but darting away again.

“Zach?” Archer was up and off the bed in an instant, but paused a meter or so away, as Zach looked flighty and liable to flinch at any contact.

“Ar-cher.”

“Yeah?”

“I think,” Zach spoke and it was slurred and he clung to the doorframe. “I think something is wrong.”

Archer barely had time to react before Zach’s eyes rolled backward and his body crumpled underneath him. Archer caught him just before his head hit the floor.

Time was standing still and moving too fast all at once. The ambulance had taken what felt like hours to arrive, while Archer sat there cradling Zach—delirious, feverish, burning up and shaking like a leaf.

The private hospital they were in now was clean, clinical, and calm. Quiet. Discrete. It was a good place to keep Zach hidden and secure, but being there still set his teeth on edge. He paced the corridor-like waiting room back and forth, glad that no one told him to stop. The team had all been called; Sasha had been the one who turned up and stayed. She was a quiet, steady presence. And though he could tell from the line of her tense muscles that she was as worried as he was, she let him be the one to fall apart while she held it together.

Zach had a fever, something was infected. The doctors just couldn’t find where or what. They hadn’t been allowed to see him. Yet. Archer hoped that would change soon.

He rubbed his face tiredly. “I should get more coffee.”

“I think coffee is the last thing you need,” Sasha replied, calmly. “Come sit down.”

He glanced at her and shook his head. He needed to be moving, doing. “If he—” Archer couldn’t even bring himself to say it. “After everything, if this is too much for his body to handle…”

“Nothing is going to happen, the doctors are gonna fix it.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Don’t I?” She levelled him with a look that could surely make a mountain bow down and grovel.

“How didn’t we notice something was wrong?”

“He doesn’t let us near him, not really.”

Finally, he slumped into a seat beside her. “I should’ve watched out for him more carefully, checked he was okay. I should’ve… I owe him. We just… we can’t let him down again, we have to do better.”

“Archer, we’re doing everything we can,” she said gently.

“It’s not enough!” He snapped. “We abandoned him! We just left him there and now we can’t even take care of him? Can’t even tell what he needs?”

“Montgomery Archer, sit. Back. Down,” she hissed.

He hadn’t even realised he was standing. He looked down at her, the unfairness still burning through him, how could she not care? Until he saw her face, eyes glistening, and realised the strength of will it was taking for her to hold it together.

“This is a goddamn hospital and this is not the time,” she said, squeezing her hands between her knees. “We thought he was dead, and there’s shit all we can do about it now. You can have a breakdown about it later, but not now, not like this.”

He took a seat, sheepishly. “Sorry. I… seeing him collapse like that has me all churned up.”

“Don’t apologise, you big oaf. Just breathe, and know they’re doing everything they can, and give yourself some damn slack while you’re at it.” She sniffed and turned away.

He scooted down in his chair and leaned against her shoulder, glad she didn't shrug him off, and relieved not to be alone.

They were finally allowed in the room once Zach was stabilised. Allowed in because, in the doctor’s words… Zach was resistant. Archer hadn’t really understood the implications of that, his mind taken up with thoughts of he’s fine, he’s alive, they’ve got it under control.

But now… he could see what they meant. Zach was fighting the sedative, semi-conscious and struggling, suffering. He couldn’t really move, but his eyes were open and he was frightened, terrified, but so obviously not-really-here, either. Whatever had happened these past two years Zach had built up some tolerance to the drugs they’d given him and it was heart-breaking; seeing him foggy but alert, unsure of where he was and unable—but so desperate—for something he couldn't name or do.

“See if you can get him to remain calm, he needs to rest,” the doctor said, arms crossed in concern as his eyes roved over Zach’s prone form. “We can’t try him on anything else until this one is out of his system but even then… He’s been asking for someone, we assumed, well, it might be you?”

Archer nodded, cleared his throat. ‘Right, yeah. He knows me, I can—I’ll do what I can. Anything I should be careful of?”

“Just mind the IV line, and call us in if he gets more agitated or anything changes.”

“Okay, I’ve got this. Thank you, Doctor.”

He did not have this. Not even a little bit. He felt completely out of his depth. He loved Zach like a brother, had loved him and mourned him, and now… felt like he barely knew him. What qualified him to take care of Zach like this? He wrung his hands and stepped closer as Sasha sidled around to the other side of the bed. Zach’s eyes tried to track her, and lost her somewhere along the way. His breathing sped up again, bloodshot eyes wide and aimlessly roving as his fingers twitched on the bed sheets.

“Please, please,” Zach murmured. Whispered, almost. It was slurred but unmistakable.

Sasha gave Archer a look, and nodded to the bed. He shook his head. She raised her eyebrows and crossed her arms and they stared each other down.

I can’t do this. He hoped she understood what his look implied.

Her answering look seemed to say you’re not even trying.

He threw his hands up in defeat and stepped closer. Zach’s eyes landed on Archer’s face and he twitched feebly, shivering in his sparse hospital bed.

“‘M good, I’ll be good, please.”

Archer leaned against the bed, trying to look reassuring, confident. “Yeah, you’re doing really well, okay? We’ve got you, nothing to worry about.”

Zach’s hand jerked and his mouth opened and closed before he whined. “Hurts.”

“I know, buddy, I know.” He looked at Sasha who nodded, so he took Zach’s hand and lightly squeezed. “It’s alright.”

“Please, you promised. Promised.”

That took Archer by surprise and he sucked in a breath, biting his tongue.” I know, I-I said nothing else bad would happen to you, I didn’t know this would happen…”

There was a frustrated look on Zach’s face and his eyes filled with tears, his head flopped a little, side to side. “You promised.”

Archer did the only thing he could think of, he squeezed Zach’s hand tighter and dragged the chair by the bed closer so he could sit and be a calming presence. He wouldn’t abandon Zach, not again, no matter how much Zach yelled and cried at him, broken-hearted though it made him to know he’d let Zach down another time.

“I’ll do whatever--ever you want. Sir, please,” Zach’s voice cracked and he mumbled into incoherence, all in a pleading, painfully placating tone.

Archer’s eyes shot up and he met Sasha’s across the bed, looking as concerned as he did as realisation dawned on them both. Zach wasn’t here.

“Where do you think you are, Zach?” she asked quietly.

Zach--who had flinched at sound of his own name--whimpered. “Can’t--don’t know.”

“You’re safe, we’re here, me and Sasha, and the team has our back. You’re in hospital,” Archer said.

Zach looked at him, clearly, finally. “Promise? Keep your word, like you promised?”

“What did I promise you?” It was a calculated risk to play into whatever Zach thought he was seeing, but he needed to know, didn’t he?

“You said… said you wouldn’t lemme die like this. Not like this. A bullet, you promised, not--not sick, not slowly.”

Archer couldn’t breathe, he blinked furiously to try to keep the tears at bay. “I promise, no-one is dying, not here. Not like this.”

Zach breathed out and tears ran down his cheeks as he closed his eyes and rested his head heavily on the pillows. “Promise. And I’ll be good.”

It seemed to be enough to make Zach settle, and he fell into a fitful doze. Sasha brushed hair back from his forehead and checked the lines in the IV on his right hand. Archer brought Zach’s left hand to his face and kissed the back of his wrist, rubbed his thumb in a circle and then laid it down on the sheets and sat back to bury his face in his own hands.

He jumped when Sasha touched his shoulder and scrubbed hastily at his eyes. “We don’t leave him, one of us stays with him until he’s himself again,” he said, voice thick. “We can’t let him get lost in his own head.”

“I’ll get us something to eat,” she said. “We’ll see him through this.” She left quietly, slipping out the door with graceful ease so they kept their privacy.

He nodded. They would. But really… what could they do in the face of all this?

“What the hell did they do to you?” he whispered to the quiet room.

Zach was too far gone to answer.

@haro-whumps @whumpthisway @hurting-fictional-people @lonesome--hunter @crowned-avery @extrabitterbrain @firewheeesky @outofangband

#sick fic #fever #delirious whumpee #hospital #drug use #referenced noncon drugging #death mention #death threat #whumpee and caretaker #fainting #sedated whumpee #sick whumpee #fevered whumpee #team whump #Zach and Archer #spy whump #referenced death threat

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giggles-and-freckles · 4 years

Note

Can you do "I'm just a little cold, I'm okay, really. Let me sit with a blanket or something" with anakin (cause desert kid) and obi wan and cuddles?

from these extremely exhausted starters

“And that one?”

“Bassin Minor.”

“Good,” Obi-Wan nodded. Anakin tried not to sink too deep into the pride Obi-Wan seeped into their bond. “You’ve been studying.”

“You don’t let me do anything else,” Anakin said to shield his own joy at Obi-Wan’s praise. He was a teenager now; Obi-Wan didn’t need to know that Anakin still cared about his opinion.

“Ah, yes,” the older Jedi surveyed the star map thoughtfully. “I had a lapse and momentarily forgot what a terrible, totalitarian teacher I am.”

“I don’t know what that word means, but it sounds like something you’d be.”

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes. “Perhaps you should focus on your politics now that you’ve mastered constellations.”

Anakin shifted in his seat. “Politics are stupid.”

“Very good, Padawan,” Obi-Wan beamed in jest. “A lesson better learned early on.” A dismal frown replaced his smile. “Unfortunately, they still dictate a large part of our lives.”

“I dictate my own life,” Anakin said with all the confidence of a thirteen-year-old who knew everything. He leaned back in his seat and put his feet on the holo-projector.

Obi-Wan shoved them back to the floor.

“We’re landing soon. Get your parka.”

It was music to Anakin’s ears. It seemed like they’d been flying forever and he wasn’t even being allowed to pilot, so all he had for entertainment was a star map, a broken mouse droid (which he’d finished repairing six hours ago), and Obi-Wan.

Anakin needed off this kriffing ship.

He stood from his seat, quickly–and immediately fell back down. His head suddenly felt heavy and his vision swam. Weird.

“Anakin!” Obi-Wan called from the small room in the back of the ship. “Parka! Some time today, please.”

“Coming,” Anakin groaned, standing again–slowly this time–and holding his head as he walked.

Every step toward the back room tugged at muscles that shouldn’t be sore. Maybe he’d just been sitting too long, but it seemed strange for him to suddenly ache all over, when he hadn’t even done any physical training in a few days.

“Here,” Obi-Wan shoved a parka into his chest as soon as he got in the doorway. “Make sure it’s zipped.”

“Okay, okay,” Anakin mumbled, sliding it over his robes.

“If your feet get cold, tell me. I don’t want a repeat of–”

“Master. I’ve been to Halak IV before.”

“Yes, and I practically carried you the entire way back to the ship because you were whining.”

“Oh,” Anakin grinned sheepishly, tugging on his earmuffs. “Right.”

Obi-Wan moved past his Padawan into the main hall. “I’m going to check on the cargo bay and see if everything’s secure for landing. You go ahead to the cockpit and supervise the autopilot.”

“Can’t I put it on manual just for landing?” Anakin pleaded.

“No. Now go.”

Anakin watched his Master walk away with a sour pout. Obi-Wan was no fun when he was stressed–and he was almost always stressed.

He made his way to the cockpit and settled into his seat. Supervise the autopilot. Stupid.

Nothing was visible through the thick atmosphere they were flying through, but they must be getting closer to ground-level because the air in the room ran cold and Anakin barely managed to contain a shiver.

It was strange, because even though his body was freezing, his head felt warm–and still so heavy. He leaned against the back of his seat and tried to pinpoint the pressure. Maybe this atmosphere had less oxygen than they had anticipated?

That could be a problem.

“Hey, Master?” Anakin tried to shout to the back of the ship, but quickly clamped his mouth shut. Obi-Wan had always been impressed with his ability to speak at obscene decibels, but suddenly, Anakin found that his throat was tight and unable to produce more than a whisper.

It had been a little sore earlier, but this was ridiculous.

He rubbed at his throat with a frown and tried again. “Master Obi-Wan!”

The throat only tightened and the pressure in his head amplified. He was so distracted by the pain, he didn’t manage to catch himself before shivering along with the next wave of chills that overtook him.

“What’s wrong?” Obi-Wan’s voice came from behind him.

Anakin spun around his chair and winced. When his feet planted themselves on the ground, the room didn’t stop spinning. “I think–” He pressed on his temple, willing the pain to go away. “I think we read the–stats wrong. The atmosphere seems...ugh, highly pressurised. And not oxygen based.”

Instead of insisting they hadn’t read the stats wrong because Obi-Wan Kenobi didn’t do anything wrong as Anakin expected, the older Jedi only stood in the doorway of the cockpit and studied his student with a frown.

“What?” Anakin asked, uncomfortable under his gaze.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Huh? Nothing.”

“You’re shivering.”

He shrugged as casually as his headache would allow him. “Just cold.”

Obi-Wan didn’t look like he was listening. Instead, he dropped into a crouch in front of Anakin’s chair and laid a palm against Anakin’s forehead.

“You’re burning up,” Obi-Wan said quietly. Concern flickered through their bond.

Anakin pulled away. “I’m fine.”

“Have you been feeling like this all day?”

“I’m fine, Master.”

“You’re staying on the ship.” And, like that, Obi-Wan was back on his feet and walking out of the cockpit.

“What?” Anakin cried, jumping up to follow. Immediately regretted it. His head–ow, ow, owww.

He fell back into the seat with a groan. “Master!” he yelled, his voice straining and stretching

“You have a fever, Anakin,” Obi-Wan called from the main room before striding back into the cockpit with a heap of emergency blankets. “I’ll drop off the supplies. You stay and rest.”

His voice came out garbled behind all of the blankets, but Anakin understood enough to scoff in protest. “No way, Master! I’ve been stuck at the Temple for your last two missions. I–oof.” His words were cut off as Obi-Wan unceremoniously dropped the heap of fabric into his lap. “Master Obi-Wan.”

“Don’t Master Obi-Wan me. You’re sick and I won’t have you going out into the freezing cold and getting even sicker. Now strap in. We’re landing.”

Anakin made sure to click his seatbelt as loudly as possible and give a disdainful groan to make sure Obi-Wan knew just how unfair this was.

…

He wasn’t sure when he’d fallen asleep or how long Obi-Wan had been gone, but it had felt like hours since his Master had gotten off the ship and locked it behind him, leaving Anakin frowning under a few hundred tons of blankets.

But suddenly, he was being lightly jostled and–

“Master?” he slurred, blinked up at the face hovered a couple inches above his.

“Oh,” Obi-Wan said, pulling back. “You’re awake.”

“Why are you on top of me?”

“I’m trying to undo your seatbelt.”

“But you always say that safety is–”

“Anakin.” Obi-Wan sighed, but the corners of his lips quivered. “We’re on the way back to Coruscant. The mission went off without a hitch. I have auto-pilot set. Go to the back room and sleep.”

“Not tired,” Anakin lied.

“Bed.”

“I'm just a little cold, I'm okay, really.” Anakin scrambled to sit up and realised he was, in fact, very cold. “Let me sit with a blanket or something.”

“Padawan,” Obi-Wan said, gently. Why was Obi-Wan being so nice? “I’m worried about you. I’d feel better if you were getting real rest in a real bed.”

“That’s not a real bed,” Anakin pointed out.

“Please.” And something about the way he pleaded instead of demanded it. Like it was a personal favour he was asking his Padawan to complete–

“Okay.”

Anakin didn’t need help walking to the back room, but he let Obi-Wan guide his shoulder anyway, because something told him it’s what Obi-Wan needed.

And it definitely didn’t count as a real bed, but maybe Obi-Wan had been right, because it sure looked more inviting than the stiff seat in the cockpit. He stumbled into it and Obi-Wan’s hand didn’t leave his shoulder.

“Are you hungry? Thirsty?” the older Jedi asked and, for the first time in Anakin’s life, he thought maybe his Master looked a little unsure of himself.

“No.”

“Okay,” Obi-Wan nodded quickly to himself. “Okay. Okay.”

“Master?”

Obi-Wan’s head snapped up. “Yeah?”

“You said that three times.”

“Oh,” Obi-Wan breathed and then chuckled awkwardly. “Sorry.” Then, he looked back at Anakin. “Do you need more blankets?”

Anakin grinned, looking down at the mountain of fabric on top of him. “I think I’m set.” But his teeth chattered anyway and Obi-Wan’s frown deepened.

“I don’t have any medicine,” Obi-Wan muttered to himself, his eyes flickering around the room as if he had the ability to speak it into existence. “I could comm Bant and see if she could–

“Obi?” Anakin asked, too tired to be embarrassed by the old nickname that tumbled through. “I’m okay, but would you–would you just stay?”

He felt like a youngling again–like the nine-year-old who had known nothing about this life and had relied completely on his Master. Obi-Wan had been there for him every single time, even in the midst of losing his own Master. It was something Anakin had only recently found the time to process and be grateful for.

Obi-Wan’s face softened and Anakin felt warmth through their bond. “Of course.”

Anakin moved as far toward the wall as he could and Obi-Wan’s eyebrows lifted of their own accord, like he’d only just realised what Anakin meant by ‘stay.’ In that moment, Anakin’s bravery crumbled–he was so stupid. Too old to ask Obi-Wan to sleep with him. Too grown, too big, too independent–

Obi-Wan climbed into the tiny bed and rested his back against the wall, dropping his hand to rest on Anakin’s head, his fingers absentmindedly moving through the small curls that had formed in the absence of a haircut.

“Hey, Master?” Anakin said, his voice coming out quiet and croaky. Relieved. At peace. Safe.

“Yes, young one?”

“You’re good at taking care of people.”

The tiny movements in his hair froze for a moment and Anakin wondered if he’d said something wrong. But then–the movements resumed and Anakin didn’t need to see his Master to sense his smile. Obi-Wan’s smiles were always like this. The genuine ones anyway. Blinding and merciless in the way they spread through a room, touching every heart in their path and almost always pulling smiles in response.

Anakin thought he was pretty lucky to get to be on the receiving end so often.

#my fic #I guess obi & ani cuddles are just the vibe for the week #obi & ani #the PADAWAN years #soft sweet boys #I just wrote this one in my classroom bc one of my students walked up to me and was BEAMING that he passed a hard test #so I gave him a fist bump and told him I was proud of him and I watched this kid STRUGGLE to not grin at me #and I was like oh #OH #that’s anakin skywalker #anon you know my heart bc platonic cuddles are my THING #this one got obnoxiously long SORRY #obi wan kenobi #anakin skywalker #writing prompts #sw fanfiction

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sansacherie · 4 years

Text

Only Just

283 A.C.

“Robb, meet your Aunt Lysa.” Her sister gently places the babe in Lysa’s arms. Catelyn’s exhaustion is visible in her voice – remnants of the birthing, but pride as well. Catelyn and her lord husband had been together scarcely a fortnight before he had ridden off with Jon Arryn, leaving her behind with nothing but promises. And she’ll have a son to give him if he comes back. If he falls in battle, he’ll have a son that’ll be his legacy.

Trust her sister to be blessed so quickly when it sometimes took other women over a year and more. Lysa gazes at the red-faced babe, and for a moment she feels as though she is about to retch. This could have been her precious little baby she was holding, not Catelyn’s, the baby she and sweet Petyr made that night – Bursting into tears, Lysa thrust Robb back into Catelyn’s arms. Deaf to Catelyn's startled cries, Lysa fled from the room.

She knows that Catelyn will go to find her later, but Lysa will not want to see her. She doesn’t want her sister or that horrible Lord Jon Arryn. He was older than even Father, and yet he had excepted her to go to bed with him? She had wept so bitterly she had believed the seven gods would free her, but if the seven heard her they were not merciful, and neither was her father.

Jon Arryn is an excellent match for a girl that acted as shamelessly as you did. Have I taught you nothing, Lysa? Family, Duty, Honor. When it comes to our house words, duty comes second- because it is the family to which we owe our duty. And you failed our family when you allowed that boy to despoil you as if you were some serving wench, and not a daughter of Riverrun.

Lysa notices how Father never speaks Petyr’s name – instead always referring to him as “that boy”. Catelyn doesn’t speak of him at all. Petyr who had been her father’s ward and who had loved her sister so- they had discarded him so easily. Not Lysa, though. She would not forget Petyr so easily, no matter what lords her father gave her to. Nor would she forget their child either. He would have been so beautiful. Lysa thought with a dull ache. I would have given Petyr a son. Catelyn might be Father’s favourite and better at nearly everything, but she wouldn’t be able to claim that. And neither it seemed, would Lysa.

II.

288 A.C.

It is her fourth pregnancy. She is seven moons gone. A blessed number Lysa thinks - seven for the seven faces of god. Surely that must count for something, Lysa hopes. She knows her husband waits impatiently with bated, stinking breath for the son she will finally give him - but Lysa knows in her heart that she is having a daughter. And although the babe undoubtedly belongs to Jon - the result of all those nights she was trapped beneath the weight of his body, her eyes shut and mind far away- when she dreams, her daughter looks like Petyr.

She is seven moons gone and surely that must mean something. That it will be different, this time.

It isn't.

She awakes suddenly in the middle of the night, to find their bed drenched. Her heart freezes when she realizes what it means.

No, no, no, no, please-

It's too early. This is a nightmare, she'll go back to sleep and all will be well. And when she awakes again, she won't be here but a child again in Riverrun.

Instead, Maester Pycelle aids her in her delivery. Lysa is right - she does give birth to a daughter. Small, beautiful - and dead. It is morning when Pycelle pulls her little girl from her, and it will be before the sun has set that she will be buried, along with a piece of Lysa's heart. For every babe she lost, they took a piece with them.

To his credit, if Jon Arryn blames her for disappointing him once again - he does not show it. He is too honourable for that. But he is thoughtlessly cruel. When Maester Pycelle suggests naming their daughter, stating that it helps some women to do so, Jon squeezes her hand and thanks the Maester who is even older than he is. "We've never named a child yet," he says wistfully. For that Lysa wants to slap him, for she has given a name to every child she has lost. The babes she lost were all named, and loved and wanted- including the first babe she lost all those years ago in Riverrun. The babe that would have been Petyr's, the man she loved still.

III.

289 A.C.

Princess Mrycella is born in the first month of the new year. Later, men will tell Robert Baratheon that the gods sent Mrycella as a sign to herald his victory in defeating the Greyjoys that same year.

As she is the wife of the Hand of the King, Lysa has the honour to be one of the first to hold the little princess.

Lysa smiles and pretends happiness for her queen. And maybe a part of her really is happy for Queen Cersei. After all, perhaps the gods will stop torturing her and grant her a child of her own too one day, who will grow up to become close with Mrycella. Like she and Cat.

But when her husband receives a raven from his former ward that Lysa's sister has given birth to their third child - a healthy girl named Arya, and a sister for their Robb and Sansa - Lysa wants to rage at the terrible unfairness of it all.

Lysa has worked it out, and Arya was born on what would have been her first child's sixth nameday.

IV.

299 A.C.

When she hears of how Winterfell has fallen, and that the Greyjoy boy has killed her two nephews, Lysa wants to weep for her sister. She knows the torment Catelyn must be going through. Perhaps in a world that had been kinder to Lysa Arryn, she would have.

But she is glad too, as she clutches her Sweetrobin closer to her chest, who is not just her only child but her miracle as well.

The gods had taken so many children from her.

It was only just that they would take some of Catelyn's away, as well.

#a song of ice and fire #asoiaf #catelyn stark #lysa arryn #ned stark #robb stark #arya stark #sansa stark #bran stark #rickon stark #game of thrones #got #anti hoster tully #rape tw #anti jon arryn #this was a hard pov to write tbh

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20thcentury-kylo · 3 years

Text

Tides Of Memory Chapter 2

Surprise!! Wanted to have this up yesterday but things sorta got out of hand, and tbh after this I'll be kind of busy so I atleast wanted to finish this one- anywho Enjoy

A wild flower hill overlooks the calm sea at dusk. The sky’s color fades into a midnight blue as the moon and stars peak from the clouds. Ebisu sits among the wild life- Guitar in hand as he hums a simple tune.

“Just breathe… just breathe- it’ll all be fine~” Soft strums from the instrument follow in simplistic patterns. As he gazes up to the stars above he feels no words could better fit the moment. Amongst the chaos of interstellar wars and the literal end of the world- a scene like this- it’s peace.. He could believe that it would all be fine. Kiome had already gone back- most likely to keep Ebisu from seeing him break down completely, but Ebisu knew.. He could feel it in his soul- the scared tremors, the subtle shaking in his hands. The rose haired musician swore he’d be strong for the both of them, he wouldn't make Kiome face this alone, he didn't have to be alone, not anymore.

“Maybe it's the question.. Maybe it's the answer~”

The quaking roars were gone, but Kiome was nowhere to be found. He promised to stay away but as Ebisu runs through the ravaged battlefield the only thought coursing through his mind is finding the chubby swordsman.

“Kiome!!” He pleads out their name gaining no response. With every step he takes, dread seems to fill him more and more.

“Just breathe.. It'll all be fine~”

The blood won't stop pooling between his hands, the tears in his eyes won't either. In the midst of it all he somehow finds the strength to laugh.. How unfair it all was. His beloved laid there dying in his arms and yet here Kiome was… singing to him. How unfair the world could be. The last thing he sees before the light envelopes them is the pained smile on his face, as he whispers it one last time

“Darling… i love you~”

Ebisu is a 17 year old boy living in the Nakano ward in Tokyo with his adoptive guardian. He loves tales of the sea, of lost treasure and one day hopes to venture out there on his own, to maybe find his own lost fortune. Ebisu has the strangest dreams filled with even stranger people, and fleeting whispers of feelings that leave dull aches in his heart.. The words always echo in his mind and he can't seem to explain the tears in his eyes as he wakes. It was all so… confusing, and yet when their eyes met… when their eyes met suddenly the distant haze seemed to be clearing.

They're such a soft shade of amber- so warm so… familiar. The feeling that follows is so intense that he can't stop the stream of tears that follow soon after. The boy in front of him winces- bringing a hand to graze his forehead, yet never breaks eye contact.

“I-i’m sorry, are ya okay?” Ebisu tries his best to compose himself- stifling the tears long enough to pick himself up off the ground.

“Dont worry ive been through worse.” whatever was ailing him seems to have subsided and yet- they stay there, gazing at one another in a tense silence. The boy eventually begins to speak when he’s caught off by a shout from the distance.

“Hey! That creep snatched My wallet!” The cries of a knocked down pedestrian follow as the therian sprints away. Instinctively Ebisu checks his pockets to find his own wallet missing.

“That little sneak-” The fisherman prepares to apprehend the transient- brandishing his signature fishing rod and hook. Yet before he can even start the backswing- the stranger he’d just met is already dashing towards the thief.

“Oh no ya dont!!” Before Ebisu can blink the apparent swordsman is already flying at the transient- his still sheathed sword arced forwards. The encounter is over in seconds with the captured therian pleading apologies as he scurried off. He’d been so stunned at the boy's ability that he hadn’t noticed the small faded blue wallet being shoved in this direction.

“You dropped this..” Their hands brush slightly as he takes the wallet- and Ebisu’s mind fixates on the fleeting warmth. He wants to thank him sincerely, yet the blush flooding his cheeks keeps his eyes averted choosing instead to focus on his newly re-acquired wallet.

“I um- I never got your name~” Ebisu manages to stutter out- still refusing to meet eyes with the mysterious swordsman.

“HEY!!” The recognized shouts of none other than Nankano’s resident viral sensation, Benten. She practically flies at them, her phone camera trained on the chubby swordsman.

“Kiome! Didn’t expect to see you ‘round here, especially pulling off moves like that~” In the midst of her excited rambling he hears the name…

“Kiome…” It’s almost scary how naturally the name rolls off his tongue. Ebisu finds himself unable to control the smile that sneaks its way onto his face.

“Ebisu- you manage to find anyone for your little adventure, I’m still rarin to go of course~” The sudden reminder of his previous endeavor has him more embarrassed than he honestly should be.

“Ebisu huh.. Well If it's adventurers you need- you’ve just found the right guy.” Kiome expresses with a subtle wink. The nervous giggle that erupts from the rose haired boy resembles more of a shy highschool girl rather than a trained fisherman. Ebisu escorts the 3 of them back to the restaurant he helps run. For once he was thankful for Benten’s presence, having her between them with her excited chatter was perfect for keeping him distracted. Even so he couldn't help but sneak a passing glance at the chubby swordsman when he got the chance.

They sit down discussing the plans over some tea, and while Ebisu, and Benten fall into their usual banter- Kiome is reminded of the warnings his friends gave earlier

“Yeah, I've been hearing a lot of those recently as well, though in the end- it doesn’t change what we hafta do.” Benten’s proud declaration earning a chuckle.

“Actually, I looked into those before- judging from the location of where these pirate ships were being sunk, it’s most likely they were confronted with mermaids; the Daughters of The Waves-” Ebisu informs them. From what he’d gathered- the mermaids were likely guarding the treasure. As he keeps explaining- Kiome gets that same unsettling feeling from before- this wouldn’t be some light adventure… This was serious. By the time they’d finished the three of them settled on a plan; Benten was in charge of finding a crew- people strong enough to stand against the apparent threat that awaited them, a crew that now included Kiome, and Ebisu would handle getting the ship, supplies, and salvage equipment ready which from the sounds of it- he was already on top of. Benten had parted ways at the shop's entrance, eager to begin her search- leaving the two boys alone, Ebisu having offered to walk Kiome back to the station. So as they strolled side by side- Ebisu decides to break the silence.

“Y’know this may sound weird but- I have the strangest feeling… that we’ve met before, somewhere.” His words cause Kiome to turn with a pondering expression, he had no memories of a past life, but somehow he held the same feeling.

“It’s weird but… I know what you mean~” From there they fall into light conversation, a simple game of 20 questions passes between them yet both still held the strange possibility in the back of their minds. Before they knew it the train's electronic whistle was heard from afar.

“Guess the fun's over for now huh~” Kiome’s words followed by a breathless sigh.

“Yeah heheh , i guess so..” The pearl eyed boy parrots back. Kiome turns to him, suddenly unsure of what to do. A hug?, just a handshake? To keep himself from dallying he settled on the latter, extending a hand out to his escort.

“Nice meetin’ ya-' ' Ebisu stares a bit in awe at his hand for a moment before slowly reaching back with a hand of his own. Their hands meet in a subtle shake, it's the first real contact they've had, and Kiome can't help but notice how soft Ebisu's hand is. There’s a whisper of a feeling, warm, and nostalgic- the two seemingly lose themselves in it for the moment. It lingers even as they let go, and with sheepish smiles and stuttered goodbyes the two part ways.

In the clear star filled night- the haze further clears on their memories. Ebisu finds himself unable to find easy rest, finding comfort among the midnight sky. As he sits illuminated by the moon- lost in thought, something long forgotten seems to return to him. He has no idea what it means but the prospect has him anxious and excited to find out

‘I wonder what it looks like’ He muses in his thoughts. Gazing up at the moon's glow.

“San Diego~”

#Housamo #tokyo afterschool summoners #Tides Of Memory #mc5 x ebisu #kiome #fanfiction #my art #clip studio paint #i have an 8 work day stretch coming #so i wont rlly be active :p

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twoidiotwriters1 · 4 years

Text

Written In The Stars CIII (Harry Potter xF!Oc)

A/N: I know last book ended horribly but I promise this one won’t be entirely sad, just a bit frustrating– Enjoy and please leave feedback! -Danny

Words: 3,888

Series’ Masterlist

Book IV // Next Chapter

Listen to: Then -by Anne-Marie

Chapter One: A Lousy Summer.

1974

Emily wasn't going to cry where the girls would be able to hear.

She could've used a spell to quiet her own sobs, but she just needed to be in a place where there was no need to hide.

So she went to the common room, drowning her cries on a blanket and wondering how was she going to crawl her way out of this one. She thought it was unfair, she'd never experienced something so embarrassing prior this moment. Wasn't love supposed to be beautiful?

"Mily?"

The girl gave a start and cleaned her face hastily.

"Padfoot," She tried to sound casual. "What's wrong? Had a nightmare about cats chasing your tail?"

"Are you okay?" He walked up to her, ignoring the teasing. "I'm sure that if you were to talk to them..."

"I think it's clear enough," Emily averted her gaze. "All of us want things we can't have."

"That's not true."

"What exactly should I do after the humiliation I went through?" She sniffed. "He kissed me in front of everyone! I can't be near him and I refuse to be around Lily, I don't want to see any of them!"

"Mily, when I tell you Matt got the worse deal..." Sirius frowned. "The look on his face–"

"You don't need to remind me," Emily lamented. "Why can't I like him back?"

"You can't force things to happen," He shrugged. "If I could make all of you forget I would, but you'd find a way to do whatever you want anyway."

"This is not the time for jokes..."

"Talk to Moony then," Sirius complained. "I'm not good at comforting people..."

"I don't want to talk! Can we just... sit in silence?"

The girl curled up and got closer, he wrapped an arm around her awkwardly.

Really –Sirius thought with exasperation– What was she expecting? This was bound to happen, one of them would eventually develop a crush on her...

Well, more than one... but Sirius was going to take that secret to the grave. It was out of place, Matthew was way better than him– Hell, anyone was a better choice! But tonight it was just the two of them... and Emily had asked him to stay.

"It'll get better, right?" She asked quietly. "I'll get over my stupid crush and so will Matthew... we'll be back to normal in no time..."

"You were never normal," He joked.

"You know what I mean..."

"Yeah," He fixed his gaze on the dying fire, a hint of bitterness in his voice. "If you ask me, James doesn't know what he's missing..."

1995

It was the driest and hottest month of the year back in Private Drive, but Mel was freezing at the front door of Grimmauld Place.

Her mother led her in as she closed the door behind them, Mel hugged Grey's basket closer, thinking a ghost would walk out of the hall. Instead, Sirius walked in with a bright smile.

"You're here!"

Mel looked around dubiously.

"This is your house?"

"Mel! Don't be rude!"

"That's okay," Sirius made a face. "This place is hot rubbish. Your room's clean though. I made sure you'd be comfortable. I know it's hard to be away from home, stuck in such a... place."

"Well, at least you're here," She smiled. "I'm sure I'll get used to it."

"Hand me those," Sirius grabbed her trunk and walked ahead of them. "Let me take you to your rooms... Try to be quiet, my mother's portrait is mental. I tried to take it down but she glued it there. It's bloody torture."

"Language, Padfoot," Emily said, though she was far more interested in the house-elves on the shelves. "Love the decor..."

"Don't mention it," The man growled. "The house-elf that kept the house clean while I was young used to be here, I have no idea where he is, but I haven't found him. I can't wait to throw all those heads out."

"You think he died?"

"I'll find him eventually."

"So this will be the headquarters for the Order?" The girl asked, choosing to ignore his vague answer.

She'd read her mother's letters in secret until Emily found her snooping around, by then it was too late, so Emily didn't see the point on hiding it anymore.

"That's right," Sirius opened the first door of the second landing. "I figured, if I can't be of use out there, the least I can do is give a safe place where to have our meetings. It's secured with a Fidelious charm, Dumbledore did it last Saturday when he heard you were coming."

"Interesting..." Mel looked around. "Who used to sleep in this room?"

"Guests, that's why it's so plain. I thought you'd like it that way, my family wasn't keen on jolly decorations."

"I noticed," Mel grinned.

"You must be hungry, coming all this way from Remus' place. Why don't we go to the kitchen and have lunch? We can unpack later..."

Mel was helping her mother set the table when she heard a strange noise coming from the corner of the kitchen.

"What's in there?"

"It's where the elf used to keep his appliances... there might be rats in there, be careful."

When she opened the door something fell swiftly on her feet and she screamed, jumping on the table.

"What happened?" Emily circled the table. "Oh–! Sirius! I believe Mel found your elf..."

"Is he alive?" The girl asked in terror.

The creature looked ancient and dirty, with a sneer that she'd never seen in an elf before; usually, they were all smiles and compliments. This one started to insult them as soon as he lifted himself from the ground.

"Rats! Thieves! Traitors of the blood had come to rob my masters' treasures!"

"Kreacher," Sirius said. "Shut up."

The elf closed his mouth tightly but sent Sirius a deathly glare.

"He listens to me because I'm the last member of my family that still lives. Be of use, Kreacher, go clean my mother's room."

The elf's eyes shone with anger but he turned away and vanished.

"He always liked to throw tantrums," Sirius added, pulling Mel down from the table. "You're okay?"

"Yeah– it took me by surprise..."

"You jumped so high!" Her mother laughed.

"Laugh at your daughter, will you?" Mel scoffed. "Not like you're the adult or anything..."

"No one here is allowed to be an adult," Sirius crossed his arms. "Not unless we're holding a meeting. In which case we're adults. Today there won't be any, though."

"Don't listen to her, she's just upset about spending summer away from Harry," Emily mentioned.

"I'm not," She replied tensely.

"It's okay, I was beyond sad the first time I had to leave Matt for–"

"I don't feel that way about Harry," Mel retorted roughly.

"What?" Her mother's smile fell. "What happened?"

She bent down to pick up the things that fell when she'd jumped on the table.

"I'd rather not talk about it..."

"Am I missing something?" Sirius raised a brow.

"Last summer Mel told us she was having feelings for Harry..." Her mum began carefully, "I thought it was still a thing..."

"I'll tell you what it was. Stupid..." The lump in her throat formed at a remarkable speed. "I should've known better..."

"Did you talk to him?"

"He doesn't like me, Mum."

Sirius and Emily shared a look, the woman moved to hug her.

"We can talk about it if you want? Once you're ready..."

"Can we have lunch?" Mel asked quietly.

"Sure thing, little Em," Sirius nodded. "I'm a brilliant cook. Your mother's skills will be put to shame."

"How're you so sure?" Emily grinned.

"Because I remember your cooking."

Mel was spending some quality time with Buckbeak when Sirius walked in. It was almost midnight and her mother had gone out on a mission.

"Is it okay if I join you?"

Mel shrugged.

"I know you said you didn't want to talk about it, but maybe you'd like to talk to me now?"

The girl remained silent.

"C'mon, Mel! We'll live under the same roof for a while, let's practise our social skills!"

"My social skills are fine, thanks."

"I heard from a reliable source that you're still scared of speaking to large crowds..."

"I simply don't find it exciting," She lied.

"Well then, I'm not a thousand people, but I have a nice pair of ears that would love to listen to fifteen-year-olds' problems."

"I'm sure your godson will have plenty once he's back."

"He's been demoted to my godson?" Sirius taunted.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"All right, we won't talk about him... What about your father?"

"What about him?"

"Well, when he was about your age–"

"He kissed my mum and she turned him down?" She replied tiredly. "So what? They married anyway..."

Sirius frowned.

"They didn't know they were going to marry each other, that's what! Matt didn't look like himself for weeks! Your mother'd been rejected, that's why your dad kissed her. He thought it would help... to this day I don't know why he thought that, but alas, it worked!"

"Did you know the other?" Mel asked. "That kid mum used to like?"

"A fool," Sirius shrugged. "A nice fool, but an idiot nonetheless... your parents were lucky, Mel. They found a way to fall in love, but even if that hadn't been the case, your father would've found someone– your mother would've found someone... It's not that we're meant to find just one person and stick to it. Most times it's just finding an equal that understands you and suits your needs, and there are plenty of those."

"I don't want anyone," Mel pouted. "I hate this, and I wish there was a way I could avoid liking people. It's hideous."

Sirius laughed.

"Trust me, you'll regret it if you don't give someone a chance. Though I'll tell you this, no person in this world will ever be fully worthy of you, little Em. And even if it's true and you don't find one, your life will still be full of adventures."

Mel didn't think she was that great, but whatever had happened between Harry and she felt right, it felt natural, she'd been able to see a future with the boy. Then again, that could've been her childish and gullible self thinking that her first love was going to last forever. Maybe, if she were to try hard enough, she'd be able to see someone taking Harry's place.

"Have you ever been in love?" Then she added rather bashfully. "I mean, not that I have, but you know..."

Sirius cleared his throat.

"It was a long time ago. Long before leaving Hogwarts... It wasn't meant to be, nor my place."

They fell in comfortable silence, watching Buckbead nibble some bones.

"If you really want to help me," Mel started. "You can teach me how to avoid detention..."

"Nice try," Sirius laughed. "Emily warned me about you... My official answer is no."

"What about your off-the-record answer?" She inquired, standing up at the same time as him.

"Only the days Mily's not in the house."

Kreacher kept insisting on following her around as if she were a criminal, making sure she wasn't touching any of his old trinkets. She didn't have any interest in doing so; everything had dark magic, she'd sense it without even having to touch them.

On a normal day, she'd go to the attic to spend time with Buckbeak, sometimes Sirius would make tea and they'd sit there talking about his adventures in Hogwarts. He'd tried several times to ask her about Harry, but she would ignore him every time.

Dumbledore visited one morning to ask her to keep it all a secret, what they were doing there, meaning that if she was planning on sending letters to Harry, she wasn't allowed to talk about the Order. But Mel wasn't writing to him at all, and her letters to Hermione and Ron were always vague. Both of them were under the impression that Mel, true to her nature, was keeping an updated knowledge on Harry's whereabouts, that she didn't confirm nor denied.

Erick wrote to her a week after she'd moved to Grimmauld Place. Anne went completely unmentioned, but that was expected. He was busy looking for young supporters, things got a bit complicated when Eliot Flint got sick again and Erick had to look after him. He seemed to be having just as a dreadful summer as she was.

It wasn't that her mother, Lupin, and Sirius would leave her to rot inside this huge house, but they were adults who had their minds set on important matters, and she had nothing to do but overthink about him.

She still had feelings, but she was doing her best to bury them. Mel was hoping that once in Hogwarts she'd find a way to be okay with his existence. She didn't want to get rid of him altogether, that was impossible.

"I take that you're having a rough morning?" Sirius spoke from the doorway.

Mel gave a start, looking up from her seat at the kitchen table.

"I had a nightmare," She said drowsily.

"Same as before?" Sirius knew about her dreams, but that day she didn't want to talk about them. Today all she wanted to do was to sit in silence and drink her coffee.

"Have you had breakfast already?"

"No. I came here so Kreacher would stop nagging about me trying to steal the rubbish he keeps in the living room."

Sirius chuckled, walking up to the stove.

"Maybe if you praise my mother's portrait he'll stop..."

"Would love to, but I'm not a good liar."

"I can help you with that," He turned around for a moment. "Don't laugh when you speak, don't smile– if someone accuses you of causing mischief, act like it was the most insulting thing you've ever heard."

"What if they don't buy it?"

"Confidence is key, Mel. If you believe it, then it's done."

"Sirius, you're not giving my daughter bad advice, are you?" Emily walked in.

"Not at all," Sirius said, feigning surprise. "It shocks me that you think so, the only thing I want for Mel is her well being!"

"He's good..." Mel snickered.

"You have to pick your battles wisely, Paddie. A fifteen-year-old, or an experienced witch that's old enough to hex you," Emily warned him.

"I'll trust my luck," Sirius smirked.

"I got Molly's answer by the way," She ignored him, "The Weasleys will be here next Tuesday."

"Hang on... where will everyone sleep? I know the place is big, but..."

"Ginny can sleep with you," Emily started, "Ron can sleep in Phineas' room, the twins can sleep in the room next door to yours– Molly and Arthur can stay in Walburga's room..."

"But Sirius is in that room," Mel tilted her head.

"Yeah..." Emily glanced anxiously towards the man. "Sirius will take my room. I spend the night outside anyway, remember? Like uncle Lupin."

"But sometimes you don't."

"Little Em," Sirius told her. "Don't worry, your mother and I will make sure everyone's comfortable. As much as this bloody house can be..."

Mel knew Sirius was less than happy about spending his days locked up in the house where he'd lived the worse years of his life, but he was glad to have her, or at least he'd said as much. According to him, Mel was a lovely housemate.

She also knew there was something going on between the two adults. She could see it in the way Sirius would stare at her mother when she wasn't paying attention, and the way her mother would look more cheerful than usual after talking to him. The nights where she had to eat with the two blatantly flirting felt like personal karma from all those months she'd spent recklessly ogling at Harry in front of her friends.

"Can Hermione come too?" Mel asked.

"D'you think she'll want to come to this musty old place?"

"Please?"

Sirius sighed.

"Look at those eyes, Mily. I can't say no to those eyes!"

"Those are my eyes," The woman crossed her arms. "I can."

"I got my father's smile though," She said cheekily. "Please? It could be my first birthday surrounded by friends!"

"You heard that, Mily? Her birthday," Sirius said without missing a beat. "Are you going to deny such a simple request to your only daughter?"

"Oh, you two are unbelievable!"

"Is that a yes?"

"You have five minutes to write that letter and send it– Wipe that smirk off your face, Black. You're washing the dishes tonight."

Mel and Sirius high-fived, laughing at Emily's annoyance.

"And here's where we'll be sleeping!" Mel dragged Hermione into the room.

The house was definitely more fun now that the Weasleys and Hermione were there, from time to time some members of the order would visit as well as her uncle. The place almost felt like home.

"You're not sleeping with your mum?"

"My mum and Sirius share–" She stopped abruptly. "Mum goes out a lot, sometimes when she's here Sirius will give her his room so she can take the bed and he sleeps on the couch."

"Ginny sleeps here too?" Hermione examined the jumpers laying around on the other bed.

"Yeah!"

"How is she? She's over Harry now?" Hermione smiled. "She's okay with him liking you and all?"

Mel groaned internally. This was going to be a long month if people kept asking her about Harry.

"Harry doesn't like me."

"Please, Mel–"

"No," The girl interrupted. "I actually talked to him this time. Don't ask. It's better if we just forget it."

Hermione stared at her in shock.

"I–I could've sworn he... that he..."

"'Mione," Mel stared at her. "Forget it."

Hermione nodded, sitting down at the edge of the bed.

"Careful with the twins, by the way," She continued calmly. "They're free to do magic now, and they're out of control."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Ginny and Hermione were acting oddly ever since they found out she wasn't talking to Harry. They had the right to be, it was strange to see how unfeeling she was about being so far away from her former best friend. The twins and Ron, on the other hand, weren't that worried. They thought it was her way of coping and, in a way, it was.

They kept asking a lot of questions about Erick though, whether if he was to be trusted and exactly how much could they get away with. Mel thought it was funny, so she answered as many questions as she could.

Her birthday passed without much of a fuss, suddenly she was fifteen and just as quickly, Harry was too, but he wasn't there to celebrate. For the first time in weeks, she wished he could be there with them, she didn't dislike him as much as to wish him a bad birthday.

Hermione and Ron started to write to him. She tried to write a Happy Birthday note but it sounded stupid, she knew it'd be far from happy, all alone in Privet Drive. That night he would open his window only to see hers completely shut.

Erick's present had been one of those old radios his Grandad used to make with a note that said 'So you can practice your dancing' signed with two E's. She and the twins used it a lot while working on their products, that way it would drown the noise and their mothers wouldn't suspect as much. Mrs Weasley was on edge lately, Percy and his father had gotten into a real nasty fight and now the boy was gone, it had the poor woman in a terrible state.

One night after dinner, Fred walked into her room.

"Hey," She said without looking up. "Erick told me there's a station where they do these radio novels? I'm trying to find them, bet they're hilarious..." She said while toying with the buttons of the object.

"You're all right?" He asked, sitting next to her.

"Brilliant."

It was a lie. She'd been having a terrible headache for the past twenty minutes, probably because of the lack of sleep and the white noise.

"I'm not the best talker, and you don't have to say anything, but–"

"Not you too, Fred," Mel rolled her eyes, turning off the radio. "I told you I'm fine–"

"Exactly. I'd never seen you so calm about leaving Harry before, there must be something," He raised a brow.

"It's called growing up," She scoffed. "He's capable of looking after himself. You know it, I know it..."

"A real grown-up wouldn't avoid confrontation."

"That's rich coming from you, considering you keep hiding your products away from mummy."

"That's not fair, you know it's a safety measure!"

"Okay then," Mel stood up. "This is my safety measure. I don't talk about things that don't concern others..."

Fred caught her wrist and stopped her from leaving.

"Lady..."

"Using my nickname in that aching voice won't change my mind," She raised a brow. "Let go."

"Don't be grumpy, you're starting to sound real' bossy and you haven't gotten the Prefect badge yet!"

"Fred..." She tried to move. "Please, my head is killing me..."

"Did you guys fight?" He tilted his head, finally letting go. "I don't get why you fancy him if you're always bickering..."

"I don't like Harry."

"Yeah, right," Fred laughed.

"I don't," She tried to follow Sirius' advice and kept a neutral expression. "We went to the ball as friends. He saved me during the second task because I was his friend. What Skeeter wrote was rubbish, I don't fancy him."

"If you insist," Fred shrugged, but she could see he wasn't buying it.

He stood up as well and she realized, with a strange sense of accomplishment, that she was tall enough to reach his chin. She was about to point that out when something completely different came out.

"Why did you ask me to the ball?"

"What?"

"You said it was because you thought it'd be fun. Was that it?"

"Why does it matter?"

That was a good question.

Why did it matter?

But also, why not Fred? He was handsome, funny, smart...

It wasn't that she didn't like him, it was that she hadn't picked him. Sirius said there was more than one person for her, she just had to find them. Mel wasn't ready, but she would eventually, and if she could pick...

"It doesn't," Mel sighed. "I was curious, that's all. Ron used to think you fancied me, you know? I told them it was stupid..."

"Well, not stupid," Fred was quick to correct. "Just... I don't know, unlikely."

"Am I unworthy of your affection?" She joked.

He eyed her intently, like pondering the idea she had put out there. Suddenly, her mother stormed into the room.

"Harry was attacked," The woman blurted out.

"What?" Mel snapped, walking away from Fred.

"He's all right, but he used magic. The ministry has been looking for an excuse to get him– I'm afraid he just gave them one."

"Get him?"

"If we don't do something, he'll be expelled from Hogwarts."

"How– we're not– Do what?" She stammered.

"They're bringing him here," Her mother replied. "Harry's coming."

Next Chapter —>

Taglist.

@dee123ksha @vampiregirl1797 @siriuslysirius1107 @stardusthigh @mikariell95 @vernon-dursley @thesuitelifeofafangirl @tomshollandz @kylosleftbuttcheek @reverse-hxlland @bloodorangemoonlight @omiwashere @t-rexs-world

#twoidiots writing #hp fanfic #Harry Potter #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter xoc #WITT fic

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lettersfromkokichiouma · 3 years

Note

AyYYyy Im bAck bitCh i aint dead yeT lmao

so ummM todays a lil different kokichi cause-

-the front bottoms and mother mother (and maybe i hate my mom by grlwood) blast through headphones as my laptop almost overheats cause i played genshin impact for 6 hours stright and its my current hyperfixation-

yeah...

anYwAy, my reason for returning today is kinda a long story, so pls bear with me lol

so after lots of research and shit, and after talking with my gf who has adhd, i am 100% i have adhd and social anxiety, maybe a few other things idk. The thing is, I am wAAyy past the age ppl usually get diagnosed and i brought it up with my parents three whole times over the course of tWo FriGgiN yEArs before they aCtuAlly diD aNyThiNg and my dad was nice but kinda denied it yet aggreed to look into it, but my mom especially denied it. she kept invalidating the symptoms i clearly showed and kept saying that thats what comes with being young and a "kid" and saying that everyone feels things like fidgeting and being unable to focus at times, and that just made me angrily go :D cause yes, lots of ppl feel things like that, but when its paired with everything else that comes with adhd like executive dysfunction, chronic procrastination and insomnia, you'd think that they'd do something and maybe nOtiCe yk especially since ive showed all the symptoms since childhood- they did make an appointment for me to see a psychiatrist in June and in my head i just went FuCkiNg FinAlLy- also,, whenever i subtly bring up other symptoms and things like that with my mom, she continues to invalidate me and ToXiC aS hELL and she's been like this ever since i was a kid but i only realized that the way and what she did and said wasnt normal after my gf pointed it out to me. its kinda scary that i went a hell of a long time without realizing it and by that time my undiagnosed brain was hella fucked up by dangerously empathetic and self-destructive mindsets by lessons and little things like "get what you get and you dont throw a fit" and "treat others the way you wanna be treated" being drilled into my head by my mom,, also having little to no friends as a kid and being disregared in general all kinda caused me to think that from as young as 7-8 that i was close to worthless trash that only deserves to get treated like horseshit but still has to basically serve and be overly empathetic to everyone so yEa not to mention the total bullshit way she would try to discipline me by shouting at me till i cried for little things then nOt ApOlOgiZiNg, criticizing and trying to fix almost everything i did, getting mad at me for things i cant control like symptoms of adhd (and only saying she was proud of me after i got good grades in school which BitCh i shouldn't have to earn getting told something so basic-) cause she feels sOOOo entitled to be a parent yet she still tries to hug me on a near daily basis and tells me she loves me yet keeps up with the toxic behavior i think without even knowing shes being toxic and im just here like UHhh are you awAre of what your doing ma'am- maybe wanna take a look at whats coming out of your nasty ass mouth for once-

uHHH yuh anyway pls i require lots of fireside cuddles rn also wish me luck on pulling xingqiu in genshin i already pulled xinyan lmao anyway ilysm kokichi and you better have a nice day this is a threat-

-🍬

“you’re back!

wellll it’s really good you learned that about yourself!

i’m proud of you for figuring that out!

and i hope you get diagnosed soon...thouughhh i know that can be kind of hard.

especially with your parents not being too supportive.

which is super dumb!

your symptoms are like 100% valid and so are you! they can’t just take that away!

and your mom sucks. she’s totally toxic, you’re right! she doesn’t treat you the way you deserve!

you’re a pretty cool person, who deserves to be loved and respected! not criticized and left alone all the time!

that’s like suuuper unfair!

i promise you you’re not as bad as she makes you out to be.

you’re amazing, trust me, that’s no lie.

but anywayyyy your girlfriend does seem pretty cool!

so it’s nice you have someone to help you.

annnnndd...fine, i’ll give you some fireside cuddles.

and lots and lots of luck!

just to make you feel better!

and i guess i’ll also have a good day if youre gonna threaten me like that!

but you have to have one too!”

-Kokichi Ouma

#kokichi ouma #kokichi oma #danganronpa kokichi #seriouskokichiletters

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always-and-forever-a-killjoy · 4 years

Text

Good afternoon fuckers, I wrote approximately 3k words in between roleplay, looking after kittens, and

Title: knight in a beat-up green jacket

Wordcount: 3055

Summary: Jet Star and the Kobra Kid are injured. Party Poison is having a rough time. Cherri Cola just wants to be helpful.

Warnings: Major warnings for hospitals, mentions of/implied serious injuries, and mentions of death as well as general awfulness. Please be careful when reading!

Taglist: @wishiwasthemoon-tonight @sleevesareforlosers @stressed-depressed-emo-mess @tasteofamnesia (message me, send an ask, or reblog/reply to one of my posts if you want to be added or removed)

AO3 Link

(Actual fic under the cut)

Party Poison was going to cry. Or scream. Or pass out. Because the report had come in, Dr. Death Defying’s gravelly voice echoing through the radio with the dreadful news. Bad news from the zones tumbleweeds. It looks like Jet-Star and the Kobra kid had a clap with an exterminator that went all Costa Rica and uh, got them selves ghosted, dusted out on route Guano. And Poison’s world had shattered.

They and Fun Ghoul had driven out, as fast as the Trans Am would take them, searching for their brother and friend. Kobra’s bike had been lying on its side by the side of the road, broken and scorched, just like his brother’s body would be-

But Kobra had been alive, if barely, and so had Jet. So Ghoul and Poison had bundled them in and rushed them to the hospital, and the doctors had taken then away without even a single reassurance. All they had gotten was a grim “We’ll do our best,” from the head medic. And now Ghoul had xyr head in xyr hands as he and Poison waited anxiously and Poison was going to pass out. They followed Ghoul’s lead and buried their head in their hands, trying to breathe and mostly failing. Kobra could be dead right now, Jet could be gone and Poison wouldn’t even know, not until the dour-faced head medic came out and told them so. Their brother could be dying, in pain and without his friends, and Poison wouldn’t even be there.

Just as it seemed like they couldn’t bear it any longer, rough, scarred hands materialized in their field of vision, pulling their hands away from their face.

“Poison. Poison.”

“Fuck off,” Poison choked out.

“Poison,” Cherri Cola’s voice said again, very patiently. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

“Nothing is going to be okay!”

“It is, I promise. I’m here-“

“And what’s a fucking wavehead going to do?”

They almost regretted the words, watching Cherri flinch. His voice was calm though, when he next spoke. “I checked in with the medics. Kobra is stabilized, but not ready for visitors. Jet isn’t out of the woods yet, but they think he’s going to be okay.”

Poison froze at that, hardly daring to hope. “They’re going to be okay?”

“They’re going to be okay.” Cherri was still holding their hands away from their face, squeezing them gently in his rough, calloused ones, but he let go and reached to wipe a couple of tears Party hadn’t realized were there off their cheeks. “It’s okay, don’t cry. They’re going to be alright.”

That only made them cry harder, more tears pouring down their face. A strangled sob made its way out of their throat, and they crumpled entirely, throwing their arms around Cola. His arms were warm when they wrapped around Poison in return, rocking them gently back and forth.

“Shh. Shhh. It’s okay.” Cherri kept repeating that until Poison’s sobs turned to sniffles, making vague noises of comfort as they took a few shuddering breaths.

He didn’t release them until a medic came over to tap him on the shoulder. “Excuse me, are you Cherri Cola?”

“That’s me. Is there word on Kobra and Jet?”

“The Kobra Kid is ready for visitors, if you want. He’s not awake yet,” they added as Poison sat up straight, clutching Cherri’s shoulders. “But you can go see him.”

“All of us?” Cherri asked, frowning.

“Only one visitor at a time.”

Poison leapt to their feet. Their throat didn’t seem to want to form words, so they gave Cherri their most pleading glance, practically begging. Thank the Phoenix Witch, he quickly nodded. “Poison will go, of course. I’ll stay here with Ghoul.”

Ghoul didn’t question that, and Cherri gave Poison’s hand a quick squeeze, flashing them a small smile. “Go on, see your brother.”

They tried to smile back, letting go of his hand as the medic led them through the whitewashed halls. It was too similar to Battery City for their liking, but at least in this building the paint was chipped and scratched, bits of graffiti scrawled occasionally here and there. Poison tried to focus on that instead of what this place reminded them of or where, exactly, they were going.

It felt like both too long and too short before they were entering a hospital room, staring at the figure on the bed. Kobra was so still, unnaturally so. Not that he was usually energetic, per se, but he was never perfectly still, always fiddling with something or other. He looked small lying there- he always looked small to Poison, even if they were a frankly unfair amount shorter, but now he looked even smaller than normal. There were bandages wrapped all around his shoulder and upper arm, and an IV sticking out of his other arm. Poison wanted to cry just looking at him, but their tears were all cried out so they settled for sitting in the chair beside him, grasping his hand tightly even though they knew he couldn’t feel it.

Kobra didn’t wake, but Poison thought they caught a tiny bit of movement, and their heart skipped a beat. “Kobra? Kobra?” He didn’t stir, and Poison settled back again, not releasing his hand. They were never letting him go again, they decided.

True to their resolve, they didn’t move an inch until the medic came back to kick them out, insisting that the doctors needed to look at their brother. Poison was left to find their way back on their own, winding through the too-white hallways and trying not to think.

Ghoul was asleep on Cola’s lap when they arrived back at the lobby, curled like a cat, and Cola put a finger to his lips in the universal motion of ‘shh’.

Poison approached quietly, settling next to the other two. “Ghoulie fell asleep?”

“Cried xemself to sleep,” Cola whispered, brushing a hand over xyr hair. “How’s Kobra?”

They could feel tears prickle their eyes again, remembering Kobra’s still body, but they blinked those away fiercely. “He’s…alive. Still passed the fuck out, but alive.”

“Thank the witch.”

“Any word on Jet?”

Cola shook his head. “I’m assuming they’re alive, since no one’s come to tell me otherwise, but no word otherwise.”

“That was so reassuring.”

He just sighed, the sigh turning into a yawn halfway through. “I wish I had more news to tell you, but no one’s told me anything- the reason I was the one being told news earlier is because I technically ‘checked them in’. I think you and Ghoul were having too much of a rough time.”

Cola’s yawn made Party yawn as well, rubbing at their eyes. “They just rushed Jet and Kobes in, didn’t ask us anything. We went and sat down, and then you showed up.”

“Ah. Yeah. They were looking around for people who were with the two injured ‘joys when I came in, I figured I’d just give them the info they needed.”

It rankled their pride to admit they had needed help, but “Thank you, Cola.”

That earned them a faint smile. “Never thought I’d live to see the day you didn’t call me Pepsi.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Of course not.”

They definitely weren’t leaning against him, not at all. That would be very undignified for Party Poison, leader of the Fabulous Killjoys. But they didn’t protest when Cola wrapped his free arm around them cautiously, pulling them closer on the shitty hospital waiting chairs as Ghoul snored quietly. And if they leaned a bit on his shoulder, who was going to say anything?

The next morning, Party Poison woke up in a shitty hospital chair with Cherri Cola’s head leaning on top of theirs and Fun Ghoul stretched across both their and Cola’s laps. All in all, not the weirdest place they had ever woken up, but it was definitely up there. Especially given that there was a killjoy (neutral?) in the colors of a medic standing in front of them.

“Ahem, excuse me?”

Poison blinked at them. “Fuck off, my crew’s sleeping.”

“Your friend is awake.”

They sat straight up, knocking Cherri’s head off them (to a lot of swearing from him, which they ignored). “Which one?”

The medic checked their chart. “The killjoy known as Jet Star.”

“And they’re awake?”

“Yes, but there are some…complications.”

Cola was somewhat more awake by now, blinking and yawning with another muttered “Shit.” He pushed his hair out of his face. “What complications?”

“They’ve lost an eye.”

Poison appreciated, in some distant corner of their mind, the way that the medic didn’t try to sugarcoat the words. They just said it, straight-up, which was far better than dancing around the subject, in Poison’s opinion. But the greater part of their mind was involved with worrying about Jet. How were they going to take the news? Would it be harder for them to do what they needed? Would they be freaked out?

“Fucking shit,” Ghoul swore from Poison’s lap, and they almost jumped. They hadn’t realized xe was awake. “Can I see them?”

“Yes, but only one visitor at a time.”

Ghoul cast Poison a pleading look. Although they would never admit it, not in this lifetime or the next, his puppy-dog eyes were very convincing. Not to mention that the worry in them broke Poison’s fucking heart. “Go on. I saw Kobra, you can see Jet.”

“Thanks, Pois!” Ghoul leapt up, almost toppling to the ground, and hurried after the departing medic.

Cola yawned and blinked at Poison. “Good morning, I guess. Sorry about falling asleep on your head.”

“I fell asleep on your shoulder, it’s fine.” They weren’t paying much attention to him, busy worrying about Kobra. “You think the medics would let me see Kobes?”

“Worth a shot.” He yawned again, running a hand through his messy hair. “If you want, I can talk to the head medic. They seem to have a soft spot for younger ‘joys, they’d probably let you see your brother if we ask nicely.”

Poison ignored the weird surge of guilt that Cola still hadn’t gotten to see either Kobra or Jet. They hadn’t seen Jet, and Ghoul hadn’t seen Kobra, so why should Cherri fucking Cola get to see either of them? “Great, let’s go ask.”

Cherri led them across the room, heading up to the tall and dour medic who had told Poison “We’ll do our best.”

“Hey.” Their voice was flat and calm.

“Hey…senior medic Dowdy, was it?” Cola’s voice was neutral bordering on friendly, and the medic’s face softened as Poison came to stand next to him.

“That’s my name, yep. And you are…Cherri Cola?”

Cherri nodded. “And this is Party Poison.”

“Pleased to meet you. I’m assuming you two are here about seeing your friends?”

“We were hoping Poison might be able to see their brother, the Kobra Kid, since our other friend Fun Ghoul is with Jet Star right now.”

“Ah.” Dowdy frowned. “Well, Kobra isn’t awake yet, but I don’t think some visitors would hurt. Come on, both of you.”

Poison glanced at Cola, finding him already staring back.

“I don’t have to come,” he said quietly. “If you’d rather visit Kobra alone.”

Even though Cola had offered, and even if they didn’t trust him all too far, Poison didn’t have the will to keep him from seeing their brother. “You can come, but it’s not pretty.”

“Believe it or not, I’m rather used to not pretty.”

“Oh, I believe it.”

Cola’s voice softened slightly. “I think it’s harder for you to see him than me to see him, so the only question is if it’s harder for you to have me there.”

Why was he so goddamn fucking nice? “I don’t care.”

“I’m coming, then.”

Poison would never have admitted it, not in a thousand years or more, but it was nice to have Cherri next to them when walking the halls of this too-clean building where they weren’t in control of a single goddamn thing. They hated feeling helpless, always had, but at least with Cherri Cola there (and still trying to get his fucking hair to stay out of his face), they didn’t have to feel alone.

Another thing they would never admit to was the way they reached back, fumbling for Cola’s hand as they entered the room. It was long habit, forged by a good while of reaching for Jet whenever shit went south, but they never intended to reach for Cola of all people. Ghoul, at least, would have been understandable- xe was a member of Party’s crew- but Cola? Absolutely fucking not.

Thank the Phoenix Witch, he said nothing about it, simply giving their hand a small squeeze. Poison didn’t squeeze back, but they didn’t let go either, not even at Cola’s tiny gasp upon seeing Kobra. Their brother looked not much better than yesterday, still far too small and far too still, but as they watched, he shifted slightly.

“He’s on his way to getting better. Assuming he does recover, we predict it will be one or two more days before he’s awake,” Dowdy informed them. “Now, I’ve got other patients to attend to, I’ll come kick you out if I need.”

Poison damn near cried, thanking every deity out there that Cherri was too absorbed in watching Kobra to even notice. He had moved. He was alive, and on his way to well. Poison thanked every deity out there for that as well, even muttering a few prayers under their breath.

Once the initial relief had worn off, it was back to watching their baby brother lay there, quiet as anything and still too fucking still.

“He looks so still. Still and small,” Cherri said softly.

Poison hated that his first thought was the same as their first thought. “He’s too fucking small. And too fucking quiet.”

Cherri nodded and squeezed their hand again. “He’ll get better though.”

“You trust the medic?” It wasn’t like they trusted his word much, but Cola did know just about everyone in the Zones and the reputations thereof.

“Dowdy’s been working at this hospital for as long as I’ve been in the Zones. I’d trust them with my life- and I trust them with Kobra’s, which might be worth more.”

Poison shot him a glance. “Look, it’s not like I wouldn’t be sadder if Kobes died than if you did, but I’d still be sad.”

His smile was wry. “I didn’t realize you cared so much.”

“You’re a decent person, even if you’re insufferably nice.” They shrugged. “Plus, Kobes likes you.”

“So not too personal then.”

“You’re my brother’s friend, nothing more.”

Cola gave them a small nod of acknowledgement. “I don’t mind, so long as all of you are safe.”

“Stop being insufferably nice.”

“Then how will I be insufferable?”

“You could try not being insufferable,” they muttered.

He grinned. “I could, but there’s no fun in that. Besides, my plan is working. I’ve distracted you from worrying.”

Poison glared at him, but something he had said jogged at their memory. “You’re a bastard, but uh...sorry for being a dick to you when you first got here.”

“It’s fine, really.”

“No, it was shitty of me. I should’ve dealt with stuff without being pissy at you, even if I was worried.” They stared at the floor.

Cherri sounded both surprised and happy when he next spoke. “Well. Thank you, Poison. That was a nice apology.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

“No, seriously, I’m proud of you. You’re getting better at acknowledging your actions.”

Poison looked up and made an ick face at him. “You sound like every other adult.”

“I am almost thirty, you know.”

“Old person.”

“Hey! Rude youngster!” He was smiling though, and so was Poison, the shitty situation briefly forgotten.

“You guys are fucking loud.”

Party Poison’s head whipped around so fast their neck hurt, turning to see Kobra Kid blink sleepily from the bed. “What?” was all they could think to say.

His voice was quiet, but it was there. “Said what I said. You guys are fucking loud.”

The noise they made was halfway between a laugh and a sob. “Of course the first thing you do when you wake up is complain.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re a little bitch.”

There were tears rolling down Poison’s cheeks now, but they couldn’t muster the energy to care. “Fuckface.”

“Bastard.”

“Bitch boy.”

“Baby fucker.”

“Dipshit.”

“Asshole.” Kobra turned his head vaguely towards Cherri. “So how long have you loud bastards been stuck with each other?”

“Only since yesterday,” Cola told him. “When you and Jet came in.”

“Is Jet okay?”

Poison shot Cola a warning glare as he opened his mouth. “They’re going to be fine.” Kobra could find out later.

Thank the witch, Cola nodded along. “They’ll be okay.”

“Good.” Kobra’s eyes were drooping again. “Now shut up and let me sleep.”

Dowdy arrived back a few minutes after that, and kicked them out just as promised. And thus began their second round of waiting, this time waiting for their friends’ recovery as opposed to news of them.

Cherri Cola stayed with Poison in the lobby as they waited for Fun Ghoul, and then he offered to wait with Ghoul while Poison went to see Jet. He waited with them through the next night and most of the next morning, until Kobra was awake again, and he stayed right by Poison’s side when Jet Star came down to the lobby for the first time, soon to be released from the hospital. Cherri was there when they had to help Kobra limp on out to the Trans Am, and he took the papers with all sorts of instructions on wound care from Dowdy. Cherri Cola was with the Fabulous Four from the moment he arrived at the hospital to the moment they got back to Dr. D’s radio station, where the Girl had been staying, and she came running into their arms.

Later, when Ghoul would laugh and say “You’re a fucking hero, Cola. Like a knight in shining armor and all that”, he would smile and say “Not a hero. Just a poet.”

Maybe not a knight in shining armor, but Poison certainly thought he had been their hero in a beat-up green jacket.

#auri writes #cherri cola #party poison #kobra kid #ttlofk #i still don't understand tumblr tagging #danger days #danger days fic

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vampire--dad · 4 years

Text

Thank you for the tag @moonysourenza 💕💕

✨ Put your music library on shuffle, pick a fandom and match character(s) from that fandom for 10 songs you get. (Lyrics optional) ✨

Alright, let’s go lads. Let’s see what we get from my everyday playlist (which is a total mess. genre is meaningless to me)

1. Drop Dead - Badflower

Rare as a roast, the skin in her clothes

But she shivers like a beggar when she cries

—

Quick, pose for the vanity!

Clack clack with your high heels!

Quit messin' with the boys head!

Learn to love yourself, or drop dead

You take what you don't need

You keep fuckin', but you don't breed

Better off if you ask me

Learn to hate yourself, and love me

this one was hard but I eventually decided on Eskel and that succubus

2. why are you here - Machine Gun Kelly

I’m not myself

I’m not myself when you’re around, no

Can’t be helped

We are insane, that’s just the way it goes

I’m a demon in the night

She’s an angel with the white

Told me keep on all the lights

I’ma show you what you like

Help you put back on your clothes

Make sure nothing’s on your nose

Ain’t even tell my closest homies, nobody knows

ngl, MAJOR Geralt to Yen vibes with their whole on again/off again situation

3. Trip Switch - Nothing But Thieves

Sharing secrets with another world

Rubbing shoulders with some unknown lovers

Making waves through the universe

Starting wars with anonymous brothers

i get Ciri vibes just from these lyrics

4. Grey Leaves - Robert Hallow and The Holy Men

And though I may

Remember moonlit halls

The earth suits me better now

As does the sun

For night, it seems, can offer

Sleep, not rest

And must be used to dream

Of those grey leaves

i think Jaskier, thinking about the time he’s spent on the Path with Geralt. he remembers when he was a child, the “moonlit halls” of the Lettenhove House, but he’s older and “the earth suits [him] better now”

5. Heroin - Badflower

She’s in my head again

She knows where I have been

I’m going down that road again

She’s in my bed again

She marks her fingerprints in my skin

I breathe her perfume in

And it burns like heroin

once again, Yenralt vibes, the on again/off again, the perfume line immediately made me think of Yen

6. Toss A Coin To Your Witcher

this feels unfair

7. Promise Me-Acoustic - Badflower

We're getting old now

But I don't feel it

I say you're beautiful

And I still mean it

And I don't wanna know

What old age feels like

So promise me you won't

Give up on this life

And we'll be busy tryin'

While the rest of them are dyin'

Promise me we'll never grow up

I don't wanna let go

I wanna stay young

And even when the wrinkles show up

We'll be laughing, and

We can play forever

Don't make me face the truth

okay OKAY ive been thinking about writing a Geraskier fic for this song for WEEKS. all of the talk of aging and still being happy and Geralt “not feeling” the age theyve both gained even though he knows hes going to lose Jaskier one day AAAAAAAAAAA

8. Warning Sign - The Amazons

Even if you say I'm wrong

You know I'm not the only one

Maybe it's a warning sign

You can barely sleep at night

You're acting like a loaded gun

Like you wanna hurt someone

Can you feel the water rise?

Maybe it's a warning sign

i cant completely explain why, but i get Lambert vibes. its mostly the “acting like a loaded gun.” im sure you get it

9. Despicable - grandson

One day you will understand

Why I pushed you away as I am

And you will find a better man than I am

Trust, I'm doing you a favor, doing you a favor

Despicable

I'm just a bottom feeder

Despicable

I ain't never been a keeper

Despicable

Love her then I leave her

And if I were you, I wouldn't love me neither

oh look its Geralt. our favourite self loathing bastard

10. Somewhere I Belong - Linkin Park

When this began,

I had nothing to say

And I'd get lost in the nothingness inside of me

(I was confused)

And I let it all out to find that I'm not the only person with these things in mind (inside of me)

But all the vacancy the words revealed

Is the only real thing that I got left to feel (nothing to lose)

Just stuck, hollow and alone

And the fault is my own,

And the fault is my own

OLGIERD!! MY BOY!! Olgierd Von Everec, who had the best intentions and just didnt want to lose the woman he loved and suffered for it and IM STILL MAD ABOUT IT OKAY

that was fun!! so now that ive exposed my music taste to everyone here, im gonna tag @lovelyeskel @lohrendrell @feral-jaskier @patchwork-quilts @in-love-with-writing002

#tag games #songs #lyrics #the witcher

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lesbianlenas · 5 years

Note

when i first saw that ugly het moment i started crying bc i felt so angry-its now 3 am and im thinking ab that moment again,and im tearing up again; am i being dramatic? or is it fair that im feeling this way? i want to justify my sadness/anger due to how im only 15 and lgbt (showing that the show does have an impact on the youth, in this case lgbt youth) but at the same time idk if its unhealthy and ive just depended too much on a show/ship for serotonin. idk, im just so upset rn, fuck the sgcw

ur not being dramatic. lol when i was 15 i watched a show where they fridged a lesbian character that i was incredibly attached to For Some Reason and i cried for 3 hrs and then was depressed for two weeks. like being gay and young is like the only place where u get to see urself represented in a positive light & that gives u hope that u can actually find happiness is in media, which is why good, positive, thoughtful representation is so important. to see urself represented in such an amazing, powerful character like kara as a lesbian, or as a bi woman, or even just as a woman in general is so empowering. and then to have her constantly beaten down by men that the narrative instantly forgives by having her get romantically involved with them, or by doing the same w lena and james, is so frustrating ESP when u relate to her (and/or lena) as a lesbian. like even if this is all just a red herring it’s still incredibly unfair of supergirl to play w their audience, mostly made up of young lesbians, like that. also if it makes u feel better im turning 20 in 2 months and i had a full on mental breakdown on my tumblr blog for almost 10k ppl 2 see last night so u are certainly not alone lol ✌

#anonymous #ask //

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merrysithmas · 5 years

Text

some POPPER-centric hcs:

Boris and Theo celebrating Popper's birthday together for two years, waking up at two in the afternoon, blinds drawn tight - but not tight enough to banish the bright gleam of treasure chest gold that flares through the slits between them, 777 Vegas coin yellow, graffitiing malleable stripes of desert sun across the walls and crumpled sheets. Theo peeking a tired eye over the coverlet from under Boris' arm, little Popper’s big cookie-round ink eyes already awake and staring at him, tail wagging bashfully against the sheets in the silence.

Boris, who was snoring just a moment ago, starts up, suddenly, electrified, hollering a gasping realization that sounds something like, “Moy malchik!” The sound pops a breaker in Theo’s brain, letting loose a migraine from last night's bender, which is evidenced by the toppled pill bottles (Xandra's), the semi-collapsed beer cans and the vague memory of Boris' stoned over-confidence ("Potter! Look - against my head - watch - I bet I can - like the movies!"), and the ultimately ignorable ache of his hamstrings.

At Boris' startling exclamation Popper lets loose an exuberant tirade of ungodly shrieking, like set off by the crack of a gun at race he was raring for, immediately licking Boris' morning-slick skin, teenaged greasy and gross, and Boris is laughing so loud that the walls almost shake, as they are so regularly starved and thin of joy. And Theo sits up, wincing (that phantom ache again, inadmissible memories) and leans on his elbow, reaching out to pat the wild little thing who quickly turns on him, "Ok - Happy birthday! Happy birthday!"

II.

Boris and Theo washing Popper in the sink - he reeks. Sickly sweet rotten fruit-smell compounded with the wet mildewy stench of old laundry, distinctly intermixed with the odor of shit. Popper’s yelping echoes through the kitchen like an antique car horn, petrified, claws rigid on the edge of the sink, braced for continued frantic attempts to flee his sudsy prison and energized with bouts of fervor not entirely unlike a demonic possession. The one overhead light fixed accusatorily above the kitchen sink makes the whole set up look like an interrogation room - worlds away from the girly relaxing grooming videos they found on Youtube.

“Potter! Not this way!" Boris screeches - voice cracking like it has been lately - exacerbated in its rawness by the cheap, caustic brand of cigarettes he smokes. Lately they’ve been meeting the parched maw of his chapped lips like a consecutive line of ants, one after the other, his fingernails yellowing. Popper shakes violently, way before Theo is ready and can throw the ratty towel across his drenched body, whirling like a windmill, fur centripetal and spiralling, soaking their filthy t-shirts flat onto their bony bruised limbs.

“Oh, Popper," Boris outright coos, followed by a placating barrage of what is unmistakably a grandmotherly coddle of (likely) Polish. "You look just like Potter!" he declares, finally discarding his ciagrette, which dims in the puddle on the counter as it sucks up water. Theo grabs it as it does, revives it, takes a long, charring drag of nicotine and tar. His eyes narrow behind his glasses, observing the drowned-rat Maltese, frigid and shaking to its bones, and completely hates how Popper's forlorn appearance quite accurately recalls his own reflecton, just in from the pool, hair flat to his head, eyes big and, somehow always, helpless.

III.

Boris and Theo say goodbye to Popper when he is fifteen. Congestive heart failure - a diagnosis so deleterious and uncomfortably human Theo finds it hard to believe when the middle-aged vet ("Dr Janet", purple earrings, thick rectangular glasses - incense burning, loose leaf tea drinking, National Park lover) breaks it to him. She seems to understand the frozen bones in his shoulders and his unexpected quietness better than he does, leaving the room before he notices she’s gone.

Even in the darkest edges of his flayed existentialisms Theo never found room for dogs. Dogs, he supposes for the first time, in an achingly unfair realization, with their bright renewable resource of happiness (which they often give freely even to the undesevering, or unknowning, or unappreciative) are immune to such nihilistic musings. Popper stares at him from the table, ragged and old, too heavy in the middle and too thin on the edges, breathing all wrong. How did - all that time pass?

Boris, on video-chat in Kyyiv, up to no nefarious deed (he insists) is the one, for once, startled by Theo’s harsh red eyes, like he's been doping too much again, but there’s no dope - just a clinical setting and a hard shuddering breathing, from somewhere offscreen, quiet like it’s coming from a baby in crib.

Boris, like a knitted sweater, so often and inevitably pulled in many different directions until he disappears, seems to swat away half a dozen Non-English speaking acquaintances before the line goes quiet on his end and Theo can actually explain what is going on. The way he touches the screen on the video chat with his fingertips when Theo presents it to Popper (“Let me see him please,” Boris had asked, with no hidden heartbreak) makes Theo’s chest crush inward like the emotional equivalent of the impact of a car accident.

Boris says no at first, when Theo makes the suggestion, no let him go when he's supposed to, not yet, then: let me see him first, and makes it all the way to JFK before his phone rings. He doesn't answer, won't, but when he walks in the jingling door from the merciless city rain, the black tails of his coat dragging water, all sharp angles and dark shadows, he already knows.

“He couldn’t wait anymore,” Theo says. And when he meets Theo’s cherry red eyes, Boris doesn’t yell, or get angry - he cries. Right there in the lobby - he cries. Hands shielding his eyes, like a boy cowering beneath the shade of an umbrella.

IV.

Later they bump coke in the bathroom of Gramercy Tavern, shitfaced at the table, “Remember when he ate Xandra’s G-string?” Theo says so loudly it rings across the room like a papal blessing.

“Aha! Yes! So sneaky. Little pervert! Gets that from you! And the time he shit in the grocery store? Aisle 12?”

The memories pour out: “His fucking pink collar with the bell on it.” “How he howl like - ooo ooo oooo! So annoying! Always in the morning! Yes, Popchyk! I’m coming!” “Oh when we caught him fucking The Playa’s chihuahua?” “да, I told him he could do better! He was nice boy she was not so nice. Still, he got more ass than either one of us,” Boris says fondly, proudly, and clinks his shotglass to Theo for what seems like the hundreth time.

“Something deeply not right about catching a Maltese in the throes of passion,” Theo says, blinking long-disturbed eyes behind the dewy lenses of his glasses. Boris seems to agree, with a noncomittal grunt, and puts a heavy, vice-like grip onto Theo’s shoulder, shaking him until he looks up.

“Like a teddy bear getting a blowjob,” he says, and Theo laughs a half-choked laugh. They’re both crying. They’re both fucking crying.

“To Popchyk née Popper, G-string sniffer, pillow hat, accomplished singer,” Theo sniffs, sitting up straightly from his messy, hunched position over the table, head back against the booth. Boris meets his eyes, they’re both such a fucking mess. “And friend.”

“Vichnaya pamyat,” Boris says formally, in response. Theo smashes his glass, agreeing.

“Eternal memory.”

“Open any one! Any one you want!” Boris crows happily, the tip of his nose red like he’s been outside in the cold but he hasn’t, not for hours, and the sloshing bottle of Christmas cheer which is sitting (carelessly, without a coaster, Theo notices with disdain) on the mahogany side table is nearly empty at only half past noon. “Oh! My big mistake!” Boris makes a big show of putting his hand to his chest in guilt, elevating the bottle and placing it on top of a book instead. “блядь,” he scoffs.

“I know what ‘bitch’ in Russian is,” Theo answers, wrapped warmly in a woolen Burberry pullover, burgundy, with the festive forest green cuffs of his starched button up curling around the ends of his sleeves. Snow is falling outside like white wafting butterflies, the stone Antwerp architecture nestled under frost, Tchaikovsky on the speakers hooked up to Boris’ sentimental iPhone.

“I know!” Boris says cheerily, gesturing towards the presents beneath the tree with a sweeping, encouraging hand. “Any one!”

Theo rolls his eyes, but as they land on the smattering of gifts wrapped festively on the dark hardwood floor his mood lifts. Picking up a small one, dark matte navy blue with a silver ribbon Boris exclaims offendedly -

“No! Any one!” he repeats, taking the blue one out of Theo’s hands and replacing it with a rather less elegant medium-sized red box, bundled together with a haphazard green string. “This one!”

The oddly-weighted box quivers in his grip, a strange feeling which sends an unexpected thrill of fear through Theo, “What is this.”

“Open!” Boris goads. “Just look!” he seems pleased with himself, taking another long hit off the joint that is smoking in the ash tray and then rubbing his palms together and leaning forward over his knees, eagerly like a kid.

The box is easy to open, just a cover over a base, which Theo lifts to reveal the small fuzzy face of a tiny, tiny round dog, so extremely gay, circular in the face like a teddy bear, pawing at the side of the box.

“You like her?” Boris asks with the trepidation of new fallen snow, peering over Theo’s shoulder.

The puppy stares at him, unblinking and cherubic, and softly licks Theo’s nose. It happily lets out the shrillest bark from its tiny lungs, a sound so high-pitched it makes the bells on the tree tingle in the vaguest memory of tinnitus.

“Ah, бубенчик Popchykova!” Boris laughs.

Theo hoists the little thing up, blinking tree lights ensconsing the ball of its fuzz, an ornament-shape itself - the puppy wriggles disorganized limbs in midair, pawing innocently for warmth and closeness. Somehow smaller, more effeminate, and more annoying than his last dog. He loves her already. Round cookie-shaped eyes and a bark that splits his skull. And the name?

It fits.

#the goldfinch #boreo #popchyk borysovych decker pavlikovsky #i have a lot of feelings abt popper ok

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the-inept-artist · 5 years

Text

Youth Is Wasted On The Young

Originally posted: 11/22/2017

Word count: 2,590

~oOo~

Steven slowly walked up the hill. His body was aching, exhausted from lack of sleep. But that was nothing compared to his emotions.

It was as if he were a tornado, whirling around and around, yet staying perfectly calm in his center. So much had happened in the past few days, and his brain was still trying to catch up.

~oOo~

"I kept it, because I knew I'd see you again," Steven said. Sliding the glow bracelet onto her wrist, he smiled at Connie. Her face was framed by dark hair, her skin and dress were tinted red from the light of the glow bracelet, pink from the magical bubble surrounding them, and dark blue from the ocean above. He then thought that in that moment, she had never looked more beautiful.

Steven offered her a hand and Connie took it, hesitantly standing. They gazed at one another shyly.

"Thank you."

~oOo~

Steven smiled weakly, remembering. A slight wind picked up, blowing wisps of his now extremely long and curly hair into his face. He took a moment to stop and tie it back, resting his weary legs. Then he continued, albeit slower than before. He dreaded the moment when he would reach the top.

~oOo~

"Connie Maheswaran!"

Steven and Connie jerked and shrieked. Through blurry eyes Steven saw Connie's mother stomping towards them. Looking around further revealed Connie blinking sleep from her eyes, quickly realizing what was happening. "Mom?"

"How dare you do this! After all those stories I told you about at the hospital! Those poor girls with STDs, HIVs…pregnant, even!" Mrs. Maheswaran continued to rant at her daughter.

Steven quickly tried to recall what had happened. Connie had come over to hang out. They played tag on the beach in front of the temple. They came inside and had collapsed, exhausted. They chatted half-heartedly for a moment and then…nothing.

Steven jumped again as the front door opened. Garnet walked inside. Mrs. Maheswaran rounded on her. "And you! Garnet, was it? How could you have let them do this? I thought you were the responsible one!"

Garnet stared at the furious mother. She spoke in her calm, nearly emotionless voice. "Steven and Connie had just come in from playing out on the beach. They were tired, so they took a nap."

"While holding hands?!"

Steven started and hastily glanced down. Connie did the same. They realized that their hands were still intertwined with each other's. It had felt so natural, though, that neither had felt it until too late.

Garnet continued: "That was all they were doing. I saw no reason to disturb them from their rest." She moved past the shocked Mrs. Maheswaran and walked toward the Warp Pad. At the last moment, she looked back. "And I'm the cool one. At least, according to Steven. If you wanted responsible, you should've talked to Pearl." She then warped away, leaving silence in her wake.

Steven glanced at Connie, trying not to laugh.

~oOo~

He finally let out that laugh he had been holding in, though it turned into a half-hearted chuckle. That memory was one of his favorites, which was why it hurt so much.

Steven kept walking.

~oOo~

He woke up, though he had no idea why. Steven glanced around with just his eyes; he was too tired to move his head. Then he nearly jumped out of his skin.

Connie was standing in the entrance to the living room, like a dark ghost. She held a blanket and a pillow under her arm, and though Steven would never admit it, he thought she looked cute in her pale blue nightdress.

Wordlessly, Connie moved across the living room and set herself up at the base of Steven's couch, her head just below his chin. She leaned back against the couch and stared off to the left. Steven looked.

Snow. Little snowflakes just falling calmly past the window, only to be lost in the fog. Steven remembered what Connie had said earlier that day.

"I want to watch the snow fall!"

He smiled softly. Nestling himself deeper into his blankets, he joined Connie in snow-watching, content to spend that small bit of time with her. His best friend.

~oOo~

Tears started to build up, though refusing to fall. Steven picked up the pace, grip tightening on the bouquet of flowers.

~oOo~

"Steven, I'm doing this…for you!" Connie vaulted over his back and slashed the sword through a Hologram Pearl.

Steven stubbornly held his ground. Creating a bubble around the two of them, he turned to her desperately. "But I don't need to be protected! I want to train with you, to learn with you! Connie—" He took her hand. "Whatever we go through, I want to go through it together." He looked at her, silently pleading for her to understand.

Connie looked shocked. She gazed at her hand in his. Then she looked at him, tears in her eyes. "Okay."

And Steven knew that everything would be alright, as long as he had his best friend by his side.

~oOo~

Steven's vision blurred, and he tripped. Landing hard, he grunted slightly. The impact jarred some of the tears loose, and water dripped down his face.

~oOo~

They laughed, dancing on the beach. Dashing past each other, Steven tripped.

It was as if the world went into slow-motion. Steven fell back. Connie turned around and reached out.

And Steven stopped falling.

He opened his eyes to see Connie staring at him. He felt arms around his waist, and he realized that one of his hands had reached up to snake around her upper back. They were entangled together, closer than they had ever been before.

Steven gazed at Connie. Her expression was one of shock. Steven was sure his face mirrored hers. Then she smiled and pressed her forehead against his, closing her eyes. She began to laugh and it must have been contagious, because Steven started chuckling as well, a pink glow surrounding them.

~oOo~

Steven finally sobbed, the first one he had let out through the whole ordeal. Sure, he had cried, but they had been silent tears, the kind you shed in bed after a long day, the kind no one could hear but you, the kind where you believe you're completely alone.

And he was alone.

~oOo~

Steven sat on one of the Warp Pads, Connie beside him. A picnic basket sat off to the side, forgotten. Plates were stacked next to it, being the only hints that the couple had eaten at all.

His large arm was wrapped around her while she was leaning into his warmth, both staring up at the night sky. Stars and a full moon gazed calmly back at them. If they didn't know any better, it was almost as if there wasn't a Homeworld out to murder the Crystal Gems.

"Can you believe it?" Steven murmured. "We're finally together."

Connie chuckled slightly and turned her eyes on him. "We've been together since we were high school age." To her mother's disappointment, Connie had dropped out of high school to work with the Crystal Gems full-time. She was still an avid reader though, and loved to learn whenever she could.

Steven pressed a kiss to her forehead. "16 and 18, yeah. But now we're 21 and 23, and we have rings."

Connie hummed and lifted her hand to admire the gold band encircling her ring finger. "True. I can't believe it either."

Steven shifted his new wife closer to him. "And I couldn't be happier."

~oOo~

For a long time, Steven lay on the ground, sobbing. The flowers lay just by his hand, barely brushing his fingers. All he could feel was the pain in his gut and chest and the soft earth beneath him.

Eventually, Steven looked up. He saw that he was near the top of the hill. With a grunt, he pushed himself up into a standing position and began to slowly to walk the rest of the way.

And while he walked, he finally allowed himself to remember.

~oOo~

"Oh, that was the time we both dressed up as cats for Halloween!" Steven said, pointing out the picture.

Connie smiled. "You practically begged to do something else."

"Well, when you almost shapeshift into a cluster of cats, that kind of puts you off," Steven defended.

Connie laughed, but it quickly turned into a weak cough that tore at Steven's heart. He set the scrapbook aside. "Are you okay? Do you want some water?"

She nodded, still hacking away. Steven stood and grabbed the styrofoam cup on the bedside table, careful not to hit the IV tube. Going into the hallway, he headed to a nearby water fountain. While he filled the cup, he looked around. The scenery hadn't changed in the past few days. Same white walls, same white ceiling and floor, same bored nurses and doctors milling the halls and checking clipboards.

Steven shivered a little. He pulled the cup out from under the flow of water and went back to his and Connie's room. Connie had stopped coughing, her breathing shallow.

"Here you go," Steven said quietly, handing her the cup. Connie nodded in thanks and took a long sip. He watched her silently, ready to move in case she needed help.

Connie finished and put the cup back on the table. She seemed weaker than before. Both knew what was coming, but they didn't want to acknowledge it. To do so would be like opening their eyes to the horrifying truth.

"Can…can I do anything else? For you?" Steven asked awkwardly.

Connie thought. "Could you pull back the curtains, please?"

"Yeah." He maneuvered around the bed and made his way to the window. Taking hold of the heavy drapes, he slid them back, letting in the warm sunlight. Glancing back over his shoulder, his heart nearly burst.

His best friend and wife lay in the bed, wrinkles dominating her beautiful face. She never lost the black color of her hair, save for gaining a few strips of silver. In a way, they made her seem ethereal, otherworldly, fragile.

On the other hand, an IV was what kept her clinging to life. A heart monitor beeped out her slowly failing heart, and it was all Steven could do to stop himself from shaking the device, screaming at it to change, change to a faster tempo.

And then he looked at himself.

Young and healthy, even though he was around the same age as Connie. His gem kept him alive longer, younger longer. He wasn't immortal, but he was pretty damn close to it. He felt that this was unfair, that the universe was mocking him. His father, Greg, had been taken away six years before, and now it was Connie's turn.

They were left behind while he journeyed on.

Connie seemed to sense his inner turmoil. "I know," she said.

Steven sat back down on the stool, scrapbook forgotten. "I'm going to miss you so much."

"…I know." Connie put a hand to his cheek. "But I'll always be with you. No matter what, I'll always be with you. And we'll see each other again someday."

She brought him close and kissed him for what was probably the final time. Steven made sure to be gentle, for fear of hurting her further.

They broke apart and simply gazed at each other, memorizing each other's faces. Eventually Connie took her hand away and placed it on Steven's huge one. "Just make sure that 'someday' is a long time away, okay?"

Steven could only nod. He was sure that he was trembling, though he wasn't cold.

Connie smiled. "I love you." she whispered. Then she lay back and closed her eyes.

All was silent save for the constant beep of the heart monitor and the quiet splashing of Steven's tears.

~oOo~

Steven pulled himself from the memory to realize that he had reached the top of the hill. The sunset had disappeared; it was now night, stars softly winking down on him. The lighthouse stood silently in one corner, casting a huge shadow. And there, just in front of him…

Steven walked over. He couldn't feel his legs, he could only see the freshly turned dirt coming closer to him. He knelt in just in front of it and placed the flowers near the small slab of stone near the top.

In Memory of Connie M. Universe.

Steven stayed there; for how long, he couldn't tell. All was quiet; it was as if the world had gone mute, as if the world was mourning with him. And the world should mourn: Connie was gone, and she wasn't ever coming back. Steven knew it was juvenile to think in that sense; childlike even, but it was the only way he could process everything. He'd never hear her laugh, never see her smile, never feel her lips on his. Never again.

Eventually, Steven stood. He took one last look at the monument, then turned and started down the hill.

About halfway down, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the glow bracelet. Staring at it, he noticed how small it was in comparison to his huge hand.

A pink glow was suddenly cast around him. Steven jumped and looked down; but it didn't seem to be coming from his gem. No, it came from…back at the top of the hill.

Steven whipped around. He caught a glimpse of a small figure, glasses glinting. His breath caught in his throat. No…

He dashed back up the hill. When he reached the tombstone, everything seemed normal. Panting, he looked around. And then it happened.

The air in front of the tombstone shimmered, and a pink bubble appeared. Steven knew it wasn't him doing it. But that didn't matter to him right then. What mattered was who was inside the bubble.

Wearing a teal sundress and peach boots with her glasses perched on her nose, 12-year-old Connie stared back at him. She smiled softly, innocently, hands clasped behind her back.

Steven gulped back tears. He reached out his hand hesitantly. Encouragingly, Connie did the same.

They connected.

And suddenly, Steven was inside the bubble. He was his 14-year-old self again, with Connie in front of him, looking the same as she did when they first met. His eyes filled with tears again, but he knew they would not fall. Even though he would have to leave soon, for now he would enjoy this time with his best friend and lover.

For the young who are not careful, youth is truly wasted on them.

#StevenUniverse #SU #Stevonnie #StevenxConnie

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