#posting early so I can post on AO3 and then go freeze to death at soccer semifinals

[tumbleweed-run]

Raw

Kinktober Day 29 Breathplay 98% Bloodweave

“You’re going to die one day, you know, both of you,” Astarion announces, sounding petulant. 

Gale has long learned that tone is covering up other things, things the vampire isn’t ready to face. 

“Yes,” he says in agreement instead of arguing. They, he and Tav, that is, will die one day, hopefully far into the future. 

Astarion huffs and turns from the window, clearly annoyed with Gale’s answer. “And what am supposed to do then? Now that you’ve dragged me into,” he waves a hand around the room, “this.”

Tav stirs in her sleep but is otherwise undisturbed by them. Gale spares her a glance, hopeful she remains that way. It’s far too late to be having this conversation, but having it, they were. 

“No one dragged you. You were invited,” he reminds the vampire. 

Another huff. Those long-dead lungs are busy tonight. “It remains. What am I supposed to do then?”

“Live?” Gale suggests the obvious. He’s not sure what’s brought this on. Their mortality against Astarion’s immortality has never exactly been a secret. 

Astarion seems to consider that suggestion but then shakes his head, whether to dismiss his thoughts as a whole or the suggestion itself, Gale isn’t sure. 

“What if I can’t?” It’s said so quietly Gale might have believed he hadn’t really heard it at all, except the other man is facing him now, face uncharacteristically raw and expecting. 

“Then you’ll join us,” he says simply. 

Astarion is next to him now, arms crossed, looking angry. “You make it sound so easy,” he hisses, fangs bared. 

Gale resists the urge to roll his eyes, instead, he gently closes his book and deposits it on the table beside the bed. “It is, to a point,” he agrees softly, “you have only two options at that point. Each of us does.”

Gale isn’t one to pretend about things like this. He knows that if he lost them both, his grave would also be dug. He’d been willing to die for Mystra but chose to live for Tav. He doesn’t think his life is without its own merits, but there is little hope his heart would continue to work if he’d lost them. Luckily, depending on how you viewed it, they were all far more likely to go out together, be it through some accident or adventure. 

If he had to choose a premature death, that’s his choice. 

Astarion seems almost able to read his mind as he asks his next question.

“What would you do?” his voice is back to soft, but he seems deflated now. 

“If I lost you both?” Gale asks, but Astarion doesn’t answer. He’s standing so close to the bed that his thighs are touching it. He’s turned his face away from Gale. “I would follow.”

This proclamation doesn’t seem to please Astarion. His face pinches, and his arms cross again. 

“I think,” Gale says, carefully reaching out to grab one of the vampire’s hands, pulling it towards him. “That if I lost one of you that I would survive, we,” he emphasizes this with a tug of Astarion’s hand, “would survive. It’s a hurt that we could shoulder together.” 

Astarion’s eyes are guarded when he finally looks at Gale, but he takes it as a good sign when the other man doesn’t rip his hand away. He’s unnaturally still for some time, and Gale lets him think. Then, it’s in a sudden flurry of motion that Astarion climbs his way into Gale’s lap. 

“Astarion,” Gale gasps out a warning, looking next to them to make sure that, in his haste, Astarion didn’t knee Tav in the face. 

Astarion looks then, too, and when they find Tav still sleeping, he starts moving again. “She’ll forgive us,” he whispers before his mouth descends on Gale. 

Gale grasps the vampire’s hips and holds on. There’s little else for him to do. Astarion is nearly frantic with the way he presses kisses against his face. His fangs aren’t minded, and Gale knows he’ll look like he got into a fight with a particularly feral cat come morning. 

Astarion breaks away from him, only long enough to rip Gale’s shirt over his head. Then he’s back for his skin. He dives for Gale’s Netherese mark, back bent in a painful-looking fashion. When the vampire’s teeth break the skin there Gale knows it's on purpose. He hisses and jumps but otherwise allows Astarion his attack. He stays there focused until Gale is hesitant to look down, convinced his skin will be flayed open.

The relief of Astarion letting up from his attack is brief as his lips return to Gale’s. Gale makes an attempt to return the kisses, if they could be called that. He tries to soften Astarion’s movement, hands smoothing up the other man’s sides. Astarion will not be gentled tonight. Instead, he sits back abruptly, one hand flying up to bracket around Gale’s neck. 

Instinctively, Gale reaches up to grasp at Astarion’s wrist, but his brain catches up before he shoves him away. The vampire is just holding his hand there, not actually putting any pressure. It’s a warning, and somehow, given his current state, it’s a request. He looks at Astarion, chest heaving as he waits for something. The scholarly part of Gale is curious if his regression back to human tendencies is related to all the emotions he can see swirling in Astarion’s eyes. He’s not about to ask, very much aware of their current position. 

The part of Gale that is nothing better than any man is aware his cock is already so hard it hurts. He wants to reach down and feel if Astarion’s in the same way. He’s almost certain he is. Beneath the near-feral look on his face is a look Gale’s come to recognize. But again, he does nothing. 

That must be Astarion’s cue because his fingers twitch as he gradually begins squeezing at the sides of Gale's throat. Gale allows it but keeps his hand on the vampire’s wrist. If this is how Astarion plans to kill him, no amount of shoving at him will help; Gale knows this. Yet he doesn’t move more than to relax his body against the pressure. 

His ears have begun ringing when Astarion releases the pressure, though he keeps his hand ringed around Gale’s throat. Gale inhales deeply for a moment but barely has time before Astarion is kissing him again. At least this time, he manages to keep his fangs in his own mouth. Gale leans up to return the kiss but comes up short, the the hand around his neck refuses to move or allow him to. 

It’s Astarion who moves, one hand working to open his trousers. Gale takes pity on him and helps. Together, they manage to undo them, and Astarion finally moves his hand as he somehow manages to shimmy his pants off. Either he wasn’t wearing underwear, or he took them off with the pants. Gale can feel his cool skin through the thin fabric of his own sleep pants.

The hand is back around his neck almost instantly, and Gale sighs. “Is this how it’s going to be tonight?” He asks. 

His response is in the form of tightening fingers. They squeeze harder this time and hold well past when the ringing in his ears starts. Gale’s vision is beginning to fade around the edges when Astarion finally releases his grip. He’s much greedier this time when he sucks in air, his gasp audibly. The rush of blood as it returns to his brain leaves him feeling lightheaded and almost giddy. Astarion slides himself forward on Gale’s thighs until their cocks brush against one another. Gale gasps and rocks up into the sensation. 

Almost as soon as his skin stops buzzing does Astarion begin again. Gale grabs at the vampire’s hips and holds. He’s at the same place when Astarion releases. This time, Gale’s hips roll up immediately. Astarion’s eyes rolling back is the first thing Gale can see as his vision clears. He roughly keeps grinding their cocks together. His hold on Astarion’s hips much tighter than usual. There is likely to be bruising in the morning, to match the still stinging marks on his own skin. 

Gale’s the one who groans when Astarion pushes up onto his knees to create a gap between them. He quickly shoves Gale’s loose pants down until his cock springs free. Astarion looks at it for a moment with the same hungry look he often gives to strangers’ necks, and it makes Gale shiver. 

He moves quickly and Gale’s hands on Astarion’s hips are the only reason he’s able to push back against him. “Stop,” he grinds out, “you’re going to hurt yourself.”

“Good,” Astarion rolls his eyes and tries to slam his hips down once more. 

Gale realizes he’s losing and barely manages the incantation for oil before Astarion manages to win. The other man curses as he realizes it’s not a total victory. The oil coating Gale’s cock eases some of the discomfort he’d hoped to cause as he slides down onto it. It’s not his best spellwork, but given the circumstances, Gale is proud of himself. 

A little too proud, apparently, because Astarion’s hand flies back to his throat and squeezes immediately. This time, Gale leans into the pressure, locking his eyes with Astarion. Neither of them moves while Astarion chokes him, both of them frozen in this tableau. It’s only once he’s release that Gale thrusts up. 

It’s enough to knock Astarion off balance, which is a testament to his current state of mind, and he collapses forward onto Gale’s chest. Gale hesitates only long enough to see if Astarion is going to tell him to stop. When he doesn’t protest, Gale grabs at his hips and begins fucking up into him. Astarion is almost limp against him and Gale thinks about pushing him back up, to check on him, when he feels the brush of fangs against his already battered neck. 

He tilts his head in invitation. 

Astarion wastes no time in biting him. Gale has to restrain his thrusts in favor of not accidentally ripping out his own throat. Instead, he settles into rolling his hips upward gently, allowing each movement to drag Astarion’s cocks where it’s trapped between them. The vampire swallows mouthfuls of Gale’s blood noisily. 

It's gone on long enough, and Gale digs his thumb into the crease of Astarion’s hip. Astarion makes a startled noise and pulls back quickly. There was no grace or elegance to the way he was feeding, and there’s a smear of blood from his chin to his nose. Gale can feel a small trickle of blood going down his neck and onto the pillow beneath him. Astarion’s eyes zero in on it, and he raises his hand one more time and presses his fingers against the bite marks. Whether he’s trying to be helpful and stem the blood or just fascinated with the mess, Gale isn’t sure. 

Gale doesn’t care. 

He begins thrusting up into Astarion once more, no longer constrained by the risk to his own life. Astarion makes little noises, grunts that sound punched out of him, with each thrust. He keeps his fingers pressed against Gale’s neck. 

“Why do you let me do this?” Astarion asks after a moment.

Gale groans, only a little frustrated, but when he properly looks at Astarion, he slows his movements. For the first time since the other man finally spoke tonight, his eyes are clear, and he no longer looks frenzied. 

“You know why,” Gale tells him. 

Astarion shakes his head, “no, I don’t.”

Gale sighs and closes his eyes for a moment. “Because I trust you,” he says truthfully once he reopens them. 

Astarion’s eyes narrow on him. “Why?” He pushes.

They’re doing this tonight, Gale realizes. There’s no way to side-track the vampire so they can have this conversation at a more reasonable hour, in more reasonable states of mind.

“Because I love you,” he admits, feeling a little like he’s admitting defeat.

Astarion’s hand grips his neck roughly, harder than at any other point tonight. “Don’t,” he growls, there’s wetness growing at the corner of his eyes. 

Gale can’t do this again, he realizes almost immediately. His neck is too bruised already, and this time it hurts, badly. Not to mention he’s lost not an insignificant amount of blood, and what little he has left is trapped painfully in his cock. His fingers move as this realization washes over him, three sharp taps against Astarion’s hip. 

Astarion lets go immediately, hand flying back almost as if burned. Gale keeps his hold on him, in part for his own stability but also to keep him from fleeing. Astarion sits rigidly, looking at him. 

“Do you want to stop?” It’s Gale who asks. 

Astarion sags a little but shakes his head. Gale wants to continue, his arousal hasn’t flagged, but the gnawing in his gut prompts him to smooth a hand up Astarion’s back and ask again. “Do you want to stop?”

Astarion nods but refuses to look up at Gale again.

Gale easily maneuvers Astarion up off of his cock and frees a hand just long enough to pull his pants back up. Astarion allows himself to be pulled back against Gale’s chest and doesn’t argue when he wraps his arms around him. Gale realizes they’re both still covered in sweat, blood, and cum but right now they need this more. He’s tense for a moment, waiting to see if Astarion argues against this. When he doesn’t, Gale relaxes back against the pillows. He even manages to find a corner of the covers and pull it over them. 

He finally spares a glance at Tav again and isn’t surprised to find she’s awake. She’s watching the two of them quietly, and when she sees Gale’s looking, she gives a short nod. 

“I do love you,” Gale says to Astarion, who seems less rigid against him. “We love you,” he amends, looking down at Tav.

Astarion makes a noise like he’s winding up to argue, but Gale rubs his hands against the vampire’s back over the blanket as he continues. “It’s okay if you can’t hear that now, but it’ll be there when you’re ready.”

[canonicallyobserving911]

WIP Wednesday

Fanonwriter2023 on AO3

Where CANON and FANON collide!

Season 7 FANON FanFic: Buddie Multi-Chapter - Hiatus Reading: “I’m still in love with you but... I needed to learn how to love myself too!”

Chapter 29 will be posted soon.

This is an EPIC LOVE STORY!

Currently 28 chapters completed: 1.77M Words; Rated: Mature

One chapter will be posted at a time.

{Previous snippet}

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I'm excited to finish writing Chapter 29 because at the end of Chapter 28, it was early in the morning and Buck and Eddie were lying in bed having a serious conversation about whether Eddie's going to delay the pursuit of his second paramedic certification, the ACP-C. Buck doesn't want him to give up his dream, especially now since they know what caused Buck's bradycardia and he's on medication. He's doing better and even though he's still grieving, he believes once he passes the last two stages of grief, Frank may clear him to return to work but he's still not sure if he wants to go back to being a firefighter. Also, Eddie's FMLA ends on January 31, 2024 but the question is will he extend it or return to the 118?

Additionally, Chris is still dealing with one of his classmate's lack of participation in their video game project and it's stressing him out. Furthermore, during their last group therapy session, Buck had a conversation with Captain Jeshan Mehta and he asked him if they could meet so he can get an objective viewpoint from someone about whether he could be a captain someday with the LAFD. He decided not to ask Bobby since he doesn't believe he'll give him an objective viewpoint because in September 2022, he told him he needed more life experience. Things are getting interesting as the Diaz family gets closer to their "New Beginnings".

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Here's another snippet from Chapter 29 of Buck and Chris inside of Super Target but something happens that causes Buck to come face to face with someone from his past and it causes him to enter protective dad mode so he can get Chris to safety.

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Buck and Chris are inside of Super Target shopping for a frame to put the adoption certificate in.

After looking at several options, Chris points to a black matte frame and asks, “What about this one?”

“I like it but it doesn’t look like it’s big enough.  Let’s check the dimensions.”  He replies then he lifts it off the hook, reads the sticker and proceeds to put it back but he pauses when Chris starts talking.

“There are some more frames over here.”  He says as he starts walking down the aisle.

Chris is 13-years-old but they still don’t let him wander inside of a store without one or both of them beside him.  Mainly because they don’t want to catch a damn criminal case for whooping someone’s ass if they’re being an idiot or worse a predator.

He’s lifting the frame as he says, “Hold on Chris, wait for me.  I’m on my wa…”  but he trails off when he hears someone start talking to him.

“You’re Eddie Diaz’s kid, aren’t you?”

At the sound of that voice, Buck freezes for a millisecond as his body fills with fear and he becomes paralyzed.  Everything starts happening in slow motion but he doesn’t have to look up to know who’s speaking because he recognizes their voice.

In conjunction with the fear he’s feeling, blind rage emanates throughout his body but he’s not sure how he can feel both emotions at the same time.  When he turns his head to the right to look at Chris, he almost gives himself whiplash.

When his fingers release the frame, it falls, bounces off the shelf and hits the floor.

His fatherly animal instincts kick in and he moves without thinking about anything else except for their son.  In this moment, his primary concern is to protect him because the fool that’s talking to him must have a death wish.  He’s glad he has long legs because he makes it to him in less than one second.

Chris asks, “Who are you?”

“I know your dad and Buck.  Isn’t that right Buckley?”

He’s trying to control his emotions and not make a scene as he protectively stands in front of Chris and positions himself so his 6.2’ inch frame creates a barrier between them.  While maintaining eye contact with them, he speaks in a low voice to his son.

“Chris, go find a Target employee, they’ll be wearing a red shirt, khakis pants… and uh, they’ll have a name tag on their shirt.  When you find them, stay with them, tell them I’m on aisle 34L, I’m an LAFD firefighter and I need immediate assistance.  Ask them to contact security and tell them to call the police”.

“But Buck, I…”  Chris replies as he moves to the side but Buck’s quicker and he continues to stand in front of him blocking his line of sight.

“Now Chris!  Please!  I need you to go, ok?!”  He says a little louder than he intends to.

“Ok.”

As he squares his shoulders with the person standing in front of him, he hears Chris turn around and he listens until he doesn’t hear his crutches anymore.

Like a volcano, the words that have been sitting on his tongue for months, erupt like hot lava.  “What the hell is wrong with you?”  He asks in a low voice because he doesn’t want to create a scene.

While smirking, the person standing in front of him moves closer and challenges him like they want some of this Diaz fire.

Since they didn’t verbally respond, he says, “Hear me and hear me clearly, as long as I’m alive, you better not ever speak to him again!”

“Certainly, you know that I can arrange it so you’re not alive anymore.”

He’s undeterred by that but he replies, “What the actual fuck were you doing talking to my son?”

“Your son?”

“That’s right!  He’s mine and Eddie’s son.”

“Oh… you must have forgotten to send me an invitation to your wedding.  But anyway… I was in the neighborhood; I saw you and him come in and I thought I’d say hi because I never got the chance to meet him.”

It’s in this moment, he realizes they’ve been stalking him and Chris and he knows he needs to put a stop to it.  He says, “If you ever come near me, my husband or our son again, I’ll kill you!”

“Is that a threat?”

“It’s a fucking promise!”

Who is Buck talking to like that? 👀

Who's been stalking him and his family? 🤷🏽‍♀️

Will Buck's bradycardia resurface because of this encounter? 😉😜

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Fic Summary: Months after Buck and Eddie were hit by the same lightning strike; they’re still struggling with the aftermath of it.  But before they make their love confessions, they’ll spend time getting to know themselves as individuals first. Eddie learns to enjoy the simple things in life as he participates in activities on his own and with new friends while Buck learns the rest of the 31-year-old deep dark family secret about his conception and birth. Their journey to forever is still a work in progress but once they finally admit they’re in love with each other, everything that follows their love confessions will be cataclysmic.

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Chapter Summaries

Chapter 1 - Eddie makes a new friend while Buck receives devastating news regarding the sperm donation he made for Connor and Kameron.

Chapter 2 - Buck does a lot of research to learn more about the abnormalities found in his red blood cells and Eddie starts a new therapy journey that’s all about him and not the traumas he’s experienced.

Chapter 3 - After more than a month, Buck and Eddie finally spend time together outside of work but it doesn’t end well and they part with a lot of uncertainty regarding their places in each other’s lives.

Chapter 4 - Eddie has a few realizations about his life which causes him to consider moving back to El Paso, TX while Buck continues to be reminded of his past which causes him to take an impromptu road trip across America.

Chapter 5 - Both Buck and Eddie have difficult conversations with their parents and Buck finally learns the truth behind the reason why his mother despised him while Eddie finally tells his mother about the way she tries to control him.

Chapter 6 - More than two weeks after Buck pushed Eddie away after suggesting they needed a break; Eddie decides to try again. Eddie’s there for Buck when he’s at his worst just like Buck was there for him when he was at his worst and he won’t let Buck give up.

Chapter 7 - After Buck’s mental breakdown, Eddie has his back the same way Buck had his when he had his own breakdown more than a year ago.  They share several vulnerable and emotionally intimate moments with one another and they begin to realize their small, sweet and caring gestures matter just as much if not more than any grand gesture ever could because these are the foundations of a long-lasting love relationship.

Chapter 8 - Buck, Eddie and Chris all have their own therapists and during their sessions, they reflect on their pasts while they’re in the present so they can prepare for their future together as a family.

Chapter 9 - Buck and Eddie are there for each other when Buck has to testify as a witness during the trial.  But by the end of it, they’ll both realize their individual and shared traumas are going to keep resurfacing until they talk about them, deal with the fact that they’re in love with one another and face the fact that they can’t live without each other.

Chapter 10 - As Buck and Eddie finally begin to confront their past traumas, they realize how much they need each other to fill in the gaps of their memories.  Additionally, the universe screams at them for what appears to be the one hundredth time so Buck can realize he doesn’t have to ‘find it’ because he already ‘made it’ and Eddie’s reminded tomorrow isn’t promised and he doesn’t have to die alone if he doesn’t want to.

Chapter 11 - A “virga” or dry thunderstorm is in the forecast but once the rain starts, the thunderstorm happening outside won’t be able to match the storm brewing inside between Buck and Eddie.  It’s the universe’s final scream and when the tumultuous winds begin to blow, they’ll have one last chance to hold onto everything they’ve built over the last six years or they’ll lose it all forever.

Chapter 12 - Buck and Eddie have always shared a deep physical attraction and an emotional intimacy that’s unmatched but now that they’re in a relationship, they’re learning how to navigate the romantic intimacy they’ve been waiting for six years to explore. The love they have for each other is a once in a lifetime, soulmate, love of their lives type of love that transcends space and time.

Chapter 13 - While navigating the newness of their romantic relationship, Buck and Eddie take advantage of every moment they spend together. As their individual lives, people from their pasts, time constraints and the possibility of losing each other again make attempts to interrupt and interfere with their journey to forever, they love, care for, support and hold onto each other even tighter to withstand it all.

Chapter 14 - Buck and Eddie can see the lights at the end of the tunnels regarding the results of Buck’s Cancer Screening along with everything else they’re dealing with. But are the lights they see exits to the tunnels or are they headlights on different runaway trains that are speeding towards them in an effort to interrupt their forever?

Chapter 15 - Buck and Eddie have known they were exactly who the other one wanted in a partner since they met six years ago when they agreed to have each other’s backs. They’re in a romantic relationship, they’re both preparing to ask the other one to spend forever with them and by the end of the seventh week into their relationship, together they will plan their most important and greatest adventure for their future.

Chapter 16 - As Buck and Eddie begin to prepare for their marriage ceremony that will take place in Rome, Italy in December 2023, they start planning their first international adventure as a romantic couple. Even though Chris is still the only person they’ve told about their relationship, several people who know them have already witnessed the love they share and as the days continue, others will witness it too.

Chapter 17 - As Buck and Eddie get closer to departing Los Angeles for their international adventure, a moment in time will remind them; life is fragile, tomorrow isn’t promised and every second of everyday should be cherished because everything can change in an instant. The result of that realization will cause them to hold onto each other even more.

Chapter 18 - As Buck, Eddie and Chris prepare for family gatherings before and during the Thanksgiving holiday, the “Santa Ana Winds” start to blow and all sorts of expected and unexpected familial drama ensues.

Chapter 19 - As Buck and Eddie get closer to their wedding day, the universe begins to align everything so that some of their parent and children's relationships are strengthened while others come to an abrupt end.

Chapter 20 - With only 14 days remaining until Buck, Eddie and Chris depart Los Angeles, CA traveling to Rome, Italy, for their first family adventure, an early morning conversation about “tying up loose ends” helps Buck and Eddie realize there are still several things left unfinished on their ‘To Do’ lists. The question is will there be enough time to complete all of them?

Chapter 21 - Buck, Eddie and Chris are finalizing their ‘To Do’ Lists, double checking their itineraries and packing their suitcases in preparation for their trip to Europe so they can board their flight that departs Los Angeles, CA on Friday, December 15, 2023 at 3:25PM.

Chapter 22 - While Buck, Eddie and Chris spend the first 8 days of their European family adventure in Italy, their primary reason for going will be fulfilled as well as several others they hadn’t considered or anticipated.

Chapter 23 - As the Diaz Family continues their Italian family adventure, they’ll say, “Ciao” or hello and goodbye to a lot of things almost immediately after they become an official and legal family.

Chapter 24 - After Buck, Eddie and Chris arrive in London, England on December 24th; the Diazes immediately start preparing to spend their first family Christmas together. During their stay, each of them will hear a few choice words that will be the life raft to get them home to complete their searches to be seen and to be found.

Chapter 25 - After spending more than two weeks in Europe, Eddie, Buck and Chris are back in Los Angeles and they’re getting ready to attend Maddie and Chimney’s New Year’s Eve party. During the event, they have plans to make two surprise announcements but the question is, who’s really going to be surprised, the Diaz family or their found family at the 118?

Chapter 26 - Buck and Eddie are once again faced with their greatest fear of losing each other but this time it could be permanent and if it is, then they won’t be able to spend the rest of their lives together.

Chapter 27 - After Buck resumes therapy, he’ll continue to face the fact that he “DIED” in March 2023 and during those sessions, he’ll learn about the 7 stages of grief. As he continues his healing journey, Eddie will be right by his side just like he promised and the Diaz family will start to deal with their three minutes and seventeen seconds loss as a family.

Chapter 28 - Two years ago, Eddie was asked, “What are you afraid of?”; twice, once by Frank and once by Buck but he only answered one of them without deflecting. Since that time, he’s been to therapy and him and Buck got married but the question resurfaces when Frank asks Buck the same question and Buck asks it of Eddie for the second time. However, when Buck asks, his reasoning will be about something else entirely.

Chapter 29 - Will be posted soon.

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Read chapters 1-28 are available on AO3.

Continue reading on AO3

[madstronaut]

guess wot my fellow hoes (fellhoes?) you’re getting a two-fer-one deal

obligatory alpha post link below:

because I have been deep in my werewolf/hybrid!CODmen fixation while I was drunk off reading moondrunk I decided to take a break...

....by reading johnny boy and i dont want to even look at that ao3 history stat that tells you how many times you've visited this story IT IS A LOT

my record for one of my comfort stories is 79 times and that was back in january last i looked, and it doesn't count the copypaste backup i have in my notes in case of airplane mode. don't look at me rn (cough obligatory @the-californicationist G&G reference/tag here)

ANYWAY MOVING ON 🐺🐺🐺

Reading: Moondrunk Monster by @ghostgorlsworld

so I went to watch the Love Death Robots episode referred to here and UNFFFF forgot how good that whole series was! wolflovers, go watch the Shape-Shifters episode from S1

once again i love a good fleshed-out reader backstory and this one is no exception

also as a certified graves simp the spittake I had to clean up at reading the phrase “Captain Graves”

also wolf-friendly pain medication? please i would happily read an appendix or endnotes/footnotes about the lore/worldbuilding here <3

"They weren’t used to humans being kind to them."🥺🥺🥺🥺

me to myself: tbh in many ways this is the world we are living in rn

that line about reader sleeping in the back of the med bay reminded me of this famous pic I saw way back when:

U.S. Army nurse Amy Stuart of the 5th MASH unit deployed in Saudi Arabia naps on a cot while hugging a teddy bear sent by her family during Operation Desert Storm (February 22, 1991)

getting a little too real but at my age, always hurts my heart and deeply disturbs me to see people younger than me who i consider children going off to/waging war COUGH ANYWAY SRY ESCAPING REALITY BACK TO FANFIC-

piney has such a succinct, tight way of writing to set the scene and story premise up so well - fucking salivating at ghost taking reader to their tent and him getting miffed at her sitting on soap’s bunk until she sits on his <3 LMAO I SEE YOU GHOSTY YOU LITTLE LOVESICK PUPPY YOU~

You glanced down, seeing the Scottish flag on the wall, the photos of a couple that looked exactly like Johnny. “Oh, sorry.” 

ok but also johnny WOULD have selfies of himself up on his own bunk

“ahm easy on the eyes, aint i LT”

“shut it”

You were American, so you didn’t have much taste for tea unless it was iced and sweet. 

me, a rabid tea swiller, raising my hand: UM NOT ALL AMERICANS HATE “TREE PISS” AS TED LASSO CALLS IT OKAY (okay but I love that show so much)

unfff wolf!ghost crowding reader into his own bed forcing her to sleep in it is just *so many chef’s kisses*

Gaz was healed within a day, coming to visit you with a Snickers bar as thanks. “I’ve been saving it for an occasion,” he said. “Wolves…well, we can’t really have chocolate without quite a bit of pain so I thought I would give it to you instead. As thanks.” 

ok this was the most adorable loredrop ever also literally heartbroken at the idea they can’t enjoy chocolate!!!!

The adjustments were freezing slabs of raw beef and plating it up still half-frozen. this reminded me of this frozen organic dog chow i kept getting insta ads for after dogsitting for a friend (if u can hear this siri/insta ad algorithms, FUCK YOU RESPECT MY PRIVACY) anyway in the ad the way the person plated it for their dog and the way their dog ate it with such gusto made me, a human, want to try the dog food lol

“Not everyone in America lives in Texas, Soap.”

👏thank👏 you👏facts👏

You smiled. “A small town in Oklahoma.”

“Bloody hell, that’s just Texas.”

👏also👏 facts👏 (don’t come for me texans this new yorker will (lovingly) fuck you up; god bless amurica)

He was wearing gloves, as always, but they were warm when he pressed them against the scars, fitting his fingers into the obvious claw marks.

The 141 was silent, watching Ghost with a mixture of surprise and horror. Price looked as if he were about to intervene, his knuckles white around his fork.

i fucking l o v e this entire scene

They were still strangers to you, but the base felt too quiet without them, and your skin felt bare without Ghost’s stare upon it.

i am shivering at how good this sentence is

ghost: has a record for being more wolf than human and acts of aggression against humans

also ghost: makes tea for reader regularly when she can’t sleep

also reader if you’re having a eat-three-powdered-donuts-in-one-sitting kind of day, you eat that whole box girl no one will fault you for it <3

Ghost hummed, then came the unmistakable sound of licking the sugar off his fingers. There had also been blood on his fingertips, from the night’s previous activities.

You don’t want to think about why that makes your belly clench. 

😏😏😏we love the feral ones

also unexpected gifts are some of the best ones

i felt the adrenaline of the humvee ambush like i was watching a live action movie - i could picture the entire scenes very easily in my head <3

and ghost taking off her boots >>>>>>>>

A man in a skull mask was asleep in the chair in front of you, his head tipped back against the wall, his legs relaxed and spread wide. 

ah yes, classic submission position~

The meek little nurse that had put a Colonel’s son in the ER. 

meek is one of my favorite words. i have heard an alternate definition for this as “meekness is great power under control” and it stuck in my head ever since; pls bow before medic reader my meek badass queen

Your heart raced. It was such a human instinct, to see a predator and want to either kiss it or run from it. 

ah yes imho the heart of why wolf/hybrid and enemies-to-lovers etc. etc. etc. tropes and fics are so popular~

Ghost seemed to like your attention, his ears perked at the top of his head. It was oddly endearing, and you normally considered yourself a cat person.

hehe big ghost wolf, smol floppy ears - i will not let this image leave my head

ok and the wolflore about the recessive genes!! eating it all up <3

also i know this is a ghostfic but soap blushing and mumbling bout his coffeeshop crush is soo <333333333

"you’re too young to feel old and miserable like me.” Soap smiled, a bit of cheer back in his eye. “You’re only three years older’n me, lass, I wouldn’t call ye old.”

literally me to anyone <30/even a year younger than me

"ALSO, yes i'm setting up for a future soap/cafe!reader fic"

okay the unholy screech that erupted from me at reading this author’s note i’m-

Graves sat in a simple metal chair, cool, calm and collected without a single blonde hair out of place. 

me fully knowing graves isnt even doing anything here, just sitting: go off, king

“I wasn’t going to let that boy take my soul, sir,” you said calmly. “Not for something as worthless as a career.”

well said indeed <3

You wondered if he would come visit you, if you asked. If he would sit in your dusty, frilly living room and drink from your pumpkin shaped mugs.

PUMPKIN-SHAPED MUGS <3 <3 <3

Price looked up from a paperback, a twitch in his brow. He preferred to keep out of conflicts between the pack, only interfering when blood was spilled. 

oh please my headcanon for price is that he inhales gossip like oxygen and keeps it filed and sorted alphabetically and chronologically in his mind palace to pull up as needed

They were on active duty, for Christ’s sake, it wasn’t like he could bend her over against one of those cots and stake his claim,  COUGHOMGWHYTHEEVERLOVINGFUCKNOTCOUGH no matter how badly he wanted to.  

The 141 hunted at night, so during the day Gaz and Soap would occasionally bring you a muffin for breakfast or a stray cup of coffee. Even Price, the fatherly man he was, brought you one of his extra novels to read while you were awake during the night shift, one of those cheesy detective thrillers that helped you get through the night without passing out on a patient.

who doesn’t love familial!141 🥰🥰

it’s nice to remind yourself that you’re still a simple woman that appreciates a nice mani-pedi and a good hair day.

this is so real - taking care of yourelf/reminding urself to feel human is so important <3

You had the rank and the experience, so of course, you got the lion’s share of reports. ahem this a small almost throwaway line but much appreciated - LEADERSHIP IS FOR SERVICE. TO SHOULDER THE BURDEN FOR THOSE UNDER YOU, AND LIFT THEM UP. TAKE THE HITS SO THEY DON’T HAVE TO - ONES THEY AREN’T EVEN AWARE OF IF YOU’RE GOOD AT IT. anyway stepping down once again from my soapbox-

ah reader i can think of many MANY MANY spicy ways to motivate ghosty to do his patriotic duty~

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

AND ALSO Reading: Johnny Boy by @ghostgorlsworld

first off being thrown into the deep end of the incredible lorebuilding had me ready to swim and dive deep without even taking a breath of reality because the story!!!! the worldbuilding!!!! absolutely immaculate

a recurring daydream/brainrot scenario ive gone back to time and again with my blorbos through the years is getting knocked up with their spawn and having to escape and go on the run and hide the child then have an implausibly wild reunion, often with some physically impossible makeup sex and then birth my own private sports team's worth of children to build our world empire (drama, romance, intrigue, adventure - i would buy out opening night tickets to the movieplots my brain spits out, anyway ty for coming to my BedTedTalk) anyway this has such a unique niche in the CODfics ive read with the almost enemies-to-lovers-back-to-enemies flavoring with brother’s best friend trope in play

on that note, shaking tom’s hand vigorously for sneaking johnny back into reader’s life, then backhanding him with my other hand - also for sneaking johnny back into reader’s life

cute-ass mactavish sire emma needs to eat raw meat to survive? her supernatural senses make her an old soul in a child’s body? no further comments, absolute perfection. i love the explorations of “hey scenting/being a hybrid, ESPECIALLY growing up as one, ain’t all its cracked up to be and is not just all 100% sexy times and funsies” and her picking up on mom being sad all the time a certain someone is near and declaring “if mommy doesn’t like him, I don’t either” just UGGHHHH i just want to give her a hug and tell her it will all work out, shes is in good hands (including but not limited to her own!) also tear the throat out of anyone who would dare steal her childhood (fistbumping my fellow immigrant first gen firstborns&eldest daughters who had to grow up too fast/take care of adults)

also one of the reasons i love this fic is the very fierce and protective love reader has for her emma and their really beautiful bond <3 fanfic can be so healing and tender in very unexpected ways and their relationship slipped past all my walls and armor and just stuck me right in the feels <3

the conversation about grandpa jack haunting them and turning the book pages for him was so sweet i think my molars rotted away on the spot, 🥺🥺🥺 piney i will be billing you for my dental visit expenses; be prepared to pay cos ive always wanted to secretly try out grillz as a new yorker girlie 

also random brainrot but 1000% positive grandpa jack was a fucking hottie in his glory days (underground fighting rings? picturing tyler durden rn)

also please give mama reader a fucking medal, cutting up raw meats and organs first thing in the morning (EVERY morning) is a feat indeed

also johnny/reader’s first meeting at the funeral home is absolutely exquisite, the perfect amount of drama and angst!!! raaaaaa biting my pillow and tearing it to pieces

- reader’s physical reaction to the “he’s behind me, isn’t he” revelation

- johnny’s physical glow-up described through reader’s eyes is just UNFFFF *chef’s kiss*

- reader going straight into panic/mama bear mode re: emma

- “it could have been longer, john” HOLY FUCKING SHIT MY ICE COLD QUEEN PLEASE I CANNOT KNEEL BEFORE YOU FASTER OR I’LL BREAK MY KNEECAPS

- “your voice so cold it stung your tongue as you spoke. The ache in your chest was overtaken by rage, pure and hot. “Excuse me.” i am f e r a l for this line, this is PERFECTION i can taste the emotions here like viscerally on my tongue 

- honestly kudos to reader for not punching tom’s lights out when she’s running to get emma from him

“I don’t care.” You wanted to scream. You wanted to cry. You wanted to dig your nails into his skin and hurt him like he hurt you. “We don’t need you, we never needed you. I loved you, and you left for years . Deal with the consequences.”

Johnny Mctavish, a wolf, a soldier, flinched from you. 

It wasn’t the victory you thought it would be.

AAAAAAAA YES THIS IS ME AS I READ THIS REVELING IN THE ANGST

also the last line of ch1 being “Forget him. John always runs.” and summary of Ch2 being “Johnny comes home.” ????? gonna run out of my lipstick giving chef’s kisses to piney here

the way piney fleshes out reader and her story and history with johnny just makes me want to give her a ginormous hug, also like an all-expenses paid weeklong vacation to the maldives or something for the absolute bullshit she’s endured (might have to join you on this though dear reader my salary/responsibilities working in [redacted] means i also need an all-expense paid weeklong vacation to the maldives)

also I FUCKING SUSPECTED JOHNNY WAS SECRETLY TRYING TO SCENT READER WHEN HE SNUCK UP ON HER TO GET CLOSE ENOUGH TO SURPRISE HER BY PUTTING HIS MITTS ON HER SHOULDER; i love that emma picked up on this through her nose

“Because you still smell like me, kitty.” brain going brrrr being overloaded with conspiracy theories about teh many layers what this may mean

wolves were different from normal men. Territorial. 

me, reading about fictional territorial wolfmen on tumblr: 🥰🥰🥰

me, reading about IRL men being ‘territorial’: 🤢🤢🤢

“Grandpa was like me,” she said, loyal as always. 

i’ll be totally honest the character i fell head over heels with in this story was not johnny taking first place no - EMMA MACTAVISH MY HEART <3 i hope my future children will be brave, kind, wise, funny and compassionate like you <3

It seemed that the only person suffering in this situation was you.

this line + the short almost throwaway line of reader “laughing wetly” just before it just ughhh my heartache! shoutout to all the hardworking parents/caregivers simply Trying Their Best And Getting No Recognition™️ (madstronaut sees you and applauds you, great is your reward in heaven and or the pits of tumblrhell, dealer’s choice)

“It wasn’t your decision to make, Tom,” you said, your voice reaching that pitch that made you feel like your mother. god this got too real, when i hear myself sound like my mother sometimes (esp. when im mad) i literally narrow my eyes at my own reflection and have to check myself before i wreck myself iykyk

also freaking love the lore about hybrids/wolves being discriminated against in society and johnny’s own experience and pitfalls navigating the world! lorebuilding>>>>>>>>>>>>

You were dressed more appropriately this time, a Black Sabbath tee and sweats, your work clothes of pencil skirts, trousers, and wool sweaters currently drying on the laundry lines in the backyard. 

ok reader i see you my little rocker <3 you would love saint vitus bar in brooklyn; make tom or johnny watch emma so we can headbang to our heart’s content and you can enjoy a well-deserved night out <3 (on that note #REOPENVITUSYOUCOWARDS)

Emma two-handed it, just like you tell her to. It seemed she was trying to be on her best behavior, the little traitor.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH EMMA YOU LITTLE DEVIOUS ADORABLE SHIT (said goodnaturedly) I LOVE THIS LINE SO MUCH

Something in your chest squeezed when Johnny tucked the blanket around Emma’s skinny arms, more gentle than you had ever seen him.

ok though real talk men being gentle and tender, esp. around kiddos - hi, yes please sirs you can indeed help me mop my panties off the floor

Susan didn’t know what to do with a little boy that chewed on the furniture and got sick when she didn’t let him eat raw meat. 

i physically need to see fanart of young wolf!soap gnawing on an armchair leg

This was why you liked Charlie, he was so, so reasonable. 

hello charlie or as i like to call you “walking beige flag” the way i would roast him if i was bffs with reader..

also emma drawing that wolf catcher memory and waiting until soap was there to show it to both him and reader - AAGGGGH I freaking loved this and how clever this is i can do an entire pepe silvia conspiracy board meme breakdown of why and how much i loved this whole interaction

emma knowing it is a tough memory for her mama but choosing to draw and show it specifically to johnny - and waiting til they are all in each other’s presences (presence? idk)

i can see reader fighting (a losing battle lets be honest this is johnny fucking mactavish) tooth and nail so far to maintain the armor of assumptions and explanations she’s told herself to deal with the pain of being in love then (from her pov) rejected and how this has bled into how she paints johnny to emma despite her best efforts 

and yet as they say sometimes the body says and knows what the mind/heart cannot say yet and 1000% sure that little miss wolf emma mactavish loves her mom but is also sure that momma isn’t sure on where she stands with johnny

also ALSO the fact that jack raised both johnny and emma HAS TO MEAN SOMETHING RIGHT - even though they’ve just met i love the little tidbits of the special wolf-to-wolf and father/daughter connection they have

AND AND AND so my grand theory here is that i believe emma made and showed this drawing to johnny because from what she knows - she perceives mama reader to despise johnny on the surface, yet still wants him - but based on what she’s told her about johnny, thinks johnny may not want mama - and drew this to prove mama is still worthy and a great protector - “You haven’t got any teeth or claws but it didn’t matter.” - and “showing her off” to johnny COUGH ANYWAY THAT’S WHERE I’LL END MY THESIS TYVM

also i love the bits sprinkled around the fic about johnny’s eyes sparkling eerie/brighter when he gets worked up

Perhaps all the war and killing really was good for his temperament.

HAHAHAHA OKAY SHIT, MAMA, WHO IS THE DELULU ONE NOW????????? (tbh it’s me, hi im the probl-)

johnny trying to find excuses to spend his PMC savings & money on reader + emma - IRL me and my bills & student loans crying laughing hysterically at reader turning this down

“Shut up!” Tommy said, frowning at you from the couch. “Fuck, lovie, he’s a friend from work.”

The man in the mask raised a hand in an awkward wave.

HAHAHAHHA SIMON!!! his entrance totally threw me off but ofc tom’s SHUT UP (true sibling energy right here, no greeting, just yells) and simon’s lil wave just UGGGGGGGHHHH such a nice palate cleanser from the intense but delicious angst - also tipping my hat at the subtle way to introduce Bi!Tommy with the “he’s not company he’s a guest” line 😏

You felt Simon’s eyes on you, judging, appraising. You were sure Johnny probably didn’t have the nicest things to say about you–most likely that you were an irritating little girl that followed him around for twenty years then proceeded to get pregnant and raise the child without him knowing,

would love to know what and how TF141 thinks of mama reader from how johnny has described her…despite her own misgivings <3

Johnny was an unsuspecting kind of violent, always smiling and laughing until he wasn’t, until it was serious.

Simon was different. He felt older. 

aaaaaa this is SUCH a good characterisation of them both

You had missed him like a lost limb-

ooh i absolutely love this phrase! I have one person in my life i went through a friend breakup with (iykyk - these are more painful than romantic breakups imho) and we mended things and discovered afterwards we both referred to our break in our friendship as ‘having lost a limb’ to other folks (!) sometimes birds of a feather really do flock together

 “It’s just…we’re adults, and adults have tricky feelings. preach mama 🙋‍♀️🙋‍♀️🙋‍♀️

but also pls mama i know you have a kiddo but putting on nail polish right before a date? nooooooooooooooooo though chanel polishes ARE superior cos of that fat brush so all is forgiven <3

also obligatory FUCK YOU YOU FUCKING FUCK to charlie for forgetting the date, do you EVEN KNOW THE SUFFERING WE PUT OURSELVES THROUGH TO GET READY FOR A DATE? TO GET READY TO FACE THE WORLD OUTSIDE OUR DOOR, PERIODT?

IF SOMEONE DID THIS TO ONE OF MY GIRLIES I WILL BE READY TO FUCKING SHOW SOMEONE’S BITCH ASS THAT YOU DO NOT NEED TEETH AND CLAWS INDEED TO GET RIGHT FUCKED UP

anyway climbing down from my soapbox on behalf of women everywhere, back to the fic

as a tiny tiny redeemable bit - charlie having weekly dinners with his gran is a huge green flag trait

He stilled, looking at you. His hand came up, pinching your chin like he used to. “You havnae called me Johnny in a very long time.” The rawness of his voice broke you down into someone you used to be, someone that loved him.

me, extremely pleased, reading this: ah yes, in vino veritas~

The alcohol had dampened the anger in your chest, you felt…open. Open to talking about it. Bleeding the poison from the wound.

<3 <3 <3 this line <3 <3 <3

irl sidenote: u can also do this without alcohol my friends <3 trusted friends, therapy, long retreats into nature, safe places, safe people all very effective and cutting right to the heart in the gentlest ways possible, painful but highly recommend over the alternative (and lesser) options of keeping the poison inside <3 

Within a blink, Johnny was kneeling before you, his hands on your knees as his eyes bored into yours. You felt a chill, a whisper of fight or flight pricking your neck at his predatory stare.

ahem hello this is it

this is what does it for me

kneelng for your prey <3

also i love that their first real physical intimate contact after reuniting, beyond that hug after the wolf catcher story, is johnny LICKING reader’s tears off her face

“All I had was a picture and letters, but I could get off just from you writing that you missed me, just from your smell lingering on the fucking paper.” whats that phrase? marines make do? 🥰🥰🥰

me, reading about lacy underwear getting shredded: mmmmf yes sexxxxxyyyy

also me: ok i just know that was expensive, cringing inside at having to replace it

also fics that have men talking to ur pussy as they take care of it >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

I CANNOT WAIT FOR READER TO WAKE UP AND SCREAM AT HERSELF  SAW PT 7 POSTED WOKE UP SCREAMING BLACKED OUT AND CONTINUED MY FEVERISH RANTING ABOUT HOW MUCH I LOVE THIS FIC IN REBLOGS BELOW

[fireflylitsky]

F

And If I can have more than one 👉👈

L

AHH TY FOR THE ASK PRINCESS (Sorry for delay I needed to wait for AO3 to come back up and have time to pick out a snippet for F)

F: Share a snippet from one of your favourite dialogue scenes you've written and explain why you're proud of it.

Okay, this was stupid hard to pick because once you read your own stuff with this question in mind, literally everything sounds like garbage 😂 So I just went with something recent people seemed to enjoy. (For context: KisaSaku, Canon divergent, Yokai infested post-apocalyptic AU set about a decade out from early Shippuden. Shameless use of one tent and shared body heat tropes.)

With a tired sigh and a shiver, Sakura had begun to absently nod before looking at him with a sudden halt. Her eyes traveled up his barely clothed body, over to the tent, and back. “You’re not going to put on clothes?” she asked. An adorably genuine, but very silly question. “Not even a shirt?”

His brows raised in clear amusement. “You’re wearing it, Kunoichi.”

She rolled her eyes. “I assumed you had another.”

“Oh, I do,” he said, looking highly entertained. “But it got all nasty because someone decided to punch me into the mud.”

Sakura choked on a snort.

“Yeah. Welcome to the consequences to your own actions,” he said with a flourishing, if not arrogant gesture to himself. 

She sighed. As far as consequences went, she’d definitely dealt with worse… not that she’d tell him that. “Fine. Let’s just go to bed,” she said, kicking off her shoes and ducking into the gloom of the tent.

“Fine by me.”

“Kubikirbocho can cuddle with Samehada if she doesn’t mind,” Sakura muttered, already stuffing her sword next to Kisame’s.

“She’s probably cool with it. We’ll find out if not.”

Sakura looked up at him with a weary smile. “What’s she gonna do, eat it?”

He smiled back with a shrug. “Maybe.”

“Ah. Well,” Sakura sighed, shoving her pack into the corner by her head. “Samehada will have a very iron rich diet then.”

“Hey, not bad, Kunoichi,” Kisame pushed his jaw out with an approving nod. “Freezing to death and she’s still got jokes.”

“Yeah,” she yawned, flopping onto her back and rubbing her eyes. “Thanks, I’ll be here all night.”

“Great,” he said, nudging her side with his foot, “now scooch.”

“No. Crawl over me. I want to sleep by the flap.”

“Why, so you can get snatched up by another yokai with the hots for you?”

“I was hardly snatched,” she sneered up at him, most of its impact lost in the darkness.

“It wanted to snatch you,” he asserted, looking down his nose at her like he was some sort of authority on snatching . “You were very snatchable. Snackable even. Neither of which would have been the case if you’d just listened to me from the start.”

She snorted. She didn’t mean to. She really wasn’t in the habit of encouraging him, but that was kind of funny. “I was not snackable,” she grumbled, pulling the blanket up and sighing deeply at the warmth of it.

“You were. I saw the way it was drooling all over you.”

"Oh, gross, stop.” Sakura pretended to gag, curling in on herself and tugging the blanket over her head entirely. “Don't remind me."

Kisame chuckled, “You were like a steamed bun to that bitch.”

"You're just jealous she picked me over you."

"Pfft, no way. You were just an appetizer. She knew who the main dish was."

“Good lord… would you just get in here please?” Sakura flipped the blanket off her in a huff to stare up at him very seriously. “I’m freezing to death, if you’ll recall.”

“Oh, so now you just want to use me for my warmth,” Kisame feigned offense terribly, not even dropping his grin. “I see how it is.”

“That was the plan–your plan–yes.”

“Oh, well if it was my plan then it’s probably a good one.” He promptly tucked inside, awkwardly fumbling over her as he kicked his muddy shoes off. His presence instantly tested the limits of the two person capacity.

As far as tests went, the tent failed.

“Kisame,” Sakura wheezed, squishing against the edge of the tent. “You are large.”

He had a joke for that but opted out. Low hanging fruit and all. He needed to up his game.

“I’m also warm. Get over here, Kunoichi,” he grunted as he rolled onto his side. Freeing up some space, he used it to reach out and loop an arm around her stomach. He tugged her back against him. Curled around her like a shrimp.

Sakura let out a startled squeak, launching into a fit of dissent. “Oh my god , what do you think you’re… what do you…” she found herself stalling, petering out as her base survival instincts began to override her pride. “Oh my god ,” she sighed, lids fluttering as Kisame wrapped the blanket around both of them with a chuckle. “You’re like a human boiler.”

"Human," he echoed, "that's mighty high praise coming from you."

“How are you so warm?” Her fight had all but died and had a eulogy.

Here lies Haruno Sakura’s dignity, backbone and fighting spirit. They were nice while they lasted. She’s warm now though, so that’s something. If it’s any consolation, she will surely regret her decisions later. Something something, it's all very sad, may they rest in peace.

“We’re not sleeping like this,” she decided aloud. Like that would counteract the way she’d shoved her face into his bicep. She was currently using it as a pillow, by the way. Her nose burned cold against him. "This is just until I can feel my limbs again."

“Sure, Kunoichi,” he chuckled, settling in.

A breath scraped out of her throat. “Can you not say it like you’re placating me?"

"Sure, Kunoichi,” he repeated in a mockery of deadly seriousness.

“You’re an ass."

L: How many times do you usually revise your fic/chapter before posting?

More than I care to admit 🙃 the scenes should be better, given the amount of revision tbh. I'd say 5-10 times on average for any given chapter. I'll do separate read throughs with each character's focus in mind, make sure I'm not missing anything. It's a tedious process that I love (this sounds sarcastic. It's not. I actually love editing and much prefer it to writing.)

[nikibogwater]

A Sparrow Among Lions

“You think Dimitri is wrong to want revenge?” Bernadetta whispered, as though she was afraid to ask such a thing out loud.

“No. I have no right to judge him one way or the other. But I do know one thing.” He met her gaze and held it, willing her to believe what he said next. “No one needs you to hate your father, Bernadetta. No one needs you to want him dead. I can do enough of that for the both of us. But there are plenty of people out there who need compassion, who, unlike your father, would take the chance to be better if someone offered it to them. Whatever happens tomorrow, don’t believe for a second that you need to change."

Or: Yuri knows Bernadetta doesn't have it in her to kill her own father.

Noticed a pretty big and fascinating contrast between Dimitri and Bernadetta that also conveniently gave me the perfect opportunity to push my Yuridetta agenda. Revenge is a huge part of Dimitri's motivations in Azure Gleam, and unlike Azure Moon in Three Houses, everyone around him is on board with it--there's no "live for yourself" moment. Meanwhile, Bernadetta makes it clear in each route that while she never wants to see her father again, she doesn't actually want him to be killed. She even expresses relief in the routes where he survives. And then all of this is made even more fascinating by the fact that Azure Gleam is the only route in which the player can, and must kill Count Varley. So after several months of sporadic keyboard smashing, blank staring, and screaming, I have produced this fic to share with all of you.

Read on Ao3

Or in the post below:

If there was one luxury that Yuri could not afford (in truth, there were many), it was hesitation. Both on and off the battlefield, he did not have time to second-guess or step back. If he was lucky, he might have the opportunity to concoct a scheme or a plan before the time for action arrived. But freezing in his tracks was never an option. Whether he was crossing blades with an Imperial soldier or striking up a deal with a shady business associate, he always had to be decisive. It was a lesson he had learned very early on in his career; hesitating could get you killed. Or at least beaten half to death and left in a gutter.

Which was why he was absolutely furious to find himself hovering just outside of Bernadetta’s tent the night before their great battle to reclaim Garreg Mach.

Why did he always hesitate when it came to Bernadetta? Yuri typically prided himself on being a quick learner, yet here he was, more than a decade later, going through the same motions as he had the night he had tried to kill her. And the most frustrating part of it all was the fact that what he came here for was nowhere near as nerve-wracking as attempting an assassination. All he wanted to do was check on her, perhaps offer some advice or comfort, if it came to that. Why was simple friendship as daunting to him now as the idea of killing an innocent child?

Because I have no right. Because I’m the last person in the world she should be friends with. Because I can’t honestly give her reassurance when the prospect of her father’s death is downright tantalizing to me.

Because I’m afraid she’ll realize all of those things and I’ll lose her again.

“Everything alright, Yuri?”

Yuri’s hand flew to the hilt of his sword as he whirled around. Iridescent green eyes blinked back at him, as moonlight reflected off mint-colored locks splayed over armored shoulders. It was the Ashen Demon.

“Saints, you startled me,” he grumbled, letting his hand fall back to his side.

“My apologies,” she replied evenly. “Though I am surprised I managed to do so. You are usually more alert.”

“Yeah. Guess I’m just a little distracted tonight. You know, what with everything going down tomorrow.” Ordinarily, he wouldn’t admit such a thing to anyone. However, there was something oddly reassuring about the Ashen Demon’s presence--a strange sense of familiarity and warmth that he usually only felt around his mother or long-time friends. Many others had commented on how easily Byleth had settled into their group here--how it felt as though she had always been there to begin with. He had since given up on trying to explain it, and merely accepted it as it was.

“Indeed.” A weighty pause stretched between them for a few moments. “Are you worried about Bernadetta?” she asked suddenly.

“...Is it that obvious? Or are you just clairvoyant?” It wouldn’t surprise him if she really was. There were a lot of things about Byleth that seemed supernatural.

“It is a logical conclusion, wouldn’t you agree? Tomorrow, we will likely face Bernadetta’s father in combat. We may have to kill him in order to take Garreg Mach. You are close friends with Bernadetta, and have been standing near her tent for the last ten minutes.”

“You were watching me that whole time?” Yuri asked incredulously.

“No. I passed by here ten minutes ago on my way to speak with Ignatz. I’m just now returning to my own quarters. But if I may, why are you still out here? Did you not come to speak to Bernadetta?”

“...I don’t really know why I came.”

“Hm.” Though her tone was as neutral as ever, Yuri had the sneaking suspicion that she didn’t buy that lie for a second. “Well, if you are open to suggestions, I would advise that you spend some time with her before we march tomorrow morning. Time spent with our allies is precious. We never know which day will be our last. And it would help Bernadetta’s nerves as well. She finds your presence calming.”

“Yeah,” he agreed halfheartedly.

“Yuri,” Byleth’s voice was sharp and firm, as though he was one of the soldiers under her command. “You are allowed to care for her.”

“I....What?!” he sputtered. But Byleth had already turned on her heel and marched away. Insufferable woman. He had half a mind to leave without heeding her advice, just to spite her. But he also knew that Byleth was rarely ever wrong, especially when it came to her fellow commanders. If she thought Bernadetta should see him, then she was probably right. And if she wasn’t, well he could lay the blame squarely on her now, couldn’t he?

Not really. But the thought had bolstered his courage just enough to enable him to cross the distance between himself and Bernadetta’s camp and loudly clear his throat. A high-pitched yelp issued from within the tent--the usual response. “Bernadetta? It’s me. May I come in?”

“I-I’m not here!” she squeaked, voice muffled on the other side of the flap.

“Ah, that’s unfortunate,” Yuri sighed. “Well, when you get back, can you please let me in? I want to talk to you about something.” Another nervous squeak. “It’s nothing bad, I promise,” he amended wearily. “I just want to discuss tomorrow’s battle.” There was a long pause. Then finally, the tent flap drew back just enough to let him inside. Right. Here goes nothing.

Bernadetta let the flap fall back behind him, and stood nervously wringing her skirt as he searched for the right thing to say. It was odd, having to search. He usually knew exactly what to say in any given situation. It was what made him such an exceptional businessman. But for some reason, his carefully constructed facade always seemed to fall to pieces wherever Bernadetta was involved.

“I take it you know we march to retake Garreg Mach in the morning?” he began cautiously. Bernadetta’s hands clenched tighter around her skirt, and she nodded without looking at him. “And Count Varley--your father--we’ll probably end up fighting against him.”

“I know all of this Yuri,” she said softly, albeit a touch impatiently.

“...Yeah. I’m stalling,” he admitted. He heaved another sigh and dropped onto a nearby wooden stool, gesturing for her to sit on her cot. “I’ll just cut to the chase then. Are you going to be okay?”

“Wh-what do you mean?” Now she was the one who was stalling. But considering he was the instigator here, he decided it was best to indulge her.

“It must be a lot, having to fight on the opposite side of a war from your family. If it was my mother we had to fight tomorrow, I probably would’ve deserted as soon as I caught wind of where we were headed. No amount of ideological differences between us could erase the fact that she’s my mother. And the thought of having to cross blades with her is...” He trailed off, his mind recoiling from the idea in disgust.

“My father is very different from your mother,” Bernadetta replied bitterly, staring at the floor between them. Though he had long known it to be true, there were certain implications in that statement that Yuri didn’t like the sound of. But he couldn’t bring himself to ask for an explanation.

“Then you’re alright?”

“I....N-no,” she admitted. “No, I’m not alright.”

“Do you want to talk about it, then?”

“No!” she yelped, finally looking up at him. Her eyes were wide and teary with fear. “I-I can’t! If I talk about it, then you’ll hate me!”

“What is it with you and thinking I hate you?” Yuri demanded, exasperated. “Don’t you think if I actually hated you, I would’ve killed you all those years ago? Or any of the dozens of times we’ve been on the battlefield together?”

“B-but you will! You’ll definitely hate me if I tell you the truth!”

“I’ve heard far worse things than the truth, I can assure you,” he scoffed.

“He’s horrible!” she burst out. “He’s so horrible, but I don’t want him to die!”

The silence that fell between them felt as heavy as a cart horse.

“...Nope. Still don’t hate you,” Yuri murmured.

There was only a foot or so of distance between them. Slowly, cautiously, he held his hand out to her. Bernadetta let out a wail and grabbed it with both of hers, sniveling furiously. He had learned early on that physical contact seemed to ground her when she was upset like this, and indeed, once she held his hand between her own, the truth came pouring out as fast as she could draw breath.

But Yuri had been wrong about one thing. The truth was worse than any profanity, any insult, any threat that had been hurled at him over the course of his seedy life.

She told him everything. She told him of the harsh words that made up her earliest memories. Of long, hungry nights. Of the stories she wrote in her journal, later thrown into the fire and burned to ash like the “useless drivel” they were. Of endless hours spent alone and terrified in a pitch black room, ears ringing from the deafening silence. And of a very dear friend who was ripped away from her, who she would long believe had died because of her. Because it was never enough, she was never good enough. No matter how hard she tried, she remained useless, unmarriageable, an embarrassment to her family name. Worthless.

Bile rose in his throat as the pieces he had never wanted to admit were missing fell into place. Strange red marks that he had seen on her arms one afternoon while pushing her in the swing. Her small face pressed into his muddy jacket as she wept for an hour straight, yet refused to tell him what was wrong. Her constant and seemingly inexplicable sense of terror. Her paranoia that even her closest friends secretly wished her harm. Her apparent shock and confusion at hearing Yuri commend her father for protecting her from him.

Up until this moment, Yuri had viewed the prospect of Count Varley’s death as a mere pleasure, much like he viewed the prospect of kicking back with a good stiff drink at the end of a long day. Now, though... Now everything inside him demanded, screamed for the man’s execution. Yuri ached to see Count Varley’s blood pooling at his feet, longed to watch the light fade from his eyes, to hear his rattling gasps as he hung limply on the end of Yuri’s blade. If necessary, Yuri could let some of his personal grudges go, even if he did need a pretty damn good reason for doing so. The Savage Mockingbird, however, offered no such quarter to those who had harmed one of his own. Perhaps Bernadetta couldn’t bring herself to hate her father. But Yuri could. In fact, loathing Count Varley was now easier than ever.

Which, he realized, also meant that Bernadetta must be far, far stronger than he had ever thought before.

“...You’re angry,” Bernadetta whimpered, unable to bear his silence any longer. It was only then that Yuri realized he was gripping her hand too tightly, his own hand white-knuckled and shaking. “See, I told you you would hate me!”

“Enough,” he snapped, releasing her. “Bernadetta, you couldn’t make me hate you even if your life depended on it. But I am angry, you got that part right.” She shrank back a bit, eyeing him fearfully. He forced his voice to soften. “Not at you. Never at you.”

“But you should be!” she insisted. “I....He did all those horrible things to me, a-and he nearly killed you....But I don’t want to fight him! I don’t want him to die tomorrow. I never want to see him again for as long as I live, but I don’t....I don’t hate him, Yuri!” She was crying now, not the panicked, high-pitched wails of anxiety, but quiet, broken sobs of confusion. “I sh-should hate him, I should want him dead, b-but I don’t! What’s wrong with me?!”

“I have no idea,” he replied wearily. “...But I’d be lying if I said it wouldn’t be better if there were more people like you.”

“H-huh?”

“Compassion isn’t a weakness,” he said haltingly. “It’s a strength, one that a lot of people don’t have or even want. And compassion for your enemies, for the people who have hurt you....Well, that’s a very rare gift indeed. If it weren’t, then I imagine we never would have found ourselves in this war to begin with.”

“You think Dimitri is wrong to want revenge?” Bernadetta whispered, as though she was afraid to ask such a thing out loud.

“No. I have no right to judge him one way or the other. But I do know one thing.” He met her gaze and held it, willing her to believe what he said next. “No one needs you to hate your father, Bernadetta. No one needs you to want him dead. I can do enough of that for the both of us. But there are plenty of people out there who need compassion, who, unlike your father, would take the chance to be better if someone offered it to them. Whatever happens tomorrow, don’t believe for a second that you need to change. This gift of yours....it’s too valuable to throw away.”

“You...” Bernadetta’s eyes were shining. “...You think I’m valuable?”

“You are a veritable treasure of unrivaled worth, my dear Miss Varley,” he quipped. “Albeit one that could use a bit of polishing.” He reached out and thumbed away a tear track on her cheek. She giggled and took his hand between her own again, giving it a fond squeeze.

“...Thank you, Yuri,” she whispered. “...Maybe this sounds weird but....I’m glad I was born into House Varley. Because if I’d been anybody else, I might not have met you. And....I’m really happy that I did.”

Yuri had always thought the phrase “heart-melting” was ridiculous. But now, he could think of no other way to describe the wave of warmth that flooded over him, accompanied by a bittersweet ache that he hadn’t felt in years. He looked away and cleared his throat loudly, though he did not try to draw his hand back.

“Yeah,” he said gruffly. “Guess I sort of feel the same way.”

“...Yuri?”

“Hm?”

“During the battle....Can I stay by you? I don’t really know what I’ll have to do tomorrow, but whatever it is, I think it’ll be easier if you’re there with me.”

Ordinarily, this would be the part where he would roll his eyes, heave an exaggerated sigh, and say something to the effect of, Well, I suppose I can’t stop you if that’s what you want. But he had discovered (or rather, rediscovered) over the course of this conversation that being a little vulnerable with Bernadetta....really wasn’t that bad. In fact, it was downright pleasant. So instead, he simply smiled and squeezed her hand back.

“Sure thing, love.”

Thanks for reading! ✨

[unseededtoast]

Turtle Doves | Joel Miller

Part Three

Chapter Directory

Series Summary: In which two broken souls connect so deeply, that if one should perish, the other would surely die of a broken heart. (slow burn, timeline changes. After TLOU1, before TLOU2, assumed knowledge of infected, uses elements from both show and game)

Series Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, death, and sexual content.

Also cross-posted on Wattpad and AO3. Link to my masterlist for everything else I’ve posted!

wc: 3.1k

I freeze in my tracks and listen around me. The smell of blood never brings anything good with it.

Ten Years Later

A knock at the door interrupts my peace. So much for a quiet night. With a roll of my eyes and a sigh, I get myself off the deteriorating couch and walk to the door. My fingers ghost over the doorknob before I open it, preparing myself for whatever may wait for me. I swallow hard and swing the door open before I talk myself out of opening it.

A familiar face waits for me on the other side and I quickly let him in. I poke my head out into the hall to make sure nobody saw him enter my place and step back inside once I'm satisfied with the lack of witnesses. The door swings shut and I run a hand through my hair with frustration,

"What the hell are you doing here during the day?" I struggle to keep my voice down and the man just stares back at me with a blank face. I shake my head with an exasperated expression, waiting for him to talk.

"Somethin' came up, okay? Couldn't wait 'til night. Can you get a payload to the east side of area two tonight?" I bite the inside of my cheeks in frustration as the words come out of his mouth.

"Why can't you just take it there now, James?" My voice is harsh and he runs a hand over his unkempt beard.

"I've got some enemies over there and I'm tryin' to lay low for a while 'til I get that shit sorted." His voice becomes tinged with annoyance and he puts his hands on his hips. I take a calming breath and turn away from him, running my hands over my face and return to my seat on the couch. Leaning forward with my elbows on my knees, I look back to James.

"I thought I told you I was flying under the radar for a while, things got too hot." I remind him that I want to take a break from pill smuggling for a few weeks because we were almost caught outside after curfew a few nights ago. Either he forgot or doesn't care. He shifts his weight and shrugs his shoulders.

"I know. But after this I promise I won't come 'round for a month. Pay is double the usual." I squint my eyes at his words, not believing he'll leave me alone for a month. That would be too sweet. But, the payoff of this does sound enticing. I arch an eyebrow and curiosity gets the best of me.

"Double the pay? What's the catch?" I ask, knowing that something has to be up. People don't just double payments unless they're desperate. I see his the corner of his lip turn up into a smirk.

"It's for the Fireflies." There's a trace of humor in his voice, but it's anything but funny. Blankly, I stare at him, trying to understand if he really just told me I'd have to interact with Fireflies.

There's not a lot of jobs I turn down, but dealing with the Fireflies is almost always a no-go for me. The rag-tag group is full of nothing but people who are full of delusions and work towards a goal that will never be attainable.

They constantly blow up FEDRA buildings, injuring many innocent people; and I can never justify the deaths of innocents. Sure, I don't necessarily agree with how FEDRA conducts business all the time, but they keep things in the quarantine zone orderly enough, and I'll take strained order over anarchy any day.

My last interaction with a Firefly left my blood boiling. She was a young girl, probably early twenties, and she was openly bragging about building a bomb that they were going to detonate that night. She was excited to tell me what building she was going to demolish. For what reason? "To show those FEDRA bastards who they're messing with". Needless to say, after the transaction, I took a detour to that building and dismantled her poorly built bomb.

If the Fireflies really wanted to dismantle FEDRA, they'd take a different approach. One that doesn't involve killing innocent people. By blowing up buildings and killing people in the QZ who have nothing to do with their fight, they're turning more people against them than they realize. But what do I know?

"You're shitting me." I call his bluff and he shakes his head with a smile, it's almost as if he enjoys giving me bad news.

"No ma'am I am not." He says and reaches into his back pocket. He tosses a bag full of white pills at me. It's the same amount as any other drop off.

One of their mercenaries must have gotten hurt. The Fireflies rarely want to pay our regular rate, much less double. My gaze flickers back up to James, debating whether the payoff is worth it. If I am taking a break for smuggling for a while, the extra ration cards might be nice.

"Area two you said?" I clarify, fiddling with the bag in my hand. James nods his head, smile dying off his face.

"Yes ma'am, east side." He confirms. I stare down at the pills and debate to take the job or not. I know this QZ like the back of my hand, and I have no known enemies in the area. I can leave now and be back just after nightfall, and I can take my time to cover my tracks. Squeezing my eyes shut, I know the pay is too good to turn down.

"Fine. I'll do it. Where at on the east side?" I ask and he excitedly pulls a map from his other pocket. He spreads it out on my rickety kitchen table and points out the specific building the buyer will be waiting for me in. I've been there before a few times, I know the layout well enough.

Once James leaves I begin getting ready for my departure. It's just a quick run and then after this I can relax for a while. Those words repeat in my mind as if I'm trying to convince myself that it's true.

I grab my worn out backpack and put the pills in the secret pocket I had sewn into the lining. If someone were to search my bag, it would be nearly impossible for them to find. I make sure to pack my decoy items so that I'm not walking around with an apparent empty backpack, and then toss the bag onto the couch. Quickly, I lace up my boots and shrug on my jacket before I tuck my small firearm into the band of my pants. I grab the backpack off the couch and sling it over my shoulders as I leave my apartment.

My boots hit the wet concrete and I pull the hood of my jacket up over my head. Of course, the day I have to go to the east side of area two it's raining. Luckily, the distance from the west side of area one to the east side of two is just a few miles, so it's not too bad of a trip, but it is the most inconvenient one. Since it's still light out people are milling about, some too drunk to walk straight and others wrapping up their duties for the day.

FEDRA stuck me on graffiti coverup today, so thankfully my job was finished early and didn't drag on like some of the others. The plan was to have a nice, quiet night to myself without the disturbance of James, or anyone else. But of course, I can have no peace here.

I walk as quickly as I can to the east side, being sure to look inconspicuous enough to not get singled out by a FEDRA soldier. Of course, those who are into the illicit pill trade know me and typically let me slide. But there are some rule abiding soldiers out there who like to conduct random searches on whoever they think looks like they're up to no good. The soldiers are especially strict now, after a recent Firefly attack disabled one of the main entrance points of the QZ.

I reach the designated building without incident, and make note that the sun is already disappearing from the sky. I won't be able to make it back before curfew, so I'll have to take extra time to slink away in the shadows. Before I walk in to make the deal, I look to my left and right to be sure nobody is trailing me, and thankfully the streets are becoming desolate for the night.

My footsteps echo in the empty, dilapidated building as I go to the staircase. The stairs creak with each step, and I know that the Firefly I'm here to meet is sure of my presence. This building is not the best for clandestine drug deals.

Once I reach the third floor, I open the door cautiously. I step inside and see three Fireflies there, all looking at me with wide eyes. My attention is quickly turned to the Firefly on the ground, a large wound on her leg. It looks like she got caught on barbed wire or something. There's a makeshift tourniquet around the upper part of her thigh. I'm no doctor, but I think they're going to need more than a few narcotics to take care of this. One of them clears their throat, breaking my gaze from the injured woman.

"Do you have them?" The man speaks in a gruff voice. Wordlessly, I take the backpack off my shoulders and place it on the ground.

"Do you have the payment?" I ask, feeling only slightly guilty I'm asking for proof of payment while there's a severely injured woman in need right beside me. The man grunts and reaches into his pocket, pulling out several ration cards. It's all the proof I need.

I dig the pills out of my bag and we make an easy trade. The man tosses the bag to the injured woman, and the third Firefly goes to be by her side. In a scramble, the third member looks for a water bottle so that the injured woman can swallow the pills. She finds a bottle in her bag, but it's empty. She throws the bottle across the room in frustration and it bounces off the wall, landing on the old rotting floor with a thud.

"Here." I say, pulling a bottle out of my bag. I always pack a bottle of water as a decoy item, but it's obvious that she needs it more than I do. Plus, I don't have pills on me anymore, so there's really no need for decoy items.

"Thank you." The worried woman sounds relieved and cracks the seal on the bottle, handing it to her injured comrade.

"Don't mention it." I say, picking my bag off the ground and putting it back on my shoulders. I go to leave the building, but a voice stops me in my tracks.

"Wait, um, how do we contact you if we need more? We just kind of got this deal on a whim today. Right place, right time kinda thing." The woman helping the injured one asks. I turn back around to face them, struggling with what to tell them.

I don't like helping the Fireflies in any capacity, and I also don't like handing out information on how to find myself and my associates. Business is done on a lowkey, under the table, if you know, you know type of deal. They all look at me with expecting eyes, a silent plea, and the injured member has tears streaking down her cheeks, swaying me to give them a scrap of information.

"You can find some of us in area one, but most are over in five." I tell them vaguely, not wanting to give a step by step on how to single us out. If I did, I'd only put myself at more risk.

"That's it?" The man questions angrily, fists clenching by his sides. I look from his fists to his face, squinting my eyes. Men like him always seem to think their physicality will intimidate me.

"That's it. I'm not giving you names or buildings. Work with what you've got, you're lucky I gave you that much." I say, my voice void of any pleasantry it held only a few seconds ago. Add this encounter to the list of reasons why I hate dealing with the Fireflies.

Before the man can say anything else, I'm out the door and down the stairs. I pull my hood over my head once more and step out into the night. I'm careful to keep an eye out for soldiers and stick to the back alleyways where they never patrol regularly. Thankfully, the moon is full tonight, illuminating the ground nicely for me so I don't have to use a flashlight to find my way and attract unwanted attention.

The rain begins to pick up more heavily and I pick up my pace, wanting to be home already. I think about the rest of my night, and how I won't let the Fireflies ruin it for me. I know I've got a stashed bottle of wine, maybe I'll get into that tonight. However, my thoughts regarding my nightly plans are cut short as I walk past a smaller alleyway and the unmistakable metallic scent of blood hits my nose.

I freeze in my tracks and listen around me. The smell of blood never brings anything good with it. My mind runs through what it could be from, landing on the infected or a shootout as the most probable causes. But I didn't hear gunshots, which leaves the most dreaded option. My blood runs cold and I swallow hard, grabbing my small firearm out of my waistband. If somehow the infected did get in here, it's hard telling how widespread it's become.

Carefully, I walk down the smaller alleyway, gun in front of me. There's a large, overflowing dumpster on the left side, pushed up against a building. Other than that, it looks empty. But, I know my mind won't rest until I'm sure the alleyway is clear of infected. I hold my breath as I approach the dumpster and listen intently for movement. Only the falling rain can be heard.

I take another step forward and peer around the dumpster, stunned by the scene in front of me. Before I do anything else, I check my surroundings one more time to make sure there's nobody else here. Once I'm sure that nobody is lurking around, I kneel down to inspect what I'm looking at.

Behind the dumpster lies a young teenage boy, maybe around sixteen years old. The boy is dead, and looks like he's been gone for hours by now. I get my backpack off my shoulders and search frantically for my flashlight, thankful that it isn't buried at the bottom. I click the light on to get a better look and gag as I see what lies before me.

It appears the boy has been stabbed to death. There are several jagged slash marks on his torso, and one on his temple. He won't be coming back as an infected, but this looks deliberate, personal. Who would want a young boy dead like this?

The boy's insides are spilling out of his torso, blood no longer freely flowing. The rain must have washed away what already drained from him. However, the rain cannot wash away the smell of death as easily. I hold my breath as I inspect the body closely.

There are no signs of infection. This wasn't done out of protection. I catch a glimpse of something unusual on the boy's forehead, his hair obscuring the mark. With the end of my flashlight, I push the hair out of the way and see that someone carved the letter 'T' into his skin.

No longer being able to stand the sight of this poor boy, I click my flashlight off and step back from the scene. Normally, I would report this immediately. But, I'm out past curfew, and I don't want to have to face the punishment. A lady two weeks ago was hanged for being outside past curfew, and I already received a warning about this a few weeks ago; hence why I want to take a break from pill running. Sure, it's selfish of me to think this way and I feel guilty for it, but he's already dead; there's not much worse that can happen to him now.

Swallowing the rising bile in my throat, I force myself to turn away from the boy's body and vow to report it in the morning. I'm sure I'll be able to come up with some reason I was out this way.

With each step I take my mind is overcome with the grisly images of the blatant murder. The boy was so young, and the killing was terribly brutal. Whoever did this to him didn't do it out of self-defense. No, it looked like the killer took joy in mutilating the poor boy's body.

Tears sting my eyes as I think about the boy and his family who tragically lost their loved one in such a gruesome way. No parent should ever have to lose a child, especially not in a malicious way such as this.

It chills me to know that there's someone in the QZ who is capable of this type of crime. How many more are at risk of falling victim? The thought makes me nauseous and I force myself to think about something else for the remainder of the trip back to my place or else I might get sick in the street.

I get to my apartment and drop off my bag by the door and kick my boots off, not caring where they land. All previous plans for the night are abandoned, and instead, I can only pace back and forth. My mind begins working to create a story of why I was out there and how I found the body.

Maybe I was out that way to see a friend, and thought that route was a shortcut. I walked past the alleyway and smelled something terrible. That's when I found him. Yeah, I think this story is simple enough, but believable. The FEDRA guards should buy it without much skepticism. Even if they did suspect I was lying, there's no way for them to prove me wrong.

I hope they catch whoever did this. The monster who ruthlessly killed this boy deserves whatever fate he meets. If a woman was hanged for being out past curfew, it's hard to tell what FEDRA will do to a murderer.

My body is unable to rest for any amount of time, my mind works on overdrive and I pace around with racing thoughts until the sun comes back up on the horizon.

Part Four

[cha-melodius]

Hi! How about the last trope from the list for Napollya (the one about: I'm scared but I won't admit it, so you take my hand). I first imagined it in a setting where Gaby shot at a mission and they are waiting for the results of the surgery, but feel totally free to use a different scenario. Your writing is so awesome I'd probably read anything you'd write.

(Hello anon, thank you for the prompt! I absolutely went for your scenario for this, it was a great setup. This is early post-canon, and includes Napollya but is also focused quite a bit on the team as a family, which felt right since Gaby is the catalyst. This one ran about 1.7k. I really hope you enjoy it!)

Cold Hands, Warm Heart

Read it on AO3

“Cowboy. Stop pacing.”

“I’m not—” Napoleon starts, then re-evaluates. 

Ok, maybe he’s pacing. He’s just restless, is all. Too much time in one spot. Too much waiting. He’s still jumped up on adrenaline and unused to sitting around. They should be back out there, chasing down leads, not sitting in a hospital waiting room. Sanders would have sent him back out already. Well, Sanders would have never sent him out with the same partners so many times in a row. Better off if they didn’t know each other that well, he’d said.

Napoleon hates that his asshole boss might have had a point. He doesn’t know what to do with this twisting in his gut, this clenching in his chest, this concern for someone he should only have a working relationship with. It shouldn’t be a surprise, after what happened on that hillside in Italy, when he’d seen her limp body in the upside-down Jeep. He’d felt the clenching then, too, even though they hardly knew each other, even though her betrayal only hours before had nearly meant his own death. There’s no reason to think it wouldn’t be worse now, after they’ve spent the better part of a month together. He wonders if this is what it feels like to have a little sister, someone who can manage to inspire annoyance and delight and fierce protectiveness all at once.

It isn’t right. He works better alone, and this is one of the reasons why. No chance of getting attached to people he shouldn’t be getting attached to.

Speaking of… Illya cocks an eyebrow at him, then gestures wordlessly to the adjacent chair with a nod of his head. Of course, Napoleon’s first instinct is to refuse, because the last thing he needs is to indulge in his currently most problematic attachment issue, but the look on Illya’s face suggests he’s considering tying Napoleon down if he doesn’t stop (which is both an alluring and completely inappropriate notion). So Napoleon sits, stiffly and on the edge of the hard hospital chair, ready to spring up at a moment’s notice.

“You are worried about her,” Illya says, regarding him with a level gaze.

It’s too knowing, that look, at once terrifying and terribly enticing. No living person really knows Napoleon, entirely by design. It’s better that way. He can’t be hurt, that way. There is too much power in that knowledge. Letting someone in—letting Illya in—isn’t just dangerous. It’s stupid. (He fears that it might be already too late.)

Instead of meeting his eyes, Napoleon stares fixedly at the far wall. “I’m just… antsy. I don’t like sitting around.”

“Worried,” Illya repeats stubbornly. Reaching across the narrow space between them, he pries one of Napoleon’s hands from its death grip around his thigh and carefully laces their fingers together. “It’s ok.”

“How are you not?” Napoleon counters, finally turning toward him with a huff. He should pull away from the hand holding for myriad reasons. He doesn’t.

“We arrived in time. She is strong. She will be fine,” Illya says. The confidence in his voice is not exactly reassuring, but it does go a ways to settle something that’s been jittering about in Napoleon’s chest ever since he’d watched her get shot. “Also, I am worried, Cowboy.”

“That why you’re holding my hand?” Napoleon teases, aiming for a levity he doesn’t feel. “Your hands are freezing, by the way.”

Illya just squeezes his hand. “Would it make you feel better if I said yes?”

Napoleon stares at him and wishes desperately that he knew what all this was. For all his discomfort over his emotions about Gaby, the tangled web of feelings that Illya occupies is infinitely worse. Or, maybe not worse, but certainly more complicated. He supposes that’s what you get for sleeping with your partner, who you have to work with every day, who the world says should be your enemy but turned out to be, decidedly, not. Sometimes it seems like it’s only sex, and he tells himself it’s better that way. Just an agreement between friends that offers a way to avoid involving civilians when they need a release. But then there are times like this, when Illya looks at him with aching tenderness, and he lets himself believe, if only for a moment, that it could be more.

Which is absurd. People like them don’t get more. Napoleon has always gotten along fine without more, and he certainly doesn’t need it now. Plus, there’s that whole knowing him thing that still lodges in his throat whenever he thinks about it too hard. That doesn’t stop the conflict between what he should want and what he does want from slowly tearing him apart. Maybe it would help to talk about whatever this is between them, but, by a mutual, unspoken agreement, they don’t.

“It doesn’t bother you? The… attachments?” Napoleon asks, pushing the limits of that agreement. It’s only after he’s said it that he realizes that Illya might take it as a slight, or some sign that he was troubled by their arrangement. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know what you meant,” Illya cuts him off. Of course, Napoleon should have figured something similar was going through his own head. Illya sighs, and his thumb begins rubbing absently across the back of his hand. “All my time as a spy, I have been told attachments are dangerous.”

“And you’ve been a spy long enough to know it’s the truth.”

“Is it?” Illya asks, barely above a whisper. For the first time since they started this conversation, he doesn’t sound so sure of himself. He bows his head, and though there’s no obvious sign of it, somehow Napoleon knows he’s staring at their linked hands. “Or is that just what they want us to believe, so that we have nothing else besides the state?”

“Careful, Peril. Don’t think your handlers would like you talking like that,” Napoleon says. He pitches it like it’s a joke, though it’s anything but—as much a warning to himself as it is to Illya. Your handlers, he says, not ours; well, he has a suspicion that Waverly wouldn’t disagree with Illya. Their temporary handler is sometimes a bit of an odd duck, in the world of espionage. That’s all this is, though, temporary, and neither of them are free. They belong to those who would use these attachments to destroy them, if it suited the state. If they became more trouble than they’re worth.

“Good thing they are not here, then,” Illya returns wryly.

There’s an odd look on his face as he reaches up to push a stray lock of hair off Napoleon’s forehead, his hand sliding down to linger on his cheek, and Napoleon abruptly realizes that they’re alone in the waiting room. He thinks, absurdly, that Illya is going to kiss him, right here in the hospital, where anyone could walk in. He tries not to think about how badly he wants him to.

“I believed I worked better alone,” Illya says instead, his eyes sweeping downward. “That I had to be alone. Now I know that was a lie. We are a team, Cowboy. We all make each other better.”

Napoleon wants to flee, not because this feels wrong, but because it feels so right. “Now I definitely know you’re going soft, Peril,” he says, grinning, because it’s easier than admitting the truth of Illya’s words. Jokes, jokes, always jokes; he wears his flippancy like armor, retreats behind it like the walls of a fortress. Some days, it seems like Illya and Gaby are the only ones who can draw him out again. For the moment, though, Illya lets him hide.

“I am still better spy than you,” he retorts, his lips tipping into an answering smirk.

“I thought we all made each other better,” Napoleon counters.

“Yes,” Illya confirms, his face the picture of earnestness. “I have learned much from Gaby.”

Napoleon laughs, loose and unfettered, and for a brief moment he feels impossibly lighter, until he remembers why they’re sitting there. “You really think she’ll be ok?”

“I know it.”

Illya squeezes his hand again, and Napoleon nearly gives in to the impulse to lean his head on Illya’s shoulder, to let his partner wrap him up in one of those Illya-sized hugs, public hospital waiting room be damned. As it is, he’s sufficiently lost in Illya’s eyes that he doesn’t realized they’ve gained an audience.

“Gentlemen,” Waverly says, clearing his throat.

Napoleon immediately tries to jerk away, but Illya doesn’t let go of his hand, instead clamping down hard enough that Napoleon feels his metacarpals grind together. Apparently he wasn’t even aware he was doing it, because when Napoleon shoots him a look pointed look he lets his grip go slack, a sheepish look flit across his face. Napoleon shakes out his crushed hand, unable to decide whether he finds the whole situation more endearing or annoying.

Waverly’s expression is—no surprises—carefully composed, though Napoleon could swear he sees a trace of amusement flicker in his eyes for a brief moment. “Miss Teller is out of surgery and doing well,” he announces. “She is still unconscious, but the anesthesia should wear off soon, and I’ve ascertained that you both can wait in her room”—he pauses, and the corner of his mouth twitches—“if you like.”

Illya is already on his feet, and Napoleon isn’t far behind. “She’s going to be ok?” Napoleon asks, painfully aware of how tight his own voice sounds.

“They expect her to make a full recovery,” Waverly assures them. “She’ll be back on her feet before you know it.”

Napoleon doesn’t think too hard about the sheer, immense relief that floods through him as he lets Illya drag him down the hallway toward Gaby’s room, but just now, he doesn’t try to deny what’s behind it either. Maybe Illya is onto something. Maybe this team—this family, a small, seductive voice in his head whispers—is more than just a liability.

Maybe, in time, he’ll be able to let himself believe it, too.

[whenwordsmakesense]

Another first sentence + 5 sentence fic, "I hate it when you're being a martyr!!?"

Lol, next time just send me a sentence. I don't think I'll ever be doing "only" +5 sentences xD

Okay, okay, so this isn't from my *THE* time-travel fic, but the thing is... I just love the idea of a bamf!sterek that go back in time and don't tell anyone about the truth and then comes this CONFRONTATION and everyone else is confused/in awe.

Quick rundown of dynamics, just because: Alpha Talia Hale. Human/Alpha Mate Nathaniel Hale. Betas Peter Hale, Laura Hale, Cora Hale, Claudia Stilinski. Human Noah John Stilinski. Alpha Derek Hale (but he presents as a beta to everyone except Stiles). Human Stiles Stilinski (but he is actually a spark, the strongest there is).

Idk their ages, but you can imagine Stiles as a 15/16 year old teen (he's mentally older, of course, think like... hmm... let's say he came back in time at age 21. So he should be 30, mentally). That makes Derek 21/22 (mentally 36).

Okay, enough rambling, now let's get down to the fic!! I'll be writing this from Laura's POV. Also, tell me if I should post this one on AO3? Now it's on AO3!

The Moon's Come Out

"I hate it when you're being a martyr."

Stiles' voice is a soft whisper underneath the chaos of blood and death, but it's not quite enough to drown under. It's a resigned exhale of breath, a truth so absolute that it's no longer just a truth. It's a fact.

Laura Hale wonders when her baby brother aligned himself to such a fact. She wonders lots of things about her baby brother.

She remembers the day when it all changed. When Derek changed. It was subtle, but it was prominent.

She remembers when she'd helped Derek with his flirting skills. Paige, she remembers; the same Paige who had once held Derek's eyes had been rendered into nothing that day. No, not nothing—something else. Something deeper. Something like grief.

But why would Derek grieve someone living? It's a mystery, but more than that it's an act shared between Derek and Stiles—like they're barely tethered to the world, and every moment with anyone but each other is like a gift and a curse, all in one.

But this isn't the time to think about it, how it feels like she's lost Derek once.

It's time to save him.

"Mom," her voice is a barely there sound, but her mom, her Alpha, she's here.

And she's silently crying.

"Mom, we need to- need to help him,"

Her mom is nodding her head, and they're moving between the bloody bodies—hunters, who'd come to kill them, only to die by Stiles'... everything.

Laura feels she can save him.

"Stop." Stiles' voice is still a whisper, but it's an order. A command.

Her mom—Alpha Talia Hale—stops in her tracks, and Laura, with her injured leg has to stop with her.

Dad is shouting at Cora to stay back, and John is trying to free Claudia and Peter from their confines, and Laura can hear all that. But right now, her world boils to where Derek is. On the ground, only a few feet away but so, so far away, spitting blood out of his mouth as his healing tries to kick in where the bullets are lodged on his body.

Bullets. Because Derek had jumped in front of the hunters when they started shooting at Peter and Claudia. And they're all wolfsbane laced.

Laura opens her mouth to protest, to shout, but Stiles doesn't let her.

He's always stopped her from talking.

She hates Stiles.

He's taken Derek away from her. From the pack.

"I can deal with this, you don't have to worry,"

"You can't order me around." Laura's eyes flash at her Alpha's tone, and she bares her neck.

Stiles' jaw sets with a determined look. "Oh, yeah? You really think so, Talia?" Laura watches him as he speaks, words fast paced and laced with worry and fear and anger. It's an ensemble of emotions, but even Laura has to admit that there's always been something special about this kid. His hands work as he talks.

"I mean, maybe you do. You Hales always think you know the best, don't you? It's like you think nobody else has any brains but you. Well, except Peter. That fucker is just too clever for his own good and he knows it. But he at least knows not to underestimate others. That's more than I can say for you, Talia. Or Laura. You two are so similar, you know?"

Laura does. She does know. And she is proud of that fact. But Stiles says it like a curse, like being so similar to her own mother—her Alpha—is nothing short of the worst thing.

Laura wonders why. She wonders a lot when it comes to Stiles.

"Stiles," everyone stops at that voice, as if freezing in place would freeze time itself.

Laura has been tortured, she's seen more blood than she needs to today, and she'd cried herself hoarse when they'd started to torture her previously unconscious mom. And then she'd wanted to die when the hunters turned their guns toward Cora, Claudia and Peter. So much so that she'd barely noticed Derek somehow escaping from his own personal confinement, the shackles he was in, all of it covered in wolfsbane. Neither had she witnessed Stiles breaking the literal cage the humans of their pack had been put in. But the thing that truly, truly scares her isn't any of those things. No.

It's losing Derek. Her baby brother (he used to hate it when she called him that, but when he changed, that hate turned into a grieving sort of fondness, like this was something he'd missed), who feels more like an adult than she is, her Derek. She can't lose him. She just can't.

It would break her. It would break the pack. Derek has always been the heart of it, the sweet little kid who is adored by his sisters and trusted by his parents; the man who even Peter respects, and Claudia cherishes like her own son, and John who calls him a good man.

It's no surprise they all just stop when Derek speaks for the first time since he was shot. And oh, was it only minutes ago? It feels like hours.

"Finally coherent, huh?" Stiles asks Derek, like Derek speaking right now is no big deal. Like it's that easy to try and repel the poison of wolfsbane.

"Shut up," Derek coughs out, voice throaty and weak.

"Derek," someone calls out. It's choked with tears, and it's a female, and it's her voice. "Derek! Please don't die,"

Derek tries to move his head, but falls back on the ground with a thump. Stiles swats at him, and Laura only now notices that Stiles' hands are covered in blood, one anchored on Derek's chest while the other digs around one of the holes. There's a host of bullets lying on the other side; Stiles throws another bullet there.

Perhaps everyone notices the same thing just then, because everyone makes a noise, a wail of pain and disgust and fear, all of it mixed in one sound.

Her mom has lost all her fight in herself, and Laura deflates, too. Stiles seems to know what he's doing.

And he doesn't seem to care what he sounds like.

"No, shut up? Me? Shut up? I swear to the fucking moon, you asshole, if you die on me I'll follow you. I'll fucking follow you there, because nothing is left for me here, okay, and I know you know that. You know this. How could you even do this to me? I told you to wait for my signal! I never would have let them get hurt, Derek! No, no, shut up! You keep your words to yourself and you listen, you goddamn martyr, you listen.

You made me a promise. When we came back, you promised me we'd be together. Always. We'll fix things, then we'll live, and then we'll die. Together. But you-you broke that promise, Der. You did tha-that,"

Laura is missing something. They all are.

Stiles' voice is a steady stream, a flow broken only by the cracks in his voice and the anger in it. And then it's a whisper, the height of his voice toppled down by his sorrow.

Derek smiles softly, as if Stiles worrying himself to death about him is not a new thing. Like Derek almost dies on a constant basis, and this is a routine they have—Stiles worries, Stiles shouts, and then Derek smiles because he's still here. He isn't gone yet.

Laura watches as Derek puts his weight on his elbows, brings his face close to Stiles'. Nobody interrupts them, still frozen in time, still processing what they just went through. Stiles shuts his eyes.

"I am here. I am here, Stiles," Derek tells Stiles, and Stiles takes a shaky breath, and it hangs there, that breath—the worry, the anger, the pain, everything—between them, before Derek lunges forward and presses his lips against Stiles'.

There are a few sharp breaths, and a hysterical giggle from Claudia. "I told you," she says, and Laura thinks she's saying it to John.

Laura isn't exactly surprised. She's caught them kissing multiple times, and she's always wanted to tattle on them. And she would have, because this is wrong—Stiles is a teenager and Derek is an adult—but Stiles is clever and somehow always a few steps ahead of her. He knows all of her secrets, and she'd rather he didn't but that's not the life she has. No, the life she has is—

—clearer in hindsight. She thinks back on those kisses, shared in the early mornings or late nights, between whispered words that Laura couldn't make out and with a desperation that went beyond the desperation of wanting a good time.

And she looks now, looks at the way Stiles' breaths are shaky and labored, but his hands are steady, even as he brings flames appear out of nowhere and presses it against Derek's bullet wounds. She looks at the way Derek has his forehead pressed against Stiles', and how he moves his head to Stiles' neck at the precise moments that the fire touches his skin. Like he's done this before, knows how to keep his pain between him and Stiles. She looks at the way Stiles' other hand, still bloody, tangles in Derek's hair, comforts him, like he's the only comfort Derek needs in this world.

She looks at the way Derek's body heals, like even his body is used to being hurt like this.

"It all makes sense," Peter's voice brings her out of her thoughts, and she turns to look at him. He's vibrating with excitement. "The way they talk—the way they behave—it all makes sense!"

Laura doesn't want to know. She doesn't want to know how this much blood and death and crying and confusion could ever make sense.

But if knowing is the answer to ease the burden on Stiles' and Derek's shoulders, she'll take it. She will know.

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Let's Call It Funny

Prompt: Hi! If you know about those gen z peter parker posts, could your write something based on that? With Steve Getting It (tm) because fatalistic nihilism in humor tended to show up during the world wars and we’re seeing a reflection of that now? Sorry- I just think it’d make great options for steve and peter bonding, and dad!tony but actual emotions (gasp!) You can totally ignore this if you want!

Don't ever apologize for giving me such a great ask

Read on Ao3 Part 2

Warnings: uhhh gen z humor

Pairings: none! all found family in this bitch

Word Count: 2529

Here’s the thing about humor. It’s not necessarily that one generation is any funnier than another, it’s just that high school kids are perpetually the funniest people alive. Something about being in a pressure cooker of an environment with a bunch of other people whose bodies are changing in new unpredictable ways whilst having very little say in how their lives go creates humor. Gasp of shock, right?

So basically what Peter’s trying to say is that he’s fucking hilarious.

Come on, not only does he have the default high schooler stuff, he’s also gay, which gives him an instant bonus. He’s trans, which opens up a whole new subset of humor for him to explore. He’s neurodivergent as fuck, and we all know that makes people funny as hell. And if that weren’t enough, he’s severely traumatized and he’s Spider-Man.

Peter Parker is funny as hell.

What is truly devastating—and really, it’s their loss—is that so few people seem to appreciate it.

Ned gets it. Ned’s not someone Peter would expect to not get it, just because hey, it’s Ned. They’ve met each other in the hallways and been like ‘hey! You’re still alive! Congrats on having a body!’ Only for the other one to go ‘hey! You’re alive too! I wish I had an intangible form!’

Because bodies are stupid and evolution really fucked us over but at least we’re not horses.

A solid 50% of their interactions are just quoting John Mulaney and Bo Burnham bits back and forth at each other. Peter’s never gonna forget the day they both had detention and had to watch that stupid Cap PSA—it’s propaganda, you Nazi fuckwits—and something reminded them of the ‘horse loose in a hospital’ bit and they just did it. Full out. Stood up and did the actions and everything. The rest of the room was either trying to do it with them—and failing, because they didn’t have nearly enough practice—or looking so confused. The security guard—Paul, he’s great—just looked at them blearily after they finished and went:

“I mean, you kids are right, but you’re not supposed to talk in detention.”

Well, excuse them for trying to make it more entertaining for everyone.

MJ gets it. If Peter’s being honest, he learned most of his humor from her. She is the master and it is an honor to study in her wake. He’s definitely hijacked the asking whether or not anything’s actually meaningful existentialism jokes and they’ve wormed their way into his day-to-day repertoire.

“Why are you late, Mr. Parker?”

“Time is a social construct, Mrs. B, none of us are ever late or early except in the subjective spacetime paths. The limits of our sensory perception make it so we can’t tell if anything is real, let alone whether or not they conform to some arbitrary definition of ‘time.’”

“…just sit down, Peter.”

See? It works.

Aunt May gets…worried.

Sure, they’ve actually talked about when Peter needs help and wants to reach out and when he’s just making jokes off the cuff because hey, humor’s a great coping mechanism or it’s just a joke and not that serious. Peter loves his Aunt May, so so so much, and the last thing he wants to do is really worry her. And she’s gotten pretty good at figuring out when he’s just joking and when he’s spiraling.

Sometimes, though…

“Peter,” Aunt May calls from the kitchen, “did you remember to stop by the store on your way home?”

Peter freezes halfway through the door.

“Peter?”

He swallows. “…no.”

“Why not?”

“Because I am too stressed and consumed by the swirling pit of blackness deep in my soul to remember my head is connected to my body, let alone remember to go to the store.”

Silence.

“…Aunt May?”

“Do you want to drop off your stuff and then go to the store?”

“…yeah, please.”

“Love you, Pete.”

“Love you!”

“Try to remember that you’ve got arms so you can pick stuff up.”

“Got it!”

See? It’s fine.

The Avengers don’t get it. Like, at all.

Natasha and Clint like, sorta get it? They make the same jokes all the time when they think Peter can’t hear them, which—come on, you guys are super spies, surely you know people are gonna hear you when they’re gonna hear you. Natasha will make a crack about something, Clint will laugh and shove her shoulder. It’s their dynamic, we get it. But when Peter does it…

“Hey, Baby Spider?”

Peter sticks his head up from the ceiling. “Yeah?”

“Where’re you crawling off to?”

“I’m gonna go hide in the garage.”

Natasha blinks up at him. “Why?”

“Because if I get crushed by the airlock doors then I won’t have to do my paper tomorrow.”

Silence. Natasha’s mask is too good for Peter to actually see what’s going on with her, let alone from this angle, but silence isn’t good.

“Nat—oof!”

Something blurs out of the vent nearby and tackles him down onto the couch.

“Clint!”

“Nope,” Clint mutters, wrapping Peter up in a hug as Natasha comes to join them. “You’re staying with us now, Pete.”

“Guys, I’m fine.”

“Peter,” Natasha says softly, “don’t joke about that, you’ll make us worry.”

“I don’t wanna do that,” Peter mumbles, “but it’s fine.”

“Coping mechanism, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s got too many brain cells to do that,” Clint says, ruffling Peter’s hair.

“Stark has a lot of brain cells, you see what good that does him?”

“Hmm. Guess you’re gonna have to stay awhile, Pete.”

There are worse fates. Definitely.

Thor just kind of gets confused by it. He acts like Peter isn’t going to be absolutely fine because there’s no need to do anything like that. No, Peter, you don’t have to put the bleach in first into your cereal, there’s plenty of milk left over. No, Peter, you don’t have to throw yourself off the roof because your laptop is freezing, Stark has so many just lying around. No, Peter, you don’t have to pack a rucksack and run away to the Alps and live like a recluse, come here and get a hug.

Peter suspects Thor’s playing dumb on purpose. The man is smart as hell, there’s no way all of this is flying over his head. And honestly, it warms his heart a little bit when he sees Thor’s sincere, concerned look when he thinks Peter’s not looking.

Banner and Rhodey just kinda shake their heads and move on. They’re used to it. They live and work with some of the most dramatic fucking people in the goddamn universe, they’re used to a little bit of extra humor. Occasionally one of them will give him a look that says he’s pushing his luck, but that’s not often. Less often now ‘cause he knows what he can get away with. He’s also seen them hiding smiles behind their hands or poorly disguised coughs. They’re not as slick as they think they are.

Tony.

Tony is the fucking worst.

Peter can’t get away with so much as sighing too hard before Iron Dad™ is swooping in all soft words and concerned touches. Jesus. You’d think he’d get it, he uses humor as a coping mechanism too, goddamnit, why is he so worried about Peter?

Okay, fine, he knows why.

MJ’s over at the Tower, having another one of her ‘sketch people in crisis’ appointments with Natasha. Peter is coming off of a 32-hour caffeine rush and is violently wishing for death. Tony is in the kitchen doing…something.

“Hey, do you think bleach would make a good smoothie?”

Tony wheels around to see MJ pulling a glass out of the cupboard.

“Kid—“

“Sounds like a filling breakfast,” Peter groans, “can you make me one too?”

“…I’m legitimately concerned,” comes Tony’s mutter.

MJ ignores him. “Who’s the bitch on your forehead?”

Peter rubs absentmindedly at the massive knot on his head, courtesy of a wall that rudely decided to move at the last second while Peter was attempting to walk through a doorway. “He’s called DJ Braindeath and he’s my only friend in the world.”

“Peter—“

“Oh did you meet him at the furry convention?"

“Technically it’d be a buggie convention.”

“What the hell are you two talking about?”

“The pantry doesn’t have good coffee, I’m going to Starbucks.” MJ grabs her bag. “You want anything?”

“A will to live?”

“Peter, what the fuck—“

“Oof, I’ve only got like…20 bucks.”

Peter lets his head drop back to the counter. “Then just leave me here to die.”

“Can I have champagne at your funeral?”

“I’ll be dead, I won’t fucking care.”

“God, I wish that were me.”

Then MJ’s gone and Peter gets treated to a 20-minute conversation with a very concerned Tony Stark that he doesn’t remember most of because hey caffeine crashes aren’t fun.

He definitely does it on purpose sometimes just to wind Tony up. Like there’s this one incident with an interview he does as Spider-Man and he gets asked what he thinks about Tony Stark’s newest intern, Peter Parker.

“That boy’s an embarrassment, just…complete failure. Can’t speak without stuttering through every other word and self-esteem issues all over the place. Also looks like he got dressed in the dark.”

The reporter had awkwardly moved on to another question. The interview aired later that day while Peter was at the Tower. Tony sat next to him on the couch about halfway through.

“You look good, Pete.”

Peter had mumbled halfheartedly, only to hear the reporter ask the same question.

“See, that’s the problem with having a secret identity, you don’t…” Tony trailed off as he heard the answer.

Peter snorted as Spider-Man finished talking. “Say that to my face, you bitch, get a real job. At least I don’t look like someone vomited silly string all over my spandex.”

“Are you okay?”

See? Fun.

The only one he’s made a conscious effort to not be this funny around is Steve.

Because, okay, here’s the thing. Steve’s disappointed look has no effect on him anymore. He’s immune, motherfuckers, he’s had detention too many times for it to still work. Here’s the other thing: Steve doesn’t actually use that tone of voice that often. It’s this meticulously crafted image he plays up in interviews because it catches all the bad guys so off guard when Captain America is suddenly swearing a blue streak at them and telling them to go fuck themselves in, honestly, quite creative ways. The sincere Steve Rogers disappointment and concern still very much works. Also doesn’t help that Steve does caring so fucking well, like…who gave him the right to say a few things and hold Peter like he’s something precious and do the quick one-two punch of saying a super sincere compliment and following it up with ‘I love you.’ Who did that? It’s rude. Stop it.

And yeah, Steve’s the resident Mom at the Ready. It’s a risk to even sit on your bed looking sad ‘cause here he comes, wearing something snuggly and saying ‘hey’ in that stupid, stupid compassionate voice. So Peter knows he’s just gonna end up crying from too much soft if Steve actually gets concerned. Which won’t be fair because he’s gonna try and explain that he’s fine and it’s just his sense of humor while crying. Yeah, like that’s gonna be believable.

So he’s trying not to but damnit it’s hard.

Then he walks into the kitchen one day to see Steve struggling with the toaster.

It’s one of Tony’s new prototypes—which means that anyone struggling with it is so fair—and from the looks of it, it’s managed to not only burn the bread to a crisp, but also mangle the slices beyond recognizable shape.

Peter’s not paying that much attention. He’s on his phone, heading towards his spot in the corner with the beanbag chairs and definitely doesn’t recognize Steve as he goes.

He only plops down and hears someone declare, in a completely deadpan voice: “There is no point to existing at all.”

“Oh, mood.”

He doesn’t think much of it. He doesn’t even know who said that, that’s how hyper-focused he is right now. He hears the others come in and feels Clint plonk down next to him.

“Hey, Pete.”

“Sah, dude.”

“Just vibing. Did I do it right?”

“Yeah, man you’re going great.”

“You teach Thor ‘yeet’ yet?”

“We’re getting there.”

“Steve,” he hears Tony call from the kitchen, “what the fuck did you do?”

“Language.”

“Don’t fucking talk to me about language when you’re making toast that looks like a goddamn welder’s table, what is that?”

“Your prototype’s work, I imagine.”

“How did you even—“

Clint chuckles next to him as the two of them start fondly bickering. Peter’s too busy speedrunning the five stages of grief in his head.

Did…did Steve say the thing about there being no point to existence at all?

No…no way.

He must be imagining things.

Then, of course, there’s a chime on his phone.

Ned: Did u do the bio hw?

There was bio homework?

Ned: yeah, due at noon

“I now know why God abandoned this timeline and when will death come to take me?”

The room goes silent.

Shit.

“Peter,” Clint says, “it’s gonna be fine, you can do bio homework in your sleep—“

“Are you okay?” Ah, that’s Thor.

“Kid—“

And Nat, and Tony’s probably rushing over here as he speaks.

Then there’s another voice.

“We can only pray the reaper arrives early for his appointment with us, kid.”

Peter’s head snaps up.

Steve.

Steve fucking Rogers raises a coffee cup at him in salute and takes a sip. He makes a face.

“…that was definitely salt,” he mutters, before shrugging and downing the whole thing.

…what?

Peter’s still staring at him until he catches his gaze and winks.

Oh, fuck yes.

“Steven Grant Rogers,” Tony says, hands on his hips, “explain.”

Steve just gives him a look. “I grew up in the Great Depression, Tony, and I was in the army. You don’t think I have a fatalistic sense of humor?”

“Plus the fact that most of my generation is resorting to types of humor found when death and stress are so ever-present that you have to joke about it says something,” Peter adds, “doesn’t it?”

Steve raises his cup again. “See? He gets it.”

And just like that, the bond between Peter Parker and Steve Rogers was written, formed, and sealed in salt and existentialist depression.

“There’s two of you,” Tony mumbles, “oh my god, there’s two of you.”

“Oh, you just wait ’til Buck and Sam get back.”

Peter can’t fucking wait.

[stitch1830]

Change

Kantoph Mondangst here we go! I'll probably have more to add to this before it's posted on ao3, just a heads up :)

......

“What are you doing?”

He said nothing as he kissed her neck and gently rubbed her stomach while she cut vegetables for dinner. They weren’t unwelcome gestures, in fact, she quite enjoyed the attention. Still, Toph had tasks to complete and she couldn’t have her boyfriend cling to her like this for the next six or so months. So when he didn’t stop kissing her neck and rubbing her stomach, she feigned being exasperated and once again commented on his antics. “Don’t you have something better to do?”

“Nope,” he replied quickly, grinning into her neck. His hands gently wrapped around hers and coaxed them to release their hold on the knife and vegetables, and once she did, he turned her around to face him. “I have nothing to do except kiss you and say hi to our little baby badgermole all day long.”

“That baby badgermole is barely a baby right now,” she teased.

“Nonsense. I can tell already.”

“Are you calling me fat??”

“Please Toph. You’re perfect the way you are.”

“That’s not a no, Hotshot.”

He said nothing, but leaned his forehead against hers and swiped his thumb over the small swell in her belly. Normally, such close quarters and cheesy gestures would’ve had Toph complaining until the man stopped, but with Kanto, it was okay. In fact, she enjoyed it. Loved it, even.

His hair tickled her forehead as he stood there with her, leaning on the counter. She could practically feel his mind reeling with thoughts, and one of them he thought aloud. “You can actually feel the heartbeat, huh,” he quietly remarked.

Toph chuckled. “Yeah, ever since Katara said that’s what the echo was, can’t stop hearing it.”

“I wish I could feel it.”

She teasingly clicked her tongue at him. “If you weren’t such a lily-livered earthbender, you probably could.”

“Hey!” he playfully shouted as he wrapped his arms around her, effectively ‘trapping’ her. “Some would say I’m a pretty good earthbender.”

“Pretty good doesn’t cut it with seismic sense, Hotshot.”

He grumbled and buried his face into her neck, and she breathed out a laugh as his towering figure huddled over hers. They stood in their kitchen, content with the silence and the intimate moment they shared with one another. Pretty soon, those moments would be limited, so there was no need to rush. And it was strange how soon things would change. One moment, they were two, the next, they would be three. A change that while they had months to prepare for, would still be rather sudden for the both of them. For that, a wave of apprehension overwhelmed Toph. The idea of motherhood was distant, and she wasn’t sure she’d ever be prepared.

It was as if he knew what she was thinking, because he commented on the very same idea.

“Funny,” he began. “A year from today, our lives will be so different. And the year after that will be different, and so will the year after that.”

The comment seemed straightforward, but it left Toph curious. She had only told him last week that she was pregnant, and while he had been ecstatic then, there was that fear in the back of her mind that this wasn’t what he wanted. She swallowed thickly and noted, “You say that as if it’s a bad thing.”

“Not at all,” he reassured her quickly. “If anything, it’ll be amazing and perfect. I just mean, it’s crazy what can happen in a year.”

“I suppose,” she pondered.

Toph meant to say more, but she refrained. Perhaps it was the uncertainty of the change, or the weariness she still felt about becoming a mother, or a combination of both. Change could be good, but she feared it wouldn’t be all perfect like he dreamed it would be.

He seemed to be reading her thoughts once again. “Don’t worry,” he began, “I’m going to be with you every step of the way, and you’re going to be a great mother. The very best mama.”

She could hear the smile in his voice, and as quickly as her worries came, they disappeared. Her response, however, was filled with sarcasm and sass for their continued banter. “I feel so much better knowing you’ll be there to hover all day,” she jabbed. “And of course you’re not worried about being a dad. You’ll be a natural.”

“True,” he replied, mimicking Toph’s dramatic tone. “But that’s only because we’re gonna have a baby girl that’s gonna be just like you. And I know you like the back of my hand.”

Toph scoffed. “How do you know that??”

“A father’s intuition.”

“Well, my motherly instincts say it could be a boy. And if he’s anything like you, I know you like the earth beneath my feet.”

“Oh yeah?” he jokingly challenged. “What happens when I pick you up from the ground and you’re not on the earth, huh?”

His hands found her waist and did just that. He lifted her up and set her on the counter, her feet losing the sense of the world around her. Toph laughed at his antics, and he chuckled with her as her legs wrapped around his waist. “I’d hit you until you put me back down,” she threatened, thumping his chest with her knuckle.

Kanto breathed out a laugh. “I suppose I deserve that.”

She smiled at him while his thumbs smoothed out the wrinkles on her shirtfront. Her hands found his face and traced out the marvel and joy etched on it. Things were perfect, even with change looming over them. Oddly enough, it didn’t seem so bad with Kanto around for it, despite what she thought moments ago.

He looked up at her. “I know you’re still worried, but I’m really looking forward to what this year is gonna bring us.”

His heart beat with hers, and his hands were warm and gentle and reassuring, and fear was far from her mind. All she felt was joy and excitement with him.

So she didn’t hesitate to respond, “I’m looking forward to it, too.”

~~~

She dreaded this day. She wanted anything but this day to come.

But the days came and went with the wind, and a year had passed since she felt his heart beat in time with hers, a year since his warm hand was in hers, a year since she heard this deep, calming voice.

She hated today. It reminded her how much things could change in a year.

Toph bitterly chuckled at the thought. He wasn’t wrong when he spoke about change before they had Lin. Change came suddenly and unapologetic. And their lives were so different from a year ago. But they weren’t better. That was apparent.

The memorial itself was a lovely, intimate ceremony with her friends and some close work colleagues in attendance. He would’ve loved it, or, she hoped he would’ve. Out of all the endless conversations they had, death was not one of them.

All the flowers had to be shipped in; Republic City’s bitter winter started to roll in early, and no native flora could withstand the sudden overnight freezes. Still, it was important that the hill had a flowery aroma with the incense. His botany obsessed heart and mind would’ve rattled off all the different types and facts of each flower, and he would’ve spent half the time describing each petal in great detail to Toph.

She insisted that there be at least one panda lily to set by his memorial, and the lengths she went through to have one in bloom in time for today was no small feat. It hung low by her side in one hand, the other occupied with her—their—daughter. Poor Lin didn’t understand the reason behind today. The chilly wind bit at her cheeks, and she sought refuge in the crook of Toph’s neck while she waited for the adults to carry on with whatever kept them outside on this cold, windy afternoon.

Zuko gave the speech. It was lovely, really, but Toph didn’t remember a single word of it. And all the hands and pats to her shoulder and back felt distant; they weren’t his steady hands, and if they weren’t his hands, then she didn’t want their support.

At the end of the formal ceremony, those in attendance dropped a single, unique flower by the memorial portrait. Some took a moment to say something to his picture, others dropped the flower and left. It meant a great deal that so many came to honor him, but truthfully, Toph didn’t care about anyone in attendance. She didn’t care about the number of flowers that dropped to the ground for him. Because in the end, only one mattered, and it wasn’t even hers.

When everyone dropped their flower in honor of him, Toph set Lin down and held onto her hand. Katara handed her the very last flower designated to be placed for him, and Toph gently steered Lin toward the memorial. It took a few moments, but when Toph and Lin arrived at his picture, Toph placed her panda lily on the pile for him, and gave a white chrysanthemum to Lin. She wrapped Lin’s chubby fingers around the stem and gestured toward the flowers.

“Come here, Lin,” Toph prompted, rather shocked that her voice sounded so strong and calm just then. “Give your flower to Daddy.”

At the sound of his name, Lin toddled over to his memorial and the pile of flowers. Her little body crouched down to the level of the pile, and she set hers on top.

Toph pulled Lin into her arms and whispered to her, “Good job, Lin.” She placed a single kiss on Lin’s cheek, and listened as her daughter said, “Dada,” over and over.

She ignored the sting of the breeze as it hit her tear-stained cheeks. “Tell Baba you love him,” she told Lin.

Lin whispered to the wind those words, saying them only loud enough for Toph to hear.

Spirits, she hated all of this. Time moved so slowly each and every day, and yet, here they were, remembering his life because it has been a year since he was alive. She hated that a year had passed, she hated that she still wasn’t over it, she hated that all the things they used to forever memorialize him were things that she couldn’t enjoy to their full extent, and she dreaded the day Lin wouldn’t call for her Baba any longer. Because that day would be sooner than Toph cared to think about.

There were too many people around, now. Toph wanted a moment with her family, no matter how broken it was. But it didn’t feel right to snap at the others and scream at them to leave, so she waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Until finally, Toph Beifong got her wish. As the crowd disappeared and all who remained were her closest friends, Toph only told them once that she wished to be alone. When they left her alone with Lin and his memorial, and as her friends waited at the bottom of the hill, Toph wept openly for him. For the drastic swerve her life took, for the inevitable reality that she’d spend more time separated from him than they were together, and for the change that the future held for her, because she no longer looked forward to it.

[chizue-witchery]

Snow Angels

⚜️. *. ⋆ Fandom: Bungou Stray Dogs

⚜️. *. ⋆ Characters: Dazai Osamu, Child!Nakajima Atsushi

⚜️. *. ⋆ Summary: Atsushi wanted to go outside and play with the snow while Dazai wanted to spend time sleeping during the weekend

In the end, they had a good time together.

⚜️. *. ⋆ Word Count: 1,115 words

⚜️. *. ⋆ Warnings/Tags: Modern AU, No Abilities AU, Fluff, Family Fluff, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse

⚜️. *. ⋆ Prompts/Squares Filled: Snow Day || @anyfandomfluffbingo , Snow Angels || Bungo Week of Yule Day 2

Series Masterlist || AFFB Masterlist || BWY Masterlist

AO3

A/N: omg heeyyy, it’s my first time posting my writing on tumblr so I’m sorta new to it,,, I hope the formatting is okay!!

Dazai groans when he feels someone shaking him along with the repeated chanting of a word.

“—ad, Dad!” A voice says, louder than before while they continue to shake him.

“Go awaayyy—” he groaned, not bothering to close his eyes while he moved to the other side of the bed. “… ‘m still sleepy…”

He didn’t hear any response which made him smile and thought that he would be able to finally get some peace so he slowly drifted off to sleep until someone suddenly jumped on top of him. Dazai’s eyes immediately open, groaning in pain while he looks at who jumped on him.

It’s Atsushi, the kid he’s adopted from an orphanage that wasn’t treating him well. The kid who could barely ask for something that he wants is now a loud yet energetic child that has decided to annoy him at the start of the day.

“Why did Atsu-kun wake me up at…” he looks to his side to check the clock, “.. seven-thirty in the morning? It’s too earlyyyy….” Very early for him despite being an insomniac. He’s a light sleeper that loves to sleep a lot.

Atsushi smiles widely, moving closer to cup Dazai’s cheeks, forcing the tired brunet to look at the overexcited child. “It’s snowing!!” He exclaimed in a high-pitch, childlike voice, the innocent child’s eyes growing bigger while they were shining in happiness.

“And?” Dazai asked, still too tired to get off the bed. His coworker, Kunikida, made him work to death the previous day. It’s the weekend now and he was planning to use the two days for him to have a lazy day.

Atsushi frowns before it forms into a smile again, “I want to go outside, Daaaad!”

“Go out on your ooowwwwnn,” he whined, looking to the side so he wouldn’t see the blinding smile of the child. It’s almost the same as the sun.

“But Daaadddd,” Atsushi whines back, pouting when Dazai wasn’t looking at him anymore, “you wouldn’t let me go outside on my own!”

Right— he’s forgotten that the kid needs adult supervision.

And he’s the adoptive parent of said child.

“Can we go out later?” He asked him while looking at the child once again. Luckily, the smile isn’t as bright compared to earlier. “I want to sleep more.”

Atsushi pouts even more, “But you always wake up in the afternoon during the weekends.” That’s why Atsushi decided to wake him up earlier than usual. He wants to have fun with his dad on the weekends. “You’re always busy on the weekdays and you barely spend time with me on the weekends…” he whispered while looking down with a frown.

“Atsushi-kun…” his eyes softened while looking at the young child, remembering that the child barely had a good time when he was staying in the orphanage. Atsushi never told him about his time there, but being a detective has its perks.

“Alright…” he sighed, letting himself be defeated. Atsushi perks up and looks at Dazai with a large smile. He smiles back, “Atsushi-kun should change into warmer clothes first. We wouldn’t want him to get a cold, right?”

“Okay!!” He nodded vigorously and got off of Dazai’s chest, sliding until he fell off the bed and left the room to change clothes.

Dazai pinches the bridge of his nose while sitting up. No wonder he felt like he was freezing in the middle of the night; it started snowing in Yokohama. He moves until he gets off the bed, stretching his arms and legs before he takes a quick shower and changes into his winter clothes and extra bandages.

He leaves the bedroom to see Atsushi waiting for him with his winter clothes, bouncing excitedly once the kid sees him. “Atsushi-kun can go outside now,” he says while gesturing to the door.

And Atsushi immediately bolted outside the house, a loud squeal of excitement and a thud heard from the inside. Dazai shakes his head while having an amused smile on his face then goes outside to see Atsushi laying on the snow.

“What is Atsu-kun doing?” He asked while watching him move his arms and legs in a repetitive motion.

Atsushi doesn’t answer him until making another one of them. “Snow angels!” The kid says while showing the two snow angels he made.

Dazai hums while ruffling Atsushi’s hair to get rid of the snow on his hair while the child is pouting at him. “You should try it too, dad!”

“Uh…” he chuckles awkwardly while looking away from him, “I’d rather not.” It’s cold—

Atsushi looks disappointed for a moment but he looks down before he can see what expression he’s making. “Okay…” he muttered while walking away.

Dazai frowns, almost tempted to take back what he said but he stops himself once he remembers the cold and how much he despises it. Before he could react or realize what was happening, he felt a hard shove at his back, making him fall to the snow with an audible gasp of shock.

His face landed on the soft yet cold snow, his body shivering but he heard the loud giggles of someone familiar, immediately knowing who the culprit was. Dazai lifted his head, a huff escaping him while he turned to look at the laughing child.

He grins as an idea formed in his head and sat properly. He grabbed a handful of snow and started forming them into a ball while Atsushi was distracted, then threw one right at his face — which got the child falling to the snow.

“Hey—!” Atsushi exclaimed while sitting up with a pout to look at the grinning brunet. “What was that for?”

“I know that you were the one that shoved me to the snow — and don't try to look innocent. I heard your giggling.”

“I—…” he pauses, giggling to himself before it forms into full-blown laughing. “I’m sorry— I couldn’t help it when I heard your reaction,” he says between laughter, wiping away the tears forming in the corner of his eyes.

Dazai blankly stares at the laughing child, the corner of his mouth twitching before he eventually joins in the laughter with Atsushi, grabbing another handful of snow to form into a ball and throws it at him.

This time, Atsushi sees it and moves to the side to avoid the snowball being thrown at him. “Oh, you’re on!”

That’s when their snowball fight had started, making defense walls with the snow so they wouldn’t get hit by the other.

By the end of their snowball fight, Dazai and Atsushi went inside to warm themselves up, a blanket wrapping around while they sat down next to each other to watch movies.

[mylifeisactuallyamess]

General Hux x Female Reader/Kylo Ren x Female Reader

A/N: I literally kicked this out this morning, and I am posting it now before I change my mind. Bring in the Knights… I clearly woke up this morning and chose violence.

Warnings: alcohol, poison, blood, torture, Hux and Kylo finally work together, minor character death. Not a pretty chapter at all.

Word Count: 3530

Read Chapter 12 here on AO3.

Start from Chapter 1 here.

The ride in Kylo’s Command Shuttle was quiet, just the sound of the pilots communicating, a few troopers lounged in the seats behind you and you could feel their gazes upon the back of your neck. Your brain was fried, only a few hours ago you had woken up fully dressed and alone in Kylo’s bed. He hadn’t spoken much, letting you eat breakfast in comfortable silence while he scrolled through a datapad before announcing his business was concluded here and he was withdrawing the fleet from Canto. The unasked question of whether you were coming hung in the air and you chose to ignore it, getting up and dutifully following him to the ship. You were sad to see the beautiful place fall away, maybe once the war was over you could come back. Visions of returning with your arm linked with Hux’s made you smile a little but when they flickered out of existence and were replaced with your arm in Kylo's, your composure slipped.

The shuttle alighted smoothly in the main hangar, the refiltered air filling your lungs and you already missed the freshness of being planet side. It didn’t surprise you that Mitaka was ready and waiting to bring Kylo up to date on the latest, leaving you with a single trooper to escort you to Hux’s quarters.

The ever unchanging silence curled around you, filtering into the cracks of your damaged soul and expanding. Making an ache start in your chest, one you couldn’t suppress until your soft cries pierced the quiet. You had thought long and hard over Hux’s abrupt change in behaviour, bringing you to the conclusion that he was hating himself for opening up to you. For allowing so much of himself to be exposed in one go, so now he was clamming up and pushing you away. It didn’t hurt any less but you supposed it would be like this, one step forward and two steps back. You expelled a long breath thinking it was a dance you were committed to, no matter the outcome.

You had a quick shower, putting on a nightgown and robe now you were once again governed by the day cycle of the ship. You didn’t expect to see Hux tonight so you opened a bottle from the restocked cooler, pouring the clear liquid over a couple of rocks of ice before settling on the couch and picking up the datapad to read the manuscript you were invested in but you couldn’t focus. The words blurred into one on the screen and the alcohol made everything hazy. Your heart jolted when the door opened and you heaved yourself off the couch in surprise, clutching the arm to hold you up as the room spun slightly.

“Armitage,” you mumbled in surprise. “I didn’t…I wasn’t expecting to see you….today—night?” You frowned at your own nonsense. This wasn’t how you wanted him to see you, not now, not when he possibly needed you.

“In all honesty I wasn’t sure you’d be here.” He replied. He carefully put his hat on the table, slowly followed by his gloves and then his coat which he hung on the back of the chair. You watched him approach the cooler, his slender fingers wrapping around the bottle and looking at the label.

“Did you finish work? Are you staying?” Your tongue felt thick, your body was at a fever pitch and you stumbled when you tried to head in his direction.

“Armitage…” you lifted your hand trying to focus on it but your vision blurred. “I can’t…see.”

“What?” His response was whip sharp and you winced against the sudden pounding on your head. You cried out as your legs gave way, collapsing to the floor in a heap. Your vision swam, your breaths were laboured and a tingling sensation was racing over your body. In the dark corner of your mind you realise this wasn’t just too much to drink. You heard him call your name but you were sinking, not able to hold onto him, everything was melting before you. Disappearing into a cloud of black smoke and you couldn’t find your way out.

Hux watched Ren pace up and down the small area outside your private room. Actually it was a medical room set aside for the Supreme Leader, he’d had you directed there when he saw the urgent message for a medic to Hux’s quarters. Every footfall that sounded from the large man set Hux’s teeth on edge but he bit back a rebuke. The force user hadn’t lashed out yet and Hux wasn’t going to give him an excuse. Hux also wondered why he was here, the fleet was chasing down a lead on a new possible Resistance base so surely his attention would be better elsewhere than on Hux’s wife. Both men looked up as the door opened and a Dr came out, his face was grave and Hux felt the blood freeze in his veins.

“Supreme Leader, General. She has been poisoned.” Hux had already deduced that fact and he felt a flash of annoyance that this was being repeated back to him.

“What else?” He demanded abruptly.

“I’ve had to put her in a medically induced coma so her body can recover, it seems there is some damage to her internal organs and…” he swallowed nervously as the two most dangerous men stood glaring at him. “It seems this is one poison we haven’t encountered before.”

“Just put her in a bacta tank,” snipped Hux, not understanding why they were wasting time telling him this.

“They can’t,” rumbled Kylo. Hux frowned, hating the extra insight he had.

“Why not?” He could feel his temper slipping, his teeth clenching together as he glared at the doctor wanting him to answer and not Ren.

“The poison seems to have some bacta resistant qualities….” The floor rolled under Hux and he swayed slightly, if they couldn’t find an antidote the poison would keep eating away at you until your body gave up. “I seem to have slowed the effects, by keeping her body cold and slowing the blood flow but we need an antidote within the week, she won’t be able to stay in this state for long without accruing serious deficits.” Hux wanted to double over, he wanted to accept the pain that erupted from his centre and scream at the floor, but he didn’t. He wanted to barge past the doctor and hold you in his arms, he wanted to rip through his ship and shoot his own troops in the face if they so much as looked at him wrong. It wasn’t until Kylo removed his hand from Hux’s elbow that he realised the Supreme Leader had been holding him upright.

Hux’s feet finally became unstuck from the floor and he moved into the room, his heart in his mouth as he looked at you on the bed. The chill blankets glowed a soft blue colour, a tube was down your throat helping you breathe. Sensors were placed across your forehead and he felt the rage bubble up inside him, who would poison you? Why would someone do this? He also wanted to yell at you for drinking out of a bottle that clearly wasn’t First Order approved, which meant someone planted it and they were still in the ship.

“I’ve already got the Knights tearing through the ship.” Hux resisted rolling his eyes and chose to frown instead.

“Is that wise Ren?”

“Do you want them found?” He snarled, stepping up to the other side of your bed. Hux studied the feral look in his eye, the tenseness of his posture and the hatred that flared in his expression, until his gaze slid to you. His hand rose as though to touch you but thought better of it, curling his leather covered hand into a fist. His expression softened for a moment before looking back up at Hux. “I will let you know if we find anything.”

“Shouldn’t I be there?” Hux asked, not happy to be pushed out of such an investigation of his own personnel.

“Maybe you should stay here and be with your wife,” mumurmed Kylo.

“She’s in a coma. She doesn’t even know what day of the week it is, let alone if I’m here or not.” He couldn’t sit here staring at you, seeing how helpless and weak you were. He wouldn’t be able to sit and watch you waste away before him without doing something to try and stop this.

“Fine.” Hux moved to follow the Supreme Leader out of the room, his fingers flexing and a little ripple of anticipation ran down his spine. It had been a while since he got his hands dirty.

He couldn’t explain it, the way this trooper’s screams fed something twisted inside him. He leaned heavily against the wall of the interrogation room, sweet collected on his upper lip and he swept his damp hair off his brow in a fluid motion. Ren had shed his tunic, his corded muscles bulged, his pale skin flushed as he stretched an arm towards the man kneeling on the floor. Fresh screams erupted from the bound trooper and Hux momentarily closed his eyes as if basking in the sound.

A part of him recoiled at the unwavering way Ren ploughed through people's minds, he showed no mercy and Hux felt a stab of jealousy that Ren himself was clearly going to all this trouble for you. Hux had been told you had breakfast on a private balcony with the Supreme Leader, leaving in a hurry and then you were seen heading to his private room on Canto Bight. Hux wasn’t an idiot, but he had hoped you wouldn’t have stabbed him in the back so early on.

“Ren, stop.” Hux managed to say as the trooper’s heart rate spiked off the charts and the man fell with a clatter to the floor. “Anything?” Hux winced, his voice sounded loud against his tender ears. Kylo rolled his shoulders, sweeping his dripping hair away from his face before shaking his head once. It had been two days, two full days and night of torture, screams and questions all coming up with nothing. Hux gripped the datapad in his hands, his arms trembling as he fought the urge to throw it against the wall, screaming his hatred and frustration out. He’s always looked down his nose at Ren’s temper tantrums but now it was all he wanted to do, to break something or someone, to exercise his absolute fury out until he felt exhausted. He hadn’t slept for two days, he was already at his stimulant limit but he still considered another shot.

“You should rest.”

“No, I'm fine.”

“It wasn’t a request, General. You’re no good to her dead.” Hux contemplated ignoring the order altogether but he knew he needed a rest. He felt stretched, his breaking point was within reach and what good would he be if he was in a bed in the medbay as well? He wordlessly handed over the datapad as medics came to retrieve the trooper.

“You’ll keep going?” He asked brusquely.

“I will see you in 10 hours,” stated Kylo but Hux paused, his coat resting on his forearm.

“Five,” he countered.

“Eight,” Ren shot back.

“Six.”

“Done.” Hux nodded before leaving the room. He had six hours to pass out and then he was going to find out who did this to you.

Kylo waited until Hux had gone before slipping from the room and heading to his own quarters. Ap’lek stood outside the door in full armour, his executioner’s ax grasped in his hand as he stood guard. They didn’t exchange words, they didn’t need to. The door opened and he came face to face with Vicrul, his scythe blade resting on his shoulder ready to swing at a moment's notice. He stepped to the side to let Kylo in, revealing the scene in his quarters. There was a dark haired man kneeling on the floor surrounded by the rest of the Knights, Cardo had his arm cannon pressed into the back of his neck, Ushar had the kinetic charged end of his club in position ready to stun the man if necessary and Trudgen sat before the prisoner running a whetstone along the blade of his vibrocleaver. The sound rang out loud and clear in the silent quarters as he swept the stone with long strikes against the massive blade. Kuruk appeared from the bedroom, performing his checks and making sure the quarters were secure.

Kylo made his way to crouch before the shaking man, slowly running his eyes over the First Order uniform and seeing it was ill fitting.

Has he said anything? Kylo looked up at Trudgeon, the only Knight without his mask on.

No. Came the swift reply followed by another singing note from the blade.

“You won’t get anything out of me.” Kylo turned his attention back to the prisoner.

“We just did,” he stated softly. The prisoner looked up and Kylo could see the man had already surrendered to the idea that he was going to die here.

“The Resistance is not dead. Our spark shines bright in the Galaxy.” Kylo looked at him, just staring as he tried to decide how he was going to play this.

“Vicrul.” The Knight stepped forward and Trudgeon moved out of the way, tossing his chair away with a loud noise. Kylo rose and Vicrul took his place before the prisoner, removing his pastillion ore helmet and placing it carefully on the floor before locking gazes with the prisoner.

Sweat began to bead on the man’s brow, his face quivering the longer Vicrul looked into his eyes. Kylo could feel it, the ripples in the force that his Knight created, the darkness manifested and clung the Resistance fighter, gathering around his head. The other Knights all watched, their own vibrations reacting to their brothers and only the prisoners laboured breathing sounded in the room. It didn’t take long before a scream ripped the air and he began to thrash in the Knights grip, lost in nightmarish visions that only he could see. Kylo let Vicrul have his fun, showing the prisoner visions that would make a Wookiee cower, his screams increasing in pitch. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and he began to convulse in the firm grips of Cardo and Ushar.

“Enough,” said Kylo softly. Vicrul broke eye contact and picked up his helmet, the darkness retreated and the prisoner blinked rapidly as though the light was too much for him, his entire body heaved and he looked wildly around.

“What are you going to do to me?” He cried, his voice full of panic.

“It depends what you tell us,” Kylo gestured to the armoured men around him. “My Knights are bored so I suggest you cooperate.”

“Wait wait! Can’t you just search my mind? Take the information for yourself?” Kylo turned away as the Knights shuffled forward, closing ranks around the prisoner.

“Where is the fun in that Major Wexley?” The man was screaming before Kylo had even made it past his door, Kuruk followed and silently traded places with an eager Ap’lek. “Let me know if he says anything. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.” Kuruk nodded and silently watched his master walk away. They knew where he was going.

Kylo sat at your bedside, his large hand covered yours and echoes of what was happening in his quarters shattered the quiet of his mind. He could feel the force pulsing with the darkside, spreading its touch through the ship. It manifested in different ways, someone pulling a risky move in the training ground and hitting their opponent harder than necessary, an officer shouting at his staff for a simple misdemeanour that should have been dismissed. A fight breaking out in the cantina between two troopers who didn’t like each other, a moment of blind frustration from a medic who threw what he was holding, letting it shatter against the wall.

The Knights had found Wexley trying to slip into a TIE and escape, Kylo hadn’t told Hux. The General was on a cliff edge as it was, Kylo didn’t need him on a murdering spree before all information was dragged from the Resistance pilot, so Kylo let his Knights have a reward. Their energy was chaotic when unused, it needed a release every now and again.

He moved his hand along your cold arm, hating how lifeless you looked, you were still alive. He could feel your light but the warmth was weak and fading. Kylo hoped this pilot had some answers because he didn’t know what he’d do if they didn’t find the antidote in time. He cast a quick eye over the machines noting how your numbers remained steady even though you ebbed ever so slowly away.

He still won’t talk. Kylo sighed, feeling the disappointment in Vicrul’s thoughts.

I’m on my way. He stood, bending over you and peering at your still face for a moment before sweeping abruptly from the room.

The first thing he could feel was the pilot's pain, it radiated out in all directions and Kylo clenched his fists against it. The next thing he noticed was the smell, blood, sharp and tangy against his nose. The floor was slick with the red stains, blood spatter littered the walls in spectacular patterns and Kylo came to a stop looking down at the pitiful man as he bled out onto the floor, his skin was pale, drained of colour because it now painted Kylo’s quarters. He crouched down beside Wexley who was laying on his side, the First Order uniform ripped and tattered, ruined beyond repair much like Wexley himself.

“Are you going to talk?” Asked Kylo softly.

“No.” He admired the man's tenacity, but his time was up. The screams that spewed from him had a hoarse quality, like his throat was too tired, his lungs had no air but Kylo didn’t care as he raced through the man's memories. He had planted the bottle, but it wasn’t meant for you, it was meant for General Hux. The antidote was a plant out in the Teth system. One of the few wild systems left in the Galaxy and travelling there and back again in the time frame left would be a risk, but it was one Kylo was ready to take. He withdrew from the dying Major, his memories growing dark as his body gave up.

“Ready the Night Buzzard,” he demanded. Kylo stood, hearing the last breath from Wexley before moving, his Knights following obediently behind as he began to make his way to the hangar.

Hux woke to the sound of his alarm, swiping it off the screen of the datapad feeling unusually refreshed. He had slept in his uniform so he could get up and find Ren straight away. He walked through the corridors of the Finalizer pleased to see his staff avoiding his gaze as he marched along, this investigation was reminding everyone who was actually in charge here and bringing out Hux’s ruthless side for everyone to see served as another reminder that he wasn’t to be messed with.

He stepped into the interrogation room, taking in the emptiness before turning smartly and heading to the bridge. His lips bruised together in irritation, if Ren had found something and left Hux out he was going to explode. As soon as he entered the bridge Mitaka was at his side.

“Sir, the Supreme Leader gave strict instructions not to wake you.”

“What’s happened?” Snapped Hux.

“The Supreme Leader and the Knights have left for the Teth system.” Mitaka told him.

“Left? What do you mean left?”

“They have gone to retrieve the plant needed for the antidote for….for…..” For you. Hux didn’t have time to pander to his Lieutenant and his sad emotions right now. He tutted, since when did you become such a beloved member to certain people who weren’t him? “He also said to tell you there is a mess in his quarters, but he wanted you to see it before it was cleared up.” Hux left without a word, what an earth could Ren want him to see?

Whatever Hux had imagined on the way to the Supreme Leaders quarters did not prepare him for the sight that met his eyes. Did he really need to see this? Hux was no stranger to torture and death, blood didn’t bother him, violence was his way of life but seeing this gruesome scene did indeed turn his stomach slightly. He also recognised the Knights' handy work.

“Do we know who this is?” He asked a Major who looked rather grey coloured.

“Apparently this is…was Temmin Wexley, Resistance pilot and the person who planted the bottle in your quarters, sir.”

“Clear up this disgusting mess. It has lingered on my ship long enough.” He snapped, displeasure and disgust making his expression contort. He left, stepping the familiar path to the medbay realising now all he had to do was wait. And he hated waiting.

[grumpyhedgehogs]

this tired old elegy

Summary: CC-5052 and a company of other clones bound for decommissioning are instead auctioned off to slavers on Tatooine. Or they would be, if someone mysterious didn't intervene. The resulting chaos stirs up memories Bly craves; CC-5052 thinks they might be best forgotten. Or: In which Bly is This Close to breaking out of the chip's control by himself and Obi-Wan shows up to give him that extra push. AO3.

Notes:  A scene that's been kicking around in my head for a while, of two ships passing in the night. Hinted Codywan and Blyla.

Warnings: Mild violence, seizures, slavery, mind control, grief. 

The clones of Kamino are dying out.

They’ve known this for a long time now. The Empire used them, wiped out the last of the Old Republic with them, and shunted them off, thrown out with yesterday’s trash when they weren’t useful anymore. CC-5052 has heard the horror stories, the ones the admirals always shut down if they heard them spreading among the ranks. Clones decommissioned before their time. Clones going missing, or going against orders in the field. Clones found with a single blaster shot to the head and no explanation for their deaths given. Clones pushed from active duty, given menial jobs or guard posts. CC-5052 heard CC-2224 has a teaching position now.

Disgrace is a clone’s lot, and it tastes sour in the mouth.

This though? CC-5052’s stomach turns over when the doors to the spaceport he and three of his brothers three other clones have been held in for days on end finally open. The air that buffets him is arid, dry and hot against his skin. Sand flings itself, clawing, searching, into his eyes, and CC-5052 coughs against the assault. It does little to help. He never thought for a second that he’d come to this end. It’s poetic in a way his Jedi the Traitor he served under would have found poignant once upon a time. Enslavement is how the clones of Kamino came into this world, so enslavement should be the way they go out, shouldn’t it?

Tatooine is a wretched planet, CC-5052 decides as he and his vode his family the rest of his company are led onto the calling block. The Empire has no use for him, and so it sends him to a useless place.

“One hundred credits,” the auctioneer offers, gesturing at one of the three other clones to CC-5052’s left. A hand raises in the air before them, and the auctioneer dispassionately raises the price by another hundred credits. And so it begins. Is this all there is for him?

I’m going to die on this dust-ball.

The crowd around them is sparse; the midday suns beat down on them all, slave and free sentient alike, and no one is immune to their rays. Most attendants are covered from head to toe in brown, black or white fabrics, wrapped up like mummified remains. Sunlight reflects off of any and all surfaces. A mother carrying a child’s metal cradle passes by on the edge of the crowded marketplace, and the shine off of the basket pierces directly into CC-5052’s brain. He hisses, air whistling between his teeth, eyes clenching. The pain rockets through his skull--it seems to be doing that a lot lately, random headaches plaguing his sleep. Migraines are not uncommon in the vode the clones, but he doesn’t want to examine what they mean. They’re far too often accompanied by a wave of grief that threatens to swallow CC-5052 whole.

His attention has wandered too far; the price has gone up five times since he last checked, and the auctioneer is getting excited now. They bounce on their toes, rattling off higher and higher numbers with a growing grin. As if this is just a good day at the market for them. As if it simply does not matter. As if they don’t matter.

What he thinks now is treason, of course. They are Empire property, were Republic property before that. If the Emperor saw fit to sell him off, who is CC-5052 to argue?

I hate him.

The thought nearly rattles every bone in CC-5052’s body with its intensity--but there is no time for him to examine its implications, because three things happen in very rapid succession.

First, an explosion goes off somewhere nearby and behind CC-5052; debris and sand sail through the air, pelting down on the crowd before the slave auction. The ground rolls beneath their feet, and CC-5052 has to stumble to keep his balance. The auctioneer does not have his luck, and trips right off of the platform, facedown in the dust. It startles a laugh out of CC-5052--Bly--but then he inhales more ash and coughs instead.

Second, the chains around his wrists loosen unexpectedly before falling away completely. His arms aren’t quite as burly as they used to be, from inactivity before the auction and from years of being shoved to the sidelines before that, so Bly’s CC-5052’s wrists slip easily between his manacles. Above the roar of growing fires and screaming citizens, he can just make out three identical thumps as the clones beside him rub raw skin that mirrors his own.

Third, through the confusion and panic setting into the crowd, the fleeing forms and those who have fallen prone and lain still, through the smoke and fire and noise, CC--Bly looks up and sees a hooded person beckoning to him. He can’t see their eyes, can’t see anything but brown fabric and smoke and a hand lifted in greeting, which turns its palm away after a second and crooks its fingers. There’s a tickle at the back of his mind, and, his migraine raging so badly that his vision wavers as he jumps down, Bly follows. His brothers are right behind him.

The stranger ducks and weaves through the enraged crowds, avoiding fire and danger deftly. There’s something almost comforting about slipping into their shadow, something familiar and warm that Bly almost doesn’t recognize. For a moment, Bly thinks wildly that the stranger probably has blue skin, but the thought evades him when he tries to examine it more closely.

They are outside of the city limits within fifteen minutes. The figure stops and waits for the clones to approach, never turning to look at them. Bly CC-5052 (Bly?) stops a few feet away, outside of arm’s reach. Just in case. Their head turns, but the hood obscures anything defining.

“Who are you?”

They shake their head. Fair enough.

Why did you save us?”

His brothers--clones--brothers shift on their feet behind him, anxious for the answer. The figure shakes their head again.

“Will you answer any of my questions?” Their shoulders hitch minutely and he gets the distinct feeling he’s being laughed at. For once, it doesn’t seem malicious. It’s refreshing, even if it does intensify the stinging behind Bly’s eyes. “Fine. What do we do now?”

At this, the figure finally reacts. They turn and point into the distance; Bly raises his eyes to the horizon, where a tiny homestead sits beyond the wavy hot air. Then the figure jerks their fingers towards the spaceport that lies in ruin behind them, then points to the sky, and clenches their fist, bringing it to rest in their flat palm. Then they flatten their fist and mime a ship's take-off.

“Lay low out in the Wastes and come back to steal a ship later.” Bly translates. The stranger nods.

Good enough for Bly.

~

The stranger lets them into what can be generously described as a hovel. There are four rooms in total, and the larder underground is nearly empty. It’s completely bare when he and his brothers are finished with it. There are no beds, only a slab of rock in the corner of one room with a threadbare blanket on it. It makes CC-5052’s heart twist in his chest. It makes Bly’s migraine even worse, so bad he has to sit down or trip over his own feet. Grief overwhelms him. He comes to with the stranger’s hand on his shoulder, and a clone--his name was Gardener, he was a Coruscant Guard, he was just a shiny when they blew it all to pieces--counting his breaths for him.

One thing at a time.

“You got anything to hunt with out here?” Bly asks when his lungs don’t feel like they’re the size of straws. The stranger hands him what amounts to a wooden spear.

~

Killing womprats takes all day and into the evening. Bly and his brothers--Gardener and Ink and Database, he knew them once--prowl back through the early twilight and drop them at the stranger’s doorstep. He tries not to feel like a cat bringing home a trophy.

~

“Body heat would keep you warmer than those rags,” Bly says as they settle in for the night. The stranger, who has not dropped one ounce of cloth from their figure the entire time, shakes their head and turns away. They leave the blanket for Ink to use.

The wind howls around them the entire night.

~

Taking the ship is easy; it’s small, privately owned. The slaver driving it won’t be missed. Bly wonders where the auctioneer got off to and how long it might take to find him.

CC-5052 wonders if he shouldn’t report back to the Empire for decommissioning. Bly rejects it. The migraine gets worse, howling in his mind like the wind does out in the Wastes.

The stranger freezes beside him where they’ve been keeping an eye out for any more crew the clones need to take down. A soft palm clasps Bly’s shoulder and the pain recedes.

He tries not to shake them off too harshly, but the last time someone did that, touched him like that--

She’s not here anymore.

Bly resolves not to go back. There’s nothing left in the Empire for him anyway.

They killed everything I ever loved.

He gets sick from the pain in his head. He wonders how long he’ll last on the outside. Something tells him, not long.

~

“We’re taking off soon.”

The stranger nods. Their shoulders are a stiff, hard line against the backdrop of the Tatooine horizon. Bly finds himself at a loss for words, and filled with a sudden desperation to speak.

He finds his voice, choking, hoarse. As the wind howls across the dunes, he has to raise his volume to be heard. “You could come with us.”

It has the opposite effect than he wants; they jerk back, settling into a more defensive posture. Bly raises his hands in submission, but can’t help taking a step forward. “We’re not going back to the Empire, if you’re worried. We--things happened to us there. Because of the Empire--we’re not who we used to be. But we’re free now, and we wouldn’t hurt--”

Sandstorms and windstorms happen quickly on this planet, and a huge gust nearly takes them both off their feet. Sand flies into his face for the second time in as many days, and, coughing, Bly reaches out and blindly finds his savior’s hand. He tugs relentlessly, fumbling his way through the sudden gusts and dust to the overhang where they’ve stashed the ship. He’s thankful his brothers are already on the ship; no one else needs to be caught up in this mess.

“Are you alright?” His gloves are covered in grime and it takes three or four swipes at his eyes before Bly gets his sight clear. He reaches out, catching hold of the stranger's arm as they cough and bend to spit out dirt a few feet away, face hidden by the low light here. Their headscarf has fallen from the wind, their hood flipped down for the first time. His hand brushes their shoulder, fingertips catching against the only exposed skin they have at the base of their throat, and the stranger flinches back instinctively--and then they turn to look at him.

Obi-Wan Kenobi looks older now. His voice is softer. “Commander Bly?”

“Jedi.” The death sentence falls from Bly’s lips without his knowledge and his vision wavers again. The next time the black spots clear away, Bly’s hands are wrapped around Kenobi’s throat and squeezing. The Jedi’s eyes bulge grotesquely, but then Bly’s hands loosen without his consent, flying down to pin themselves by his sides. He topples over and only Kenobi’s quick reflexes stop him from burning his face against the sun warmed sand beneath their feet. The force holding his hands down relents, as if surprised, and Bly scrambles back, his head pounding. CC-5052, who had been receding for days, weeks, maybe even years, surges against him and Bly retches as he lunges again.

Kenobi was always known for his keen battle sense, though, so Bly is hardly surprised when he’s sidestepped. He throws his weight towards the Traitor (Jedi-General-friend) again only to have his outstretched arm caught and folded around his own back. Kenobi lets CC-5052’s weight fall against his own chest, allowing them both to fold gently to the ground. Another arm wraps firmly across CC-5052’s chest, pinning his other arm to his side. Spittle and froth foam at his lips, choking him, but Kenobi does not let go.

It feels as if a rusted spike has been driven through CC-5052’s skull. Adrenaline is making him shake, as if he’ll fall apart.

“No, my friend,” Kenobi says, almost too quiet over the animal sounds caught in CC-5052’s throat. “You’re having a seizure. You’re ill. Whatever has been done to you--it’s breaking down.”

Bly jerks and spits and gasps his way out from under CC-5052’s influence in fits and starts.

“I--I didn’t--I didn’t mean to attack--”

“I can sense that, Commander.” When Bly fails to strain against his hold any longer, Kenobi’s fingers raise to tentatively touch his temple. “You’ve got pain, here, all the time. It intensified when you attacked, and your presence slipped away. Faded, like a radio signal from far off. Like--like Cody’s did.”

Bly doesn’t have to ask what Kenobi means.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and then something snaps and he can’t seem to stop. Years of torment, too built up to be pushed back. “I’m--I’m so sorry. I--I never wanted--we never meant to--I’m sorry.”

“You need not apologize, Bly.” Kenobi’s touch is soothing, as much as it prompts his migraine to rekindle.  “You need not be sorry. It was not you.”

Her face drifts before his eyes, overlapping Kenobi’s when he meets the man’s eyes. She loved Bly, he knows she did. Bly loved her too. Suddenly, it’s all-important to tell Kenobi of this, for someone to know, for a Jedi to know.

“I loved her.”

“She knew.”

It feels like absolution.

“We loved you all.” Bly says, the final, most agonizing confession. “We loved the Jedi.”

“We loved the Vode.” Kenobi assures gently. Then his fingers find Bly’s temple again and the world goes a pleasant, fuzzy white. “We loved you all too.”

It feels like a gift.

~

Bly wakes up with three of his brothers, a stolen ship, and only the memory of a stranger with a fading smile to account for his time on Tatooine.

[elriel-oblivion]

So I started this in the last week of 2020, and I'm ready to post it 😊 I've still got a couple other wips I'd started before this one but I haven't been bothered to finish those lol so I'm putting this one out first. Anyway, this'll be 6 parts long; I'll prob put up the next part in three or four days.

I'll put word counts so you can gauge how long each part is and if you wanna read it 😅 Also lemme know if you'd like to be tagged

Word count: 2.2K

AO3

Ashes from the Deep

Part I

__

The shadows were colder than usual tonight. On better days, their chill wrapped Azriel's bones in an icy embrace, a comforting freeze numbing any semblance of feeling in his wasted heart.

But this miserable night, they were searing cold, the kind of cold piercing the highest of mountain peaks; the kind of cold that penetrated the brain itself. He shivered as he travelled through those shadows, dark mists and wisps coiling like vines about his head.

Maybe he was deliberately searching for the coldest areas. Maybe he wanted a complete absence of feeling: physical, emotional, spiritual. It would certainly be easier to feel nothing than trying to quell the frigid rage inside. How could an avalanche be stopped once it started?

Further and further he moved through his shadows, dawn chasing him from a few hours away. Mountains and villages surged past through those charcoal mists, making way to depthless forests and ravines. He clenched his jaw tight against the cold, memory guiding him home.

But the fresh blood he'd seen earlier, and the mutilated remains of that little girl, one wing torn off and lying bent at the edge of the dirt path ... Her unseeing eyes were glazed, that shine as bright and true on his mind as the glint of moonlight on the blade of Death. And her scream. Cauldron, it curdled his own blood.

He'd been but a minute late. A matter of seconds were all that stood between him and the sadistic bastard who'd brutalised that child. Barely a heartbeat in his lifetime.

He blinked once to rid himself of her stare. Twice.

The image remained, muddying with his path home. His hands clenched and unclenched, nails biting into his skin, but the girl's hazel eyes and her ashen skin and the fingers outstretched for that severed wing remained an imprint on his vision.

Why was this affecting him so much? It wasn't the first time he'd seen horrors like this. But if Azriel wanted to be honest with himself, some days were harder than others simply because they were. Some days, the despair rattled his core and tossed him far out - because he was a person and emotions, feelings, these things were too abstract to be boxed in.

Everything had a limit. Had Azriel ever truly reached his?

Sometimes Azriel himself didn't understand how he kept it all in. How he didn't react or display any sign of having seen or heard the things he did. Sometimes he was repulsed by himself because of it. At least Cassian and his rare vomiting showed some of the humanity inside.

Azriel gave away nothing. Was there even humanity in himself? Everyone but his family looked at him like he was an unhinged monster imprisoned by his Illyrian skin. Like he was moments from escape and they would be his first victims.

Or - not just his family. Her. Elain. Did he consider he family? Perhaps it was too early, or even too inappropriate to do so.

Either way, how could he stain the sudden image of her with himself, with the horrors he'd just seen, had always had the displeasure of seeing? She was lovely and warm and beautiful and he was dark and cold and hideous.

Elain. Something inexplicable stirred in him at the thought of her.

He tried to calm it, this heat, this single star in his midnight sky. But it remained. And it grew.

And he was disgusted. Ashamed. He was not worthy of her.

And it ached. Another unrequited love.

That word snapped something in him. Mocked him.

Love.

A choking sound ripped from his throat and he welcomed it, let it mount into a scream, let it tear through his body and soul. Like that monster was finally breaking free. It was invigorating yet scorching. It burned him from the inside out but the cold of those shadows permeated his mind so heavily, he forgot the essence of corporeality and only his soul seemed to drift.

His ragged breathing sounded, throat parched. Where was he? Through the shadows, all around him, there seemed only darkness. Was he flying? No, the shadows sang their usual baritone thrum as opposed to the high harmony of the wind.

Above, no stars glistened. His eyes strained but nothing peeked through. It wasn't often that his shadows became this thick; usually thin and wispy, they now shrouded his being, coalescing over, in him. He became the cold, a shadow, darkness itself, floating through the ether, higher and higher like ashes on the wind.

But even ashes settled down at some point.

Unless his soul truly were ascending, unless this truly were death. It almost seemed too easy. All the battles, those two great wars, the poison that shot through his veins and stole his breath as per Hybern's whim. Poison that sometimes woke him up in cold sweats, a phantom memory of its iciness picking through his body as though he were being cut up by the sharpest blade ...

Sometimes it even felt like his own blade.

No, this couldn't be death. A mere scream, the image of lives lost, a bloody fight - he hated to admit that these were commonplace among his memories, his life. But in doing so, he knew death was too easy an aftermath for what had happened tonight.

Death, an ascent. But he was sure when his time came, his stained soul would descend like the demon he was.

So he grounded, drifting down weightlessly until the solidity of rock steadied him. He would not go to that darkest of places yet. But he was still exhausted. So damn tired of everything. He feared that if he dropped into a slumber right now, he'd not get up for a lifetime. As it was, his legs almost gave out, but he forced some remaining strength back into them. All he had to do was get home now.

He stepped out of his shadows; Devlon's camp was quiet around him. A fire to his far right sputtered in the harsh winds and Azriel swept himself back into his shadows.

This time he travelled faster, composing himself, locking his muscles and bones up, clenching his jaw. He let that familiar cool comfort drain his rage, cleaning it through his veins before it settled in the frozen lake of his heart where the rest of his darkness lay, inescapable through the impenetrable foot of icy wrath and sorrow. He savoured his shadows, a confidant in their own right, thanked them for their understanding and the escape he found within them.

But they were growing warmer now. Azriel squinted through them as they shifted him across land and water - the scape of Velaris and its brilliant lights greeted him. Closer to home now, he could breathe with a looser chest but this was still unusual; his shadows shouldn't be warmer, they should be cool and refreshing, like the autumn night breeze beyond.

His wings rustled, body reacting to his shadows' autonomy before his thawing mind caught up. 'Where are you taking me?' he murmured.

Mist swirled about him and the shadows deposited him at the far edge of the dimly lit back garden at his High Lord and Lady's riverfront estate. Why would they bring him here? Rhysand and Feyre were at the mountain cabin, Cassian and Nesta were together in Illyria and Mor was at the Winter Court. As far as he knew, Amren was at her own apartment so the only person left was -

'Azriel!' came Elain's voice. It was distant in a way it shouldn't be.

Azriel leaned against a tree, pretending to fiddle with the Siphon atop his left hand. Breathing was difficult but he swallowed and exhaled in a shudder.

He needed to fully compose himself before anyone saw him like this. If only his damn shadows hadn't taken control for those last few moments, he'd be in his own home and lying in that swirling darkness in peace. Though, he supposed, it was his own fatigue that had yielded that control.

'Azriel!' Elain cried, stopping in front of him. Her face was caught between a frown and a wince and her arm was raised slightly. 'You don't look okay.'

As always, he was momentarily stunned by how unafraid this small female was of him. Here he was in his full armour, every bit the monstrous warrior that sent his people scurrying into their homes and locking their doors, and yet Elain stood strong before him. Like she saw not a killing machine but a person.

She never even commented on how his shadows made to disappear around her. Perhaps she hadn't noticed.

He swallowed before he let out what he thought was a light laugh. 'I'm fine, don't worry.' But he could hear the hoarseness of his voice, now facing the consequences of that scathing scream. And his limbs felt even heavier than before, like someone had injected liquid lead into them.

'You don't have to pretend with me, Azriel,' she whispered, lowering both her gaze and arm.

He paused, trying to catch her gaze. The constant light in her eyes whenever she looked at him was a balm to his soul. He could use some of that right now.

He reached out an arm, so impossibly leaden right now - if he could just get to sit down -

'Can I wash your hair, please?'

He started. 'You want to wash my hair?'

Elain's eyes flicked back up to skirt over his, up to his hair, where they stayed pinned. 'I'm positive that's mud and you shouldn't sleep with that in your hair. It'll only take a few minutes.'

Shit. He hadn't even thought of his appearance after that bloody fight earlier. How that had slipped his mind? He ran a hand through his hair, and surely enough, crumbs of dirt rained down.

Although, he really hadn't expected to turn up here of all places. In the privacy of his own home, he wouldn't have cared if he were missing a whole damn limb, if only it meant he could sleep like the dead.

Not to mention that sleeping with a little mud was the least an Illyrian warrior's problems. But Elain's care was something of a punch to his gut. When was the last time someone had truly tended to him for reasons that weren't battle or holiday related?

'You've managed to get some on your face, too,' she said, brow furrowed as she stared at his cheek.

Her eyes were so deep and focused, he wished they would just meet his once. But of course, that level of scrutiny he'd come to learn from Elain meant shyness. Just shyness. She was so endearing, he could've laughed with such fondness if he weren't so damn tired. He wished this whole damn night would be over already.

His leg faltered slightly and he stumbled forward.

'I'm washing your hair. It'll help relax you into falling asleep.'

He raised his brows at her, but she simply took his arm and began leading him towards the house. She looked so small before him but didn't slow despite dragging his bulk behind her.

Halfway across the garden, he pulled her to him with his free arm, his shadows saving the both of them the energy of walking through that mansion of a home.

'My bathroom,' she murmured. Elain didn't balk through the five seconds of that darkness, didn't even look surprised. She showed no sign of hearing the spike in his pulse either. Thank the Mother.

He set them in her bathroom, and she didn't look at him once as she flitted around the chamber, pulling a chair from her bedroom to the sink and grabbing a towel, soap and a jug from the cupboard. Standing there, his breathing began to smooth out.

The window was open, a chill breeze sweeping in. The faelights were dim and their placid light sent a dusky illumination over Elain's features. Some bottles of oils and herbs sat on the edge of the bathtub. Azriel had heard of people using oils for bathing, but herbs? Perhaps they were like flower petals, used for their scent.

Towel in hand, Elain waited at the sink, placing the soap and jug down. 'I think you'll have to collapse your armour for this.'

Azriel nodded, tapping his Siphon. Within seconds, that second skin of cold scales and gleaming wrath was safely stored away. Just his plain black trousers and tunic were left.

Elain's eyes caught every moment of the transformation. 'It's beautiful, all of it.'

He didn't even know if she was speaking of his armour or the basic clothes underneath or what, but his face warmed slightly, wings rustling.

'Please sit,' she said, gesturing to the chair. As he did, she wrapped the towel around his shoulders, fingers hovering above his forehead for a few seconds.

Those seconds felt perennial. He almost shuddered as her fingers made contact with his skin. Her hands were so gentle as they pushed his head back, and he shifted in the seat. He lowered his wings, and she stepped into the space he provided. She was still as he got comfortable, only turning the tap once he was settled. There was a slight crease between her brows, and he clenched his fists to keep from smoothing it out.

Sounding so much like his own mother that his throat tightened, she whispered, 'You can close your eyes.'

So he did.

__

Feedback is welcomed, thanks for reading 😊

[onetwothreefarkle]

Puppy Dog Tails

Just some tooth-rotting seblos fluff! Future fic based off this post. I hope you like it, @redmeanslove 

Summary: Seb comes home with a surprise (also read on AO3)

Carlos stood in his kitchen, stirring a mug of hot tea with honey and lemon. Outside, snow was falling, rapidly turning New York City into a winter wonderland, though it was mid-January, so most people were sick of it, especially in the city. Not Carlos, though. Winter was his favorite season (dry skin and chapped lips notwithstanding). The snow reminded him of Salt Lake, and kept him from getting too homesick. Not that he didn’t love his life in New York, but Salt Lake would always be home, no matter how long he spent chasing his Broadway dreams.

He was close to achieving them, too. His choreography had already been nominated for a Tony once, and while this year he was between shows, he had a good feeling about the projects he had in the works, most notably an original show currently in workshops, which meant most of his work was yet to come. In the meantime, he was focused on supporting his boyfriend—soon to be fiancé, if he had anything to say about it—who was currently the star of a genderbent production of Legally Blonde. Carlos couldn’t have been prouder, even if it meant days like these, spent alone in their apartment. Seb had left an hour ago and Carlos had already skimmed through his notes and sent an email to his director about a new routine.

He sipped his tea slowly and sighed. He knew he had things to do, dance routines to practice and more emails to send, and honestly laundry to wash, but he couldn’t bring himself to do any of it. Instead he moved from the kitchenette to the living room, and settled on the couch with his favorite blanket--the one Seb’s mom had gifted them when they first moved into this apartment. It was wool (sheep’s wool from the farm, not cashmere, obviously) and it was thick and warm and it reminded Carlos of home because somewhere along the way he started thinking of the Matthew-Smith’s farm and home as a little bit his. Also, it smelled like Seb always did when they were back in Salt Lake and he was spending time on the farm, sort of earthy and sweet.

Carlos was pulled from his thoughts by the high pitched tone of his text alerts. He set his tea down on the coffee table and pulled out his phone.

New Message From Seb 🥰💖: Guess who’s coming home early?

Message Sent: What? Why?

New Message From Seb 🥰💖: Check your weather app, sweetheart. The storm’s getting worse, our shows are cancelled today so nobody ends up snowed in at the theatre.

Message Sent : OMG

Message Sent: Get home safe!  

New Message From Seb 🥰💖: I will

New Message From Seb 🥰💖: Love you!

Message Sent: Love you too!

He set his phone down, and picked up his tea again, though he could barely wipe the smile off his face long enough to take a drink. He knew that Seb would be unhappy about missing a day of work, but he couldn’t help but be excited to spend some extra time with his partner, especially if they had to huddle for warmth. With that thought in mind, he flicked on the TV and began scrolling through their Netflix library, looking for something for them to watch.

45 minutes later, Carlos’s unfinished tea had gone cold on the table, and he had queued up Schitt’s Creek, a show they’d already watched multiple times, and that happened to be one of Seb’s all time favorites. He checked his phone, but there were no new texts from Seb. He frowned. Seb should’ve been home by then.

Message Sent: You almost home?

New Message From Seb 🥰💖: Coming up the stairs now!

Carlos grinned (and sighed in relief that his boyfriend wasn’t stuck out in the snow somewhere freezing to death). He picked up his mug and headed back to the kitchenette to dump out the rest of his tea. No sooner did he set the dish on the drying rack than he heard the door open, followed by some shuffling and grunting.

Wait-- Grunting?

Carlos peaked around the corner to see Seb closing the door behind him while holding a large cardboard box with one arm. Well, this was going to be good.

“Whatcha got there?” Carlos asked, in lieu of a proper greeting.

Seb looked up with a wide smile, cheeks and nose pink from the cold, snowflakes starting to melt in his hair. “What would you say if I brought home six puppies?”

Carlos eyed the box. “What’s in the box?”

Seb didn’t say anything, but a whining sound came from the box.

Carlos put a hand on his hip. “What’s in the box, Seb?”

Seb sighed. “I think you know.”

One of the puppies whined again, prompting Seb to set the box down and pull her out. She was brown, with big eyes and floppy ears, some kind of labrador mix, if Carlos had to guess. “Shhh, it’s okay,” Seb was saying, soothingly, petting the top of her tiny head.

“I want to be mad, but you’re so cute,” Carlos shook his head.

Seb grinned. “Come say ‘hi’ to Anne Boleyn.”

“You named them already?” Carlos rolled his eyes. He’d never met anyone who loved animals as much as Seb did. “Of course you did.”

Seb just stepped forward and deposited the puppy into Carlos’s arms. She squirmed adorably. Seb bent down and started taking the rest of the puppies out of the box. They all looked about the same as Anne Boleyn. Brown and floppy and soft, somehow though Seb was able to differentiate between each one.

“This is Catherine of Aragon and Jane Seymour and--”

“Did you name them after the cast of Six?”  

Seb shrugged. “Well, there’s six of them, it makes sense.”

Carlos raised an eyebrow. “And are they all girls?”

“Gender is a outdated social construct that dogs aren't restricted by,” Seb chirped happily. “But if you’re asking if they’re all female, the answer is no."

“Fair enough.” Carlos looked down at the puppy in his arms. She looked up at him with big brown eyes. “So, how did this happen?”

“I found them on the street!” Seb’s tone turned grave. “Someone had just left them out to freeze in the snow! I had to save them!”

“Wow,” Carlos’s eyes went wide. “That’s awful.”

“I know we can’t keep them,” Seb continued. “But I figured we could take care of them until the weather improves a bit and then we can take them to the animal shelter.”

Carlos nodded. “Sure.” Anne Boleyn chose that moment to lick Carlos’s glasses, pushing them part way off his face. “But they’re your problem.”

Seb giggled. “C’mon, she loves you!”

“If you say so,” Carlos pouted. “Not exactly the kiss I was hoping for.”

“Oh?” Seb grinned. “What kind of kiss were you hoping for?” He leaned in, stopping short of actually connecting their lips so he could fix Carlos’s glasses. “Maybe something like this?”

They kiss with Anne Boleyn squished slightly between their chests. Even after all these years it still makes Carlos’s heart race and warmth flood his body, all the way down to his toes.

“You do know,” he started, pulling back abruptly, “that you can’t convince me to let you keep one just by kissing me, right?”

“Well,” Seb smirked. “I could do more than kiss you.”

Carlos patted his cheek. “Not with six sets of eyes watching you can’t.”

Seb’s smirk turned into a pout. “Can’t we just keep one? I think Anne Boleyn really likes you.”

“Anne Boleyn is adorable, but do you really think she would be happy living in our studio apartment?” Carlos shook his head.

“Yeah,” Seb sighed. “You’re right.”

“Hey,” Carlos poked his partner’s arm. “Someday, after we’ve won a bunch of Tony awards, and we’re ready to retire from Broadway, we can move out of the city, to a big house somewhere and get all the dogs you want.”

Seb looked up hopefully. “Yeah?”

“Absolutely.” It was an easy promise to make. “I always thought we might end up moving back to Salt Lake eventually.”

“Oh, you’ve thought about our retirement, have you?” Seb grinned. “You don’t think you’ll be sick of me by then?”

Carlos flushed. “Never.” He thought about the engagement ring sitting in his sock drawer, the words Marry Me hanging off the tip of his tongue. He swallowed them. “Impossible.”

“I’ll never get sick of you, either,” Seb pressed a kiss to his cheek. “And I love that you’ve been imagining us retiring to the farm someday.”

“I never said--”

“It was implied,” Seb’s grin didn’t falter. “I’ve gotten pretty good at deciphering your riddles after all these years.”

Carlos couldn’t argue with that, because Seb was obviously right, and a part of Carlos wanted to be annoyed that Seb saw through him so easily, but most of him just felt warm all over. “I love you a lot, Seb Matthew-Smith.”

“I know.” Seb’s voice was soft and overflowing with fondness. “I love you a lot, too.”

[sayonarasanity]

Chance With You

Summary: It is hard to see beauty in everything. Especially after a life as a soldier who had witnessed so many of his fellow comrades’ and thousands of people’s death. But Hanji wears that word as an outfit every day. It is drawn aesthetically in the way her eye lights up despite everything, in the way she examines each living being she finds in the garden, in the way her curiosity never leaving her mind. She is neither a tree nor a bird. She is a forest; she has a universe and a variety of colours in her land. Beauty is a butterfly that has perched upon her shoulder and it never leaves her side. 

Link to AO3

notes: for the first part of this story I was kind of inspired by this ask. I highly recommend you to check that out as well also for Hanji's short hair see this post

A house, surrounded by some young, some old trees and green grass, with a little garden outside colourful with flowers, herbs and vegetables of different species. In the morning, the birds chirp just beyond his window, they welcome the new coming day with a melody in their tongue. The sun illuminates the sky brighter as if it had a mind of its own and it thought that a world after a gruesome war, painful sacrifices and unreasonable hatred deserves to shine more. 

The familiar touch of warm fingers traces the line of scars on his face while he is still half-asleep, lying one side of his face buried on the pillow. The fingers move upwards to comb his hair back, then they slide downwards to his bare shoulders, to the space between his shoulder blades where old, pale wounds are inked permanently. Then a pair of lips are pressed on his temple, they are warm, and the touch is undeniably real. If it wasn’t, he would pray for it to go away, to disappear. Because if it wasn’t, ripping his heart out of its place would be less painful to open his eyes to the empty side of a twin bed.

“Morning, handsome.” 

“Hmm,” he murmurs. Insomnia post-war still has its fair share of control over him. It is like a friend that he never intended to be close to, yet he is stuck with it inside the same cell in the same prison. 

But Levi post-war had something else against it. Someone else, a third one in the cell to be accurate. 

She presses her lips on his shoulder, and he half opens his right eye then shifts his head a little so that he can see her properly with his only functional, left one. Her dispersed, brown hair is the first thing that comes into his view. Then her eyes, one wounded like him and the other glittering with the daylight and her smile when she rests her head on her pillow. 

“Hey,” he says with a rusty, morning voice. 

Hanji reaches out with her hand to cup his cheek, her thumb caresses the scars again, goes over his blind eye then fixes his brow. “How romantic,” she sighs. “We match like broken glass.” Then her hand moves down to his undercut, her fingers warm on his rough, shaved skin. “Maybe I should get an undercut too.”

He touches the old scar on her left eye, and then her hair with his three remaining fingers. It is shorter than before, now it ends a little below her ear, curling on her nape. “It would suit you.”

“You think so?” she asks a mischievous smile shapes on the corner of her lips. 

“Yeah,” he tries to suppress the smile, but his lips move slightly, nonetheless.

“Armin and Onyankopon will come for a visit today,” Hanji says.

“For what?”

“They said they had something to show us,” she shrugs one shoulder. “And that it was a surprise.”

Levi cannot think of anything. Nor his or Hanji’s birthday are close, or any holiday is on sight. Levi wonders if it is Gabi and Falco’s doing. Though as far as he knew they were away, travelling. 

He raises himself on one elbow and gets his face closer to her neck to press his lips on her skin. “How much time do we have?” he murmurs as he puts his right arm next to her head to balance himself and intertwines their fingers with his other hand while leaving another kiss to her jaw.

“I don’t know,” she sighs as he kisses the sensitive skin under her ear. “An hour or so, I guess.”

“Good enough,” he whispers and finally catches her lips with his own. 

-

“Good morning, Captain,” Armin greets him when he steps inside the kitchen. He wears a black suit; his hair is combed neatly, and he carries himself with a maturity the war he had to face so early in his life and his age has brought about. There are no traces of the insecure, irresolute boy upon him any more. But his smile and the shiny blue eyes are still the same. 

“Morning,” he responds as Onyankopon and Hanji follows Armin into the kitchen. They all gather around the kitchen table. He is not a captain or anything anymore, but he lets it slide whenever Armin or one of the other kids call him that. It feels nostalgic and works well as a reminder that everything that had happened wasn’t a daydream or a shitty nightmare but an unfortunate reality. 

“How do you feel, Levi-san?” Onyankopon asks, sitting across from him. He too wears a suit, a light grey one and has a matching bowler hat on his head. 

“Not bad,” he says sipping from his tea. 

Hanji serves their visitors two cups of tea then sits down next to him. “He actually means, I feel very good and I’m glad to be fucking alive, Onyankopon. Thanks for asking, what about you?”

Armin hides a silent chuckle behind his fist, pretending to be coughing while Onyankopon smiles and even laughs quietly. “I’m great, thank you.”

“Good,” Hanji beams.

“Stop translating me,” Levi says, glaring at her. “We speak the same fucking language.”

“Yes, we do,” she approves then adds, raising her brows with a knowing look. “But they don’t.”

“Tch,” he grunts and then sees the two younger men watching them with a weird expression on their faces. Half smiling, half questioning. His body tenses without control, and he grips the arm of the wheelchair. “Armin,” he decides to ask, just to be sure. “Do you see Hanji here?”

The blond boy blinks in confusion and stares at Hanji for a few seconds. “Yes, of course, Captain. She sits next to you.” 

“Right,” he sighs. 

A hand slides slowly on his back, drawing circles on top of his shirt. It immediately does its magic. His strained body relaxes under her touch. “No need to be confused,” Hanji explains, and Levi doesn’t look at her, but he just knows that she is smiling. “He is just making sure that I’m not a ghost and he hasn’t gone batshit crazy.”

Levi nor approves or rejects this accusation as he quietly proceeds to drink his tea. No one plans a murder out loud. 

“Well,” Onyankopon starts, he sounds a little nervous and when Levi looks at him, he sees that his expression is also the same. “Don’t worry, Levi-san. She is as real as the greys in your hair.”

The hand on his back stops its movements, Armin freezes with the teacup half lifted to his mouth, his eyes are wide and terrified and for several seconds nobody even dares to fucking breathe.

Levi feels Hanji’s body shaking. He knows she is trying to suppress her laughter. Onkankopon opens his mouth, ready to explain himself. “I didn’t—” 

“It’s okay,” Levi cuts in. “They both mean that I’m still fucking alive.”

-

They go outside after breakfast to see what Armin and Onyankopon came here today for. Levi had only been getting used to the midday sun dazzling his vision when he heard Hanji shrieking with joy and excitement.

“Is it what I think it is?” She exclaims bending over a black thing that he had likened to a wheelchair. He doesn’t understand the reason why she is so thrilled over it. 

Onyankopon joins Hanji to explain the gadget while Armin stays next to him. “The hell is that?”

“It is a special wheelchair, Captain,” Armin explains. “Hanji-san had told us that you were sick of being pushed everywhere and we had been thinking about a solution. It took a while though,” he says sheepishly. “We’ve been kind of busy. But it’s finally completed and ready to be used.”

“This was her idea?” Levi asks, watching the excitement radiating through her body. Especially her eyes are shining even brighter than the sun hanging on top of their heads. 

“Well, kind of.” Hanji sits on the wheelchair, curious idiot, and presses upon some things on the arm of the chair then screams when the thing suddenly moves forward on its own. Levi blinks his eyes, surprised. “I think she didn’t want you to feel like you were being a burden to her, so she didn’t directly ask for this, and to be honest I already had an idea in my mind when she had talked to me. So, yeah, this happened.”

Levi continues to watch Hanji who is moving forwards, backwards and to the left and right. Laughing and smirking like a child in an amusement park. “It’s amazing!” she yells. “Armin, you are a genius!”

The boy laughs and clears his throat seemingly embarrassed. “I’m glad you liked it, Hanji-san.”

“Levi!” she jumps up, and walking to where he is, she catches his hands. “Come on, you have to try it!”

She helps him get up from his wheelchair. “You know I can still walk on my own, right, four-eyes?” It takes quite an effort though, but he can. 

“Don’t ruin my only excuse to touch you in public, shorty,” Hanji replies as they take slow steps towards the other, more technological wheelchair.

“You don’t need an excuse to touch me,” he says.

“Oww,” she coos. “How sweet of you—”

“Because I don’t want to be touched,” he goes on as he sits down. “In public.”

“Cruel, old man,” Hanji mutters, shaking her head. 

“I’m not old, I’m only in my forties,” he objects, glaring at her. “Stop acting as if I’m a walking funeral.”

“Yes, of course, grandpa,” Hanji pats his head and Levi slaps it away. 

Hanji and Armin quickly show him how the thing works and apparently it doesn’t require much of a genius to understand. He pushes upon the buttons hesitantly at first, moving only inches here and there as the three of them watch him expectantly and with an annoying curiosity. It is actually quite useful, at least he won’t need Hanji to push him whenever he wants to go out for some fresh air or he won’t need to overuse his arms. It is also more comfortable, and there is even a place on the arm to put his teacup. 

“Did you like it?”

Levi looks up to see them expecting his answer. Hanji was the one to ask the question, yet it is obvious that the other two are also waiting to hear what he has to say. “Yeah,” he says causing them to take a huge sigh of relief. “Thanks.”

“I’m so happy to hear that you liked it.” Onyankopon smiles and Armin nods.

“Come on now, take a stroll.” Hanji claps her hands excitedly. “Let’s see what this baby is capable of.”

Levi had been planning to just do that. There is enough space in the yard to test the machine properly. However, before he sets on to do what Hanji has offered, he looks into her eye, intensely enough for her to frown and her expression to change into confusion. Armin and Onyankopon had already started to talk with each other and are too much preoccupied to realise what is going on. So, with that bringing him more courage, he brings one hand down and pats his knee.

She is quite surprised and a little embarrassed as a cute flush colour her cheeks and she laughs nervously, combing her hair behind her ear with one hand. “Okay.”

“Have you put on weight?” Levi questions when Hanji sits down between his knees and curls her knees to her stomach. She secures herself by putting her feet next to his leg.

“Shut up,” she chides him and wraps an arm around his neck.

He holds her by the waist with his left arm, just in case. “Ready?”

She nods and sends him a toothy grin. “Always.”

Levi presses upon the button and they move forward. There is no hesitation in his control as the machine goes faster this time, stumbling when the wheels go over some rocks or little bumps on the lawn. Hanji is ecstatic. The wind ruffles her short hair, eyes wide and lips parted slightly. It is hard to see beauty in everything. Especially after a life as a soldier who had witnessed so many of his fellow comrades’ and thousands of people’s death. But Hanji wears that word as an outfit every day. It is drawn aesthetically in the way her eye lights up despite everything, in the way she examines each living being she finds in the garden, in the way her curiosity never leaving her mind. She is neither a tree nor a bird. She is a forest; she has a universe and a variety of colours in her land. Beauty is a butterfly that has perched upon her shoulder and it never leaves her side. 

“Why have you stopped?” Hanji asks, and only then does he realize that they aren’t moving anymore and that he had been staring at her thinking how fucking lucky he is to have this, this thing which is called love.

Rather than answering, he holds her nape and brings her face closer, resting her forehead against his. Then closes his eyes and inhales the smell of the soap they share together, and the odour of the tea leaves still fresh on her breath. 

He feels the moment her body melts, as her fingers touch his neck, and her thumb caresses his cheek. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Just checking.”

She laughs quietly, then leans in for a brief, soft kiss on his lips ignoring the fact that they are being watched by two of their former subordinates. Levi uses that moment to press on one of the buttons which quickly swirls the wheelchair to the right with a sudden movement. The kiss is over in a second as Hanji yelps then laughs heartily tilting her head backwards. The sun shines on her skin, and a butterfly flies around her head, fluttering its wings.  

And despite all those years that had passed, and despite the places, they had seen during the last few years Levi is still positive that it is the best fucking sound this crocked world has to offer. 

   That was just a dream.

Levi stirs and blinks his eyes open, then almost immediately winces at his stiff neck. Curses at himself as he lifts up a hand to massage the skin. He had fallen asleep on the couch again with the TV open. His mother would’ve killed him if she were here. Good thing he had moved away for his job. He is still too young for this shit.

Accepting the fact that he has to deal with a stiff neck for the rest of the day he sits up reaching for the remote control. 

That was just a dream, says Michael Stipe on the TV. The clip is almost over and the song fades. Just a dream.

He turns it off.

It is almost five in the morning and there is not even a drop of sleep left in his system. He walks to the bathroom yawning and stretching his body. His neck and shoulders crackle and he wrinkles his face. “Goddamn.”

He washes his hands on the sink and then his face, getting rid of the crust around his eyes. After that, he uses a towel to dry his face, and when the towel covers the right side of his face and his right eye, and he stares before him to the mirror he stops.

Bits and pieces of strange images slide inside of his head, a man around his forties who is sitting on a wheelchair, a blind eye, a scar running up and down one side of his face, a woman with short hair and bright eyes, a house with a garden, the sound of genuine laughter, the feeling of—

He drops the towel to the side of the sink and breathes heavily. His fingers touch the smooth skin on his face absentmindedly and he stares at his reflection. And his, thankfully still functioning blue eyes stare at him back, like they have no idea what the hell is going on. He checks his right hand to see all of his fingers are in place. Then he bends a little and slaps his leg, taps his foot on the ground for good measure. 

“Huh,” he murmurs then. “Weird.”

Shaking his head, he settles on the idea that whatever he had seen was just a bizarre albeit a little too much realistic dream and sends it away to the back of his mind. Although he realizes that after remembering it, he feels somehow lighter. It is similar to the feeling one gets when the winter quietly recedes, and the trees start to give life to little flowers. That feeling of being lightweight and carefree even if it is just for a little while.

He takes a shower.

When he sits back down on the couch after the shower with a cup of tea in his hand, he opens his laptop to deal with some unread emails piled up in his inbox. He leaves the tea on the coffee table, next to his phone and puts away the towel he had been using to dry his hair. 

Minutes later, when he reaches for the cup, he catches the moment his phone lighting up with a new notification.

 Are you awake? The text says.

Taking the phone in his hands he taps, what do you think?  

It takes only a second for his phone to start ringing. “Hey,” he opens the call. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“I’ve only just woken up,” she says but her voice sounds clear, dispersed of the sleepy roughness like she had been awake for a while. “Had a dream.”

“Bad one?” he asks as he takes a sip from his tea, his eyes scanning his laptop screen.

“Well, not really but kind of.” A pause, like she is lost in thought, then she adds. “I saw you.”

Levi hums, approvingly. “Naked?”

She lets out a loud, heartfelt laugh. “Oh my God, Levi. No,” she giggles breathlessly. “It wouldn’t be a bad dream if you were naked, you know.”

“Right,” he chuckles. “What was it then?”

“It was weird.” She stops again for a few seconds. “Like really weird.”

“You should tell me first if you want me to believe you, Hanji,” he says, not quite seriously. 

She sighs. Then there is another pause which is relatively longer. Levi knits his brows and sits a little more upright. Something is wrong.

“What is it—”

“You were sitting on a wheelchair,” Hanji spills eventually, and the words die on his tongue. “And there were scars on your face. They were like war scars like you were once a soldier, a veteran. And—and you looked peaceful but also a little sad too. I don’t know. You were also older. Then there were two young people with you and a tall man. I don’t really remember their faces. I think you were travelling, you looked like tourists though I am not so sure but I-" she breaths fast, she hasn’t stopped talking for a while. “I wasn’t there.”

“Hanji,” he manages to say, despite the fact that he feels like he is choking in his own breath.

“It felt so wrong,” she goes on with a thin, frail voice. “I remember how I felt in the dream. I wanted to reach you, but I couldn’t, I tried to call out to you, but you didn’t hear. It was almost like… like I was a ghost. I was invisible. I was so desperate to just be with you and it felt so damn wrong that I wasn’t.”

“It was just a dream,” he whispers when he finds his voice. His body is frozen like he was paralyzed by something he had no control over. 

“It felt so real.” He hears the tremble in her breath, and he notices how tight he had been holding the teacup. It is almost a miracle that it hadn’t been shattered to pieces yet. 

“I had a dream too,” he decides to tell her.

“Oh?” She sounds interested and he is relieved to hear that her voice is back to its natural tone. “What did you see?”

So, he tells her the dream, not leaving much out except for the things he remembers himself feeling. She listens without almost a sound. He only occasionally hears her gasps and thoughtful hums and the quiet rhythm of her breaths. Only when he tells her that one of the men's in his dream was looking suspiciously similar to Armin, she adds thoughtfully that now that she thinks about it, the man in her dream was very much like Onyankopon. He flicks his fingers, of course, the other man was Onyanokpon. Though the identities of the two younger people remains a mystery.

When he finishes she is silent for a while. Possibly thinking. 

“Hey, Levi,” she says, at last, drawing him out of his own deep thoughts. “Do you think we might’ve lived another life together?”

He examines the keyboard of the laptop for a handful of thoughtful seconds. “I don’t know,” he replies, honestly. Frankly, it is not that much of a long shot. “Maybe.”

“I don’t remember anything, though,” she continues. Levi imagines her lying on her back, watching the ceiling, her dark hair scattered on the pillow. “Do you?”

He almost says no, but then he recalls the dream again, and the way her skin reflected the morning sun, how her laughter touched the forgotten, drought lands in his heart and how lucky he felt to have her right beside. “I remember loving you,” he blurts, surprised even himself.

For an uncomfortably, and terrifyingly long second, she doesn’t respond. He chuckles, somewhat nervously. “Too much?”

“No,” she breathes. “No, it’s not. I just didn't expect you to say something like that.”

“Yeah,” he says dryly. “Tell me about it.”

“So, what do you think?” She asks, shifting the matter masterfully. “Which one was real?”

“How would I know?” 

“Might be both,” she reasons. “Alternate realities and all that.”

“Yeah,” he mutters and shrugs although she can’t see it. “Why not?”

“Weird.” Levi holds the handle of the teacup and taps the table absently. “I wonder what happened. In my version, you know. Did I die before you? Maybe I was a soldier as well.”

Levi doesn’t like that possibility. It leaves a sour taste in his mouth but considering the two obscure dreams, it is likely. “You had a scar on your eye,” he says remembering his dream. “You most probably were.” 

“Oh,” she sighs woefully. “Sorry for leaving you alone, then.”

“Yeah. Sorry for letting you die.”

She laughs. “Well, you probably had no other choice.”

He runs a hand over his face. What the actual fuck they are talking about in the goddamn wee hours? “Hanji, this doesn’t make any sense. Seriously, go back to sleep.”

“I don’t want to go back to sleep. I keep remembering the dream. I wish I had seen your version.”

He wishes the same too, to be honest. “Forget about it. Just sleep.”

“I can’t forget about it,” her voice comes muffled, like a part of her mouth is pressed upon her pillow. “You looked so fine with that scar.”

He pinches his nose but cannot stop himself from grinning like a lovesick fool for the life of him. “Idiot.”

“Would you like to hear something disgustingly cheesy and cliché?” She asks, drowsily.

“No.”

She goes on as if he had never talked. “I’m your idiot.”

“Dear, fucking Lord,” Levi struggles very hard to keep his laughter inside. “Just sleep already.”

“Hmm,” she murmurs, she is most probably about to fall asleep. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

“No, you will see me today.”

“Right, good, good,” she sighs, sleepily. “Later, then my handsome, my shorty, my one and only.”

“Dumbass,” he says affectionately but she is already snorting on the other side of the line.