#the raw emotion here... the realisation that one of their own is dying...

[wp100]

it sounds kinda pathetic and silly, but this scene is going to haunt me for a while... fuck. i hate it when they kill off the more... 'innocent' characters (well, he still shot his rifle and killed men, but yknow, i think he was the youngest out of the lot? which makes it even worse)

This shit was well-done. it's not like, hollywood-standards, but it was enough to make me tear up and cry a little. think these scenes hit a little harder when someone's comrade/friend dies in their arms, rather than a romantic partner

[rise-my-angel]

I blame the idea of the spectacle for the downfall in the franchise. Don't get me wrong, big moments can be great, but the constant striving for it to keep the audience addicted to adrenaline is what has caused the really shallow writing in my opinion. It takes a really self aware person to realise they are getting nothing but CGI keys jangled in their face as if they were a baby.

I think that's what the earlier seasons achieved, the perfect mix of much quieter moments with effective use of dialogue, writing and set to get their money's worth, and the big dramatic moments for the later parts, where they save their best for last and bring EVERYTHING to the table. It's all about having money to fund the big moments, vs having barely enough money to cover everything.

You have no idea how thrilled I am that you said everything I was thinking. The thing I hate about reviews of HOTD so far is how good things look. The dragon fight in episode four, oh but it looked so spectacular. But that's the thing, their effort was put all into making that fight look as wonderful as possible so that it avoided the simple fact that the story, characters, and action were all poor.

My best example, is actually probably unpopular beacuse I know people really liked the Battle of the Bastards. And I did too, the action cinematography, the chaos, one of my favorite shots of the show where the camera does a long take just following Jon through the chaos as he experiences it. It also looks good, they clearly made a great effort to make the battle as cinematic as possible.

But here's the thing. Hardhome is better. Hardhome does NOT look as good as the Battle of the Bastards. It is very chaotic, it is disorienting, fast paced, a lot of cuts and its very loud and there are so many bodies in the scene that it feels hard to keep track of how many people are even dying around them. But that's the point.

Hardhome takes you on a journey of chaos.

It's like a 20 minute sequence with an amazing build up. The meeting with the elders, it's a dark room of people standing around a fire. It doesn't look good, now it doesn't look bad it just isn't a cinematically pleasing shot. But it's over six minutes long of mostly Jon giving everything he has into convincing these people that he's being genuine. It's his passion and his raw honesty that Jon looks his enemy in the eye and tells them that they deserve to survive and that he wants to protect them. How when they ask how Mance Rayder died, Jon does not give himself an out. He is honest and says he shot an arrow in his heart, and how he stands there firm and not afraid when they start to threaten him, only to have Tormund put a stop to it and give context. Looking these parents and grandparents in the eye and telling them that if they don't let him protect them, their children won't even survive long enough to have children of their own. And pleading that even with all of them it may not be enough but "At least we'll give the fuckers a fight."

It is a fantastic scene filled with hope, that sets the stage for whats about to happen.

There's no dwelling on shots. The moment Longclaw clashes with the weapon of the Walker, Jon realizing whats happened and actually killing it occurs really fast in a manner of seconds. What it dwells on, is the aftermath of Jon so overwhelmed by what happened he falls to his knees, the snow misting around him that blurs anyone else from view. Even the moment where the Walker raises his arms and the dead rise, is not a dwelled on, cinematic shot. It is very raw, and rough and what it focuses on, is that close up of Jons face. And the realization in him of shock turning to a desperate despair that he could've gotten all of the Free Folk out of there and it still wouldn't be enough. It focuses on his face, beacuse the intensity and emotions are about him. Not the shots.

You remember the visuals of it, but really, the visuals aren't what gives you the emotions. Hardhome was not shot to be visually appealing, it was by design, extremely chaotic and overwhelming because not a single person in that fight had a chance to get the upper hand.

Battle of the Bastards on the other hand, is a cinematically amazing battle with a terrible story. The stakes mean nothing, because the story to get there was inconsistent, nonsensical, some people acting completely out of character and is won because of a deus ex machina. The story and characters surrounding it are completely not worth the quality of the battle itself. It's shallow. It's remembered as good because it looked good, not beacuse it was good.

That to me, is the House of the Dragon problem. Such a focus on making it look good, sweeping shots and amazing cinematic focus especially on the dragons, but it runs hollow. Because what do you have beyond the good looking shots? It's rare I ever feel the emotions of whats happening more then I do what the spectacle is showing me is happening.

The worth of a lot of these scenes, are rooted in a desperation to make a visually appealing story. When Game of Thrones was at it's best when it was people standing or sitting around a room and talking. It was the dialogue, the mystery, the intrigue. We never needed beautiful visuals for our eyes to feast upon because the spectacle was always in service of what the actual emotions of the scene was portraying. Not the stand out part in and of itself.

There's nothing wrong with spectacle alone, but House of the Dragon is relying on it to push through it's worst parts and hoping that the nice images and pretty colors is distracting enough that you forgive the poor story. Yeah the story and characters and writing is bad, but boy those dragons, look at them.

General audiences will fall for spectacle beacuse we appreciate good visuals, but general audiences didn't need spectacle to get them through season one of Game of Thrones. They were confident enough in what they already had, that they did not need to pad out the visual fluff to feast the eyes rather then the writing feasting the brain.

Audiences are smarter then to value visuals over writing, but House of the Dragon fans are relying on the visuals to get them through the bad writing because they have nothing left, and really, they deserve better.

I do not need spectacle to be impressed by the immense scale of a scene. Hardhome is a fast paced, confusing and chaotic sequence that has never left me since the day I watched it air live. Not a single one of these grand moments in either season of House of the Dragon, despite having more chances to use it's visuals to enhance it's storytelling, has come anywhere near as smart as Hardhome was.

Visuals do not impress me. Using the visuals to enhance the story you already are telling, is what impresses me.

Not using your visuals as a crutch to power through bad storytelling.

[mytalemyworld]

Alaz: Where are we? We need a doctor! Open it! Asi: Alaz…come. Alaz: What's wrong? Tell me what's wrong. Asi: Sit here. Alaz: No, I can't. I need to persuade those guys. Asi: Alaz…it's over. Alaz: It is not, sssshhh. Asi: Nobody will come. Alaz: They will. You hold on, just hold on, okay? Asi…They will. Open your eyes, look at me. Listen what I am going to say…we haven't talked about this before. Asi, open your eyes, look at me. You know, that night, on new year's eve…I came to you. Do you know why? When I ran over Yaman and Rüya…you know there's a saying: "your life flashes before your eyes" There was only you before my eyes on that night, Asi. Only you. Then I found myself on your door. I was drawn to you. So it wasn't planned. Everything we lived was real.

He wanted her to not lose her consciousness but also finally cleared that misundertanding. That creep already made it clear that he didn't care if she was alive or not. He just needed Alaz. She knew nobody was coming. If they wanted to help them, they would have already done when they were being taken to the another place. Ooofff.

Like, I know he desperately needed to tell the truth because it was eating him alive…but honey, you already showed how real it was for you through your actions otherwise do you think she could let you be by her side?

Also they were holding hands for the first time. Well, this doesn't hurt at all.

Asi: Then do you know how I was drawn to you? Alaz: How? Asi: The first day I realised you were a human not a robot I asked myself what was going on, could it be that I was drawn to this spoiled rich brat? Alaz: Which day was it? Asi: You were sad about Çağla at the hospital. You left your arrogance aside that day. You acted like an elder brother. You acted like a human. I said to myself he knew how to love, he had a heart.

STOP IT STOP IT

No, you don't understand, this was the best explanation of why she could never lose her faith in him despite everything he did. She might fight him, say many hurtful things but at the end of the day she always remembers he's capable of loving selflessly, caring. They had an understanding because of Rüya & Yaman's relationship but to be able to love him, she needed to see something more. Because he wanted Rüya for his selfish reasons and he could be cruel to his own brother so it was normal for her to think maybe he was nothing but a monster. But after having seen how devastated he was for Çağla she let herself fall for him.

Asi: Alaz, listen to me. I am going to say something. Open your eyes. Look at me. Look at me in the eyes. Listen to me. We haven't talked about this before, right? Alaz: About what? Asi: I love you. Alaz: Me too. I love you too. That's why you will hold on. We'll get out of here, okay?

OKAY STAB ME IT WOULD HURT LESS.

Just like how he tried to get her attention so she could think about another things not her wound, she freaking did the same, used the same words because he was crying but then she confessed her feelings and he couldn't even be happy for a moment because the only reason she confessed her love was the fact that she knew she was dying. And even in that state she tried to give him a little bit strength. Because you know she always puts her loved ones before herself.

Emotional state: 1 thousand percent not okay. Even after knowing they are well now, this will never stop hurting me. Because how raw, how touching their feelings are. I kind of agree with Zafer. This is such an epic love story.

[aquaticasart]

With a Heavy Heart - Chapter 2

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Summary:

After a disasterous mission, Raven demotes Li Ling from his rank as Operations Chief. He is placed under the tutelage of Drew, who is tasked with his re-training and assessing when, or if, he is able to earn his title back.

In his brash attempts to regain his lost position and pride, Li Ling stumbles into long-buried pasts, and comes to realise the terrifying depth to his unassuming teacher and the house he served.

CW:

Contains themes of emotional hurt, grief and loss, with mention of canonical character death, and use of organised crime-adjacent tropes.

Chapter 2

Li Ling stepped sideways to get through the small door to the old gym, an instinct from his usually imposing silhouette. He caught himself and squared himself up before crossing the threshold. Damnit. He absentmindedly clawed at the slim cuff on his left arm, trying to work his fingers underneath where it opened at his forearm. He fidgeted on his entire approach to the lone figure of a Jackal at the opposite edge of the room.

Drew was carefully setting out water bottles on an old trestle table, standing them up alongside an expertly curated collection of electrolyte powders. His silhouette was rigid, his motions restrained to the bare minimum required for his task. His pristine appearance was made dingy when lit solely by the cheap Fluro of the room’s blinking overheads. The room was deathly still, not even a wayward fly causing movement to grab onto. Compared to the Union halls Li Ling had just come from, the entire scene was painfully, achingly ordinary.

An ear flicked at Li Ling’s heavy footfalls.

“Ah! Master Li Ling, thank you for joining me.” Drew began. “As you were no doubt made aware, I will be your tutor for your retraining. I do apologise for the poor state of our training arrangements, unfortunately the usual Union training grounds are not built with such a… mundane standard of safety in mind.”

Li Ling took this opportunity to take in the surroundings. Calling it in a poor state was euphemistic at best. The gym was small and stuffy, with raw brick walls half-heartedly covered with sagging crash mats. One wall was dedicated to a grimy floor to ceiling mirror, attached to the wall in several panes with seams every few meters. Li Ling couldn’t escape his own reflection, diminished substantially without his arms. He took a moment to square up his shoulders and push back the slouch that had crept in, desperately trying to close the few centimetres in height between him and Drew. Jigsaw mats roughly colour matched into two sparring rings lined the floor.

It was patronising to even stand in.

“For the foreseeable future your afternoons will be spent here” Drew continued, “I have been asked to take you through combat and sparring basics, with an emphasis on controlled martial arts and meditation. Our course will consist of several forms, including Yoga, Tai Chi, Tae Kwon do…

“Look Drew…” Li Ling interrupted, crossing his only arms, “I don’t know what kids TV lesson Raven’s cooked up with you, but we can skip it. I’m sorry, ok? I’ve learnt my lesson, I won’t do it again, write it in the rulebook and throw it at me. I don’t need any of this crap, and the longer I spend in THIS thing…” He yanked helplessly at the cuff “… the less time Miramon spend dying, which no one wants. So, if you would just get me OUT of this THING.” He threw his arms down by his side. The cuff rather inconsiderately stayed fastened to his forearm.

Drew raised an eyebrow.

“Well, that’s excellent to hear, Master Li Ling.” Drew replied. His tone was perfectly pleasant, but Li Ling couldn’t hear anything but sarcasm drip from the words. “I shall report it to Raven at once. However, before I do so, may I trouble you for a demonstration?”

A demonstration? What was this dog on about? Drew carefully slid his tailcoat off his shoulders, revealing a crisp white dress shirt underneath, his normal bandage wraps carefully rolled into neat cylinders on the table already.

“Fine. Whatever you want.” Li Ling threw back through clenched jaw. “Want me to write a sappy letter? Record a teary apology video and post it to SwiftSpace? Wear a sandwich board with ‘I fucked up’ written on it?”

“None of that will be necessary” Drew responded, not rising to the venom in Li Ling’s voice. “If you do not believe my training is required, I simply wish you to show me.”

Satisfied his coat was out of danger of the water and powders, Drew turned to Li Ling and widened his stance slightly, his black leather shoes sinking into the foam as he lowered his centre of mass, his cane in his hand with its tip held unwavering off the ground.

Li Ling guffawed.

“What, FIGHT you?”

The contrast between the two couldn’t be starker. Li Ling stood shirtless, in flowing and unrestrictive fighting gear. His physique was lean and powerful, with deep lines cut into it from a lifetime of operating at a superhuman level of strength and finesse. Drew, on the other hand, was dressed for a high tea. He hadn’t so much as undone his top button, let alone prepared himself for a fight. Only his canine appearance betrayed any nonhuman ability whatsoever.

“A simple spar” Drew clarified. “If you can land a hit on me, I will go to Raven immediately and relay what you have told me and recommend the immediate reinstatement of your field duties…”

A smile crept onto Li Ling’s face. This was perfect, even without his Esper abilities Drew was literally fighting on Li Ling’s terms.

“…However,” Drew continued “If I can knock you off your feet, our training will continue as planned. Do we have an agreement?”

“Yeah, Whatever.” Li Ling replied gleefully, trying to hide his confidence.

“In that case…” Drew said, his grip on his cane tightening and his stance deepening, “Proceed.”

Li Ling didn’t need to be told twice. He lunged forward with astonishing speed, pulling his fist back for a punch that he hoped would end this charade as soon as it started. Drew hadn’t so much as flinched. He held statue still as the punch raced towards him. Li Ling’s fist flew forward, expecting to find contact with furred jaw. It found nothing but air. Drew had effortlessly sidestepped the lunge, gently tapping the bronze tip of his cane into Li Ling’s back as he sailed inelegantly past.

Li Ling yelped and caught himself, shifting his feet to catch his wild momentum. The tap of the metal cane had been calculated not to damage, but to sting like hell on his bare skin and intensely irritate him. It was working. Li Ling stretched his neck side to side, recentering himself. Drew was standing perfectly upright, his heels touched together and his arms behind his back, cane included. Li Ling surged again, throwing fist after fist at the Jackal, but kept on landing on the empty space the Jackal used to be in. Drew weaved easily around Li Ling’s speed, not even so much ducking, and each time he followed up with another one of those stinging, infuriating taps.

Li Ling roared, he wasn’t holding back his punches for sparring purposes anymore, he was throwing wild, powerful attacks trying desperately to wipe the placid, calm look off that smug canine face. His blows were heavy, and his speed was taking a toll to match. His attempted hits were becoming more and more sluggish as his back stung. One sloppy punch was all it took. Instead of smoothly weaving to the side again, Drew simply dropped his head, allowing the fist to fly into the space where he had been a moment ago. He grabbed Li Ling’s wrist, effortlessly redirecting the momentum to continue forward as he pulled on Li Ling’s arm, adding a substantial amount of force that Li Ling hadn’t anticipated. It was all it took to send Li Ling spiralling off balance and crashing to the floor.

He breathed heavily, sprawled on his back, utterly despondent. Drew hadn’t even darkened his white shirt. A black furred hand was held in front of him, an offering of sportsmanship. Li Ling didn’t take it and scrambled to his feet on his own.

“I believe that’s settled then” Drew said, cheerfully.

“Yeah yeah.” Li Ling growled, letting his anger smoulder in the words. “Real fair fight, Esper against effectively a normal human. If it weren’t for…”

Drew wasn’t listening to him, instead he was turning back towards the trestle table. He unbuttoned one of his sleeves and quickly rolled it up, paying no mind to Li Ling. He pulled a small key-like device from the pocket of his tailcoat and ran it along the slim, metal cuff he revealed underneath his sleeve, a perfect match to the one on Li Ling’s arm. With a click it opened and drew placed it gently on the table. As the cuff left his arm, Drew’s body alighted with energy, plumes of otherworldly black smoke pouring from every opening to his clothing and from a tiny crack at the top of his cane. Drew’s silhouette roiled as the smoke seamlessly ebbed and flowed from his black fur, before calming down into its usual subtle turbulence. Drew’s power returned in force, an illusory violet butterfly coming to rest on his shoulder and casting a gentle purple light into the room as he turned back to face his ward, who could do nothing but stand with his mouth agape.

“We shall be starting today with some meditation exercises…” Drew said, launching into his session as though nothing at all had happened.

The dojo underneath House Ramses was crowded with aspirants. Every Esper in the room had endured gruelling trials to stand where they were, seeing Lateef Ramses in the flesh for the first time. He sat stoically as he gave them their final trial. A simple task, a deceptively simple one, one that he assured them would separate the one here who would be welcomed into the family; Defeat the family butler in one-on-one combat, no holds barred, all powers permitted. The first challenger raced at the opportunity and was dispatched just as quickly. The others weren’t so eager after that. Esper after Esper fell and was dismissed, and as the butler discarded more of his bloody, sweat-laden and elementally damaged garb between fights, it became ever more apparent that he wasn’t just a simple master of the house. Espers either fled or were carried grappling with injuries. Finally, one candidate remained to test his mettle; a young man barely in his twenties with the head of a Jackal and a wicked rapier that burned with black and purple fire.

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Requests opening slowly again...

I have been swamped by event-writing (and it's not going so well, if you want to beta and are nice, let me know lol)

In order to overcome writing block, I've reached out to dear @eunoiaastralwings who was good enough to grant me a prompt.

To the poor anon who'll get me instead of her, I am so sorry...

So...here goes: Maedhros taking care of a GN!reader

Words: 1,5k

Warnings: injury, blood, sutures

Characters: Eh, it's me...so Maedhros x GN!Reader, Maglor, Celegorm and Caranthir mentioned 🙈

You felt so dumb for falling off your horse and slashing your whole leg open on an especially sharp stone that just had – as luck would have it – to lie exactly in your trajectory.

“Nothing to do but wait, old girl,” you grunted at your trusty steed, neighing in distress at the smell of fresh blood that made its nostrils flare.

As a matter of fact, you were an excellent rider and – had your mare not been spooked by some unexpected movement or sound in the forest – you would never have been thrown like that.

Clawing yourself upright, you took your spare tunic – a favourite piece as it was – out of your saddlebag and tore it to pieces to bandage your still bleeding leg, cursing all the while.

So engrossed were you in the activity that you only realised that another rider was approaching when a long shadow fell on you; you looked up sharply to discover Maedhros looming over you like the wrath of the Valar.

“Eru’s grace,” he cried out in a choked voice and scooped you up immediately, carrying you over to his own horse and inspecting the injury frantically, “what has happened? Are you in pain? I’ll get you back to the camp!”

Despite your relief to see him come to your rescue, you rolled your eyes and shook your head; you had survived worse wounds in skirmishes with the Enemy’s forces than this and you considered the young royal’s reaction to be somewhat exaggerated.

“I’m fine,” you ground out between your teeth as a wave of searing, white-hot pain washed through you when Maedhros tightened the makeshift bandages around your leg cautiously.

Before you could protest any further though, he had swung himself back into the saddle behind you, holding your mare’s reins in his hand and urging his own mount on with a sharp flick of his hips.

As soon as he had fastened the bridles – his arms snaking insidiously around your shivering body – he held onto you so tightly that one might have thought you about to fall into a dead faint.

“My dear Nelyafinwë,” you lectured with a grin, “I am not dying. There’s no need to squeeze me so.”

Moreover, the fast pace of the horse between your legs made your injury ache and burn fiercely.

“I just want to get you back to safety,” he muttered, his breath ghosting over the tender skin of your exposed ear and down the side of your neck in a sweet caress that was nowhere near as intimate as you yearned for it to be.

“I am safe,” you teased, but his hold on you only increased until you could feel the heat of his strong body bleed into your own damp clothes.

Named and teased for his extraordinarily good looks, Maedhros was not only tall enough to be looking over your head – by now leaning against his chest – with ease but also sufficiently broad and well-built to effectively shield you from the cool breeze of the dying day.

“Moryo can sew it shut,” he mumbled under his breath and – even though his voice was far from the blessed musicality of his younger brother – his words and inflexion soothed your discomfort considerably.

He sounded determined and in control, but there was a thrumming fibre of raw emotion threading through his statement as well that made you feel cared for and cherished. Your mother had always claimed that comfort was worth half the healing when it came to mending minor scrapes.

“I’d rather not be embroidered like a doily,” you commented dryly, “thank you very much. Maybe, Tyelko can burn it shut?”

Instantly, you felt a tremor run through his limbs before he grumbled: “I’ll not let any of those monsters anywhere near you with either a weapon or a torch.”

He loved his brothers, you knew, but he seemingly did not trust them to have the best bedside manners; the more you thought about that, the more you had to agree with him.

“If all else fails,” you laughed, “Curvo can make me a prosthesis.”

Your humour was apparently lost on the eldest of Fëanor’s sons though as you could hear his teeth snap shut in stark dismay.

Soon, the camp came into view, and you were considerably surprised that Maedhros not only lifted you off his horse but insisted on carrying you in his arms to the fire he had claimed to avoid so adamantly.

“Tyelko, water,” he barked, “fresh and clean. Káno, give me one of those many clean tunics you always carry around! Moryo, I need your skills with needle and thread!”

Dazed and confused, you let yourself be carried into a tent that smelled like Maedhros – earthy, warm, and slightly sweet – and be set down tenderly on a pile of finest blankets.

“Russo,” you gasped, “no. These are invaluable. Put me down on the floor; I’ll bleed all over them!”

“Hush,” he cooed, his hand caressing your hair awkwardly and his lips moving around words you could not hear for he had not given them any sound.

Before long, his brothers arrived with the supplies he had so imperiously demanded and – shooing them away like crows – Maedhros extricated a sharp knife from his belt to cut open your ruined leggings.

“I can do it myself,” you offered, but he would not hear a word of it; deep grooves of worry and concentration marred that elegant brow now as he called Caranthir back into the tent after having spread a blanket over you.

You were neither cold nor did you have any qualms when it came to the questionable display of indecency upon baring an injured leg to a friend, but you could clearly discern that Maedhros was in no mood to be argued with.

The sting of the cleansing of the wound was quickly eclipsed by the sharp bite of the needle as the torn flesh was pulled together again before being bound in finest linen and silk.

“I am a nuisance,” you moaned under your breath as soon as a red-faced and rather grumpy Caranthir had vacated the premises once more, fleeing as fast as he could from either the blood, your conditional nakedness, or Maedhros’ flaming gaze.

“Not at all,” Maedhros assured you, pushing you back against the soft bedding and kneeling beside you.

“Are you going to stare at me the whole time now?” you asked with a small peal of laughter; as you saw how grave his expression was though, you became serious once more as well.

“Yes,” he admitted, “I am worried about you. I could feel it in my bones – something was wrong – and…it could have been so much worse. I could have been too late.”

You could clearly see the self-recrimination – a flaw and curse so uniquely proper to his tormented soul – and you felt sorry for him.

“Something startled the horse; I was thrown,” you explained, “nothing serious. Nothing that hasn’t happened before or will again.”

Allowing yourself to extend comfort where none was asked, you cupped his pale, tense cheek tenderly and conjured up your most reassuring smile.

“I’m fine, Russo,” you promised, “but I am very happy that you found me in so timely a manner. Everything is better with you, even being hurt.”

His luminous eyes grew brighter yet at those words as they settled on your face to assess whether you were mocking him perchance.

“I do not like to see you in pain,” he muttered, covering your hand with his own – huge and slender-fingered – as if to keep you from retracting your own gesture of comfort and companionship.

“It barely hurts anymore,” you lied through your teeth and – because you could see that he needed this – you added softly, “but I’d love it if you could stay with me for a while.”

To be able and allowed to be there – this much everyone knew – was Maedhros’ raison d’être, his most earnest wish, and his most cherished reward.

You knew not what dark memories tortured him, just beneath the perfectly still surface of his marble beauty, but – in your heart – you could feel that he needed to be here.

Maybe, just watching over you and making sure that you were indeed as right as rain would dispel the storm clouds perpetually shifting through his grey eyes; you certainly hoped so for there was nothing you liked better than to see him happy and smiling.

“Come here, you big oaf,” you chuckled and pulled him down beside you, allowing him to curl around you like a protective shield and burying your face in his fragrant, luscious hair.

“I’m glad you’re all right,” he whispered into your ear, nuzzling the soft, sensitive skin in search of a solace he didn’t even know he needed.

“So am I,” you confessed, “and I’m truly blessed to have you here with me.”

The buzzing of his thoughts and the hacked-off humming of an old lullaby soon made you drift into blissful, restorative sleep, unaware of the smile hovering on your relaxed lips or of how much the elf by your side would have wanted to lap it up like honeyed wine.

So...this was that...

I hope it was not super terrible hahah

@eunoiaastralwings and @sorisooyaa thank you so much for having my back! I love you!

[clouds-rambles]

hello!~ o(〃＾▽＾〃)o

can i request headcanons for kaeya, diluc, childe, and venti on what they would while their s/o dies in their arms? (if thats okay with u <3)

thank u sm! :))

BESTIE THE PAIN I FEEL RN!!! Omw to make hurt some of my faves hope you enjoy <3

Also guys I’ve been here for a day how are there almost 50 of you following?!

Pairings; (Separate) Kaeya, Diluc, Childe, Venti x reader

Warning(s); hurt, big hurty, reader death, vague wound description, cursing, talk about dead bodies

Keep reading under the cut!

Kaeya

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. You were meant to live forever with him. You were supposed to grow old with him and become a parent to your future children. You were-

“Kaeya” you choke out smiling at your partner above you. The man shakes his head mentally pleading with you to not die “Kaeya I will always be on the wind” you tell him, a shaky, bloody hand raised to his cheek to weekly caress it

“Please” he pleads “Please don’t die on me [name]” you smile at him feeling the breaths in your lungs disappear

“I’m sorry Kae--ya” you apologise before passing away in his arms

He doesn’t move for a long time. He doesn’t feel for a long time. The one person he could share his secrets and his love to gone. Away with the wind

Kaeya doesn’t remember the last time he cried, but he’ll remember this one. 

Your beaten, bruised, broken, dead, and beautiful body slumped in his arms as his tears fall from his face as he feels an absence in his heart

How is he supposed to live on if this is the pain he feels right now?

Jean eventually stumbles upon Kaeya out in the wilds, still clutched to your now cold and even more lifeless body

Jean manages to get the man up with your body held close to his chest

“Jean, I can’t, I can’t let them go” he pleads as if he’s waiting for you to simply wake up in his arms

“Kaeya...” Jean says in a concerned tone having never seen him in such a state, even he seemed to quickly recover from his fathers death

Eventually Jean coaxed Kaeya to go back to the city and leave your body in the hands of the sisters. Where they dressed you up and prepared a funeral service for you

The funeral was larger than Kaeya was expecting, you had affected a many more people than he realised from your small jobs around the city. Kaeya can’t help but be awed at how many people you’ve helped while you were in Mond

The usual chatter of Mondstat is quiet and in a time of grieving for about a week or so, many people have wonderful memories of you and Kaeya seems to be collecting them all, that and bunches of flowers. Many of which find themselves laying on your tombstone as Kaeya tells you about his day

A month passes and it seems like everything's back to normal, Kaeya is back to his outgoing self. He spends more nights at the tavern, but even Diluc doesn’t have the heart to cut him off. 

Jean seems to pick up on the smallest things, goddamnit Jean, the extra nights at the tavern, the eyebags, the weeping she can hear from his room. In it’s own right is heart-breaking, the acting Grandmaster cannot imagine what it’s like to be actually experiencing that kind of pain

-

Diluc

No, not like this

You had both decided that night to join each other in your little vigilante escapade. Which was fine you had both done this before, but tonight resulted in something very different

Here you are, head on Dilucs lap. This could be considered romantic, and often was, were it not for the fact you felt like you choked up a mixture of your lung and your bloody supply

“Diluc” you speak with a much worse for wear voice, the red-head looks into your eyes, eyes already gaining moisture. A similar scene has befallen him before, a Diluc knows how this ends

“Please” he pleads his voice wavering “Please don’t leave me” he chokes back a sob and tears fall off his face the salt hitting your own

“I love you so much” you start, Diluc shakes his head. Must you hurt him so with last words? “Don’t blame yourse-” another set of hacking befalls you as you lose more blood

“Please” he pleads again as the grip you had on his arm goes slack indicating your loss of life

Diluc screams, he cries and he hugs you close. He screams into the air of Mondstat until his voice hurts and he cries until all he’s doing is dry sobbing and he holds you close until you’re broken body is pried from his own broken mind

A wondering Jean heard his screams into the night sky and hereby answered them. She never expected to see Diluc, still in his vigilante getup, crying over your body

She calls for more guards who take your body from his and Jean helps Diluc get back to the estate. At one point during the walk Jean can feel DIluc shaking and hyperventilating. So they stand for a moment, Jean holds and comforts the wine-master before they move again

Jean has never seen such emotion from Diluc before, and she wholeheartedly hopes she’ll never have to see it again. Seeing Diluc so raw and rife with emotion is enough to make anyone cry. And Jean nearly did on more than one occasion.

Your funeral is small, much to Dilucs request and really only were attended by the estate and Jean. Diluc didn’t want to cry again in such a large audience

Though the maids often hear pained sobs coming from Dilucs room as he contemplates and often blames himself for what had transpired. Maids daren’t speak up about what they hear though, Diluc’s pain is more than understandable

Diluc throws himself into work opting to man the bar most days of the week and fighting for the city as often as he can. People around him are more than concerned

Diluc’s stoic nature seems to be intensified now, not wanting to let another person in and die in his arms. He’s seen enough death for his life and wishes not to lose more loved ones

Everything seems to have moved back to what life was before you arrived in your life, depressive, monotonous, boring, mundane for the most part and sad. So very sad

He wishes for a day where his heart isn’t strife with grief, but he doubts that day will not be coming anytime soon

-

Childe

You grin up at him, feeling close to naught pain coming from the gaping wound thanks to the excess of adrenaline that’s pumping through your body

“Childe” you say the smile still on your lips in an attempt at not making the situation as dark and horrific as it is. Childe speaks your name in return

“I love you” you tell him mustering the strength to cup the mans cheek, who immediately nuzzles into it. The situation almost doesn’t feel real to him. He’s going to be shaken awake by a very unwounded you in just a moment and inform him he’s having a nightmare

But that moment doesn’t come. Nor do any words come from you. Your slow rhythms of your heart remind you that he’s still got time, but you’ve expended all your energy. Your smile you’re wearing seems to be dropping

“I love you [name], I love you so much, you are everything I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you” he rambles bringing your body to his chest

“Live for--- me” you sputter out into his chest, a dying wish that Childe isn’t too sure he can uphold. Is it really living if he’s an empty vessel.

You go limp in his arms and he can no longer sense your heartbeat. Death had finally laid claim to you

Childe sits with you for hours, you’d expect him to be wailing like a banshee if you knew his personality but that’s rather not the case. Sobbing quietly is a better word for what happens. Most of his sobs and hacks for air are hidden in your hair. He pulled your body to his shoulder just to weep

Eventually he finds himself mustering the courage to walk back to Liyue Harbour. You firmly held in his arms. He knows that if he walks too plainly the Millelith would pry and ask too many questions for his fragile heart to answer

Childe ends up barging into the wangsheng funeral parlour, which surprises Zhongli a little. He’s about to go on a rant to Childe about how he must book an appointment, until he sees your lifeless body in his arms

The funeral is arranged quickly and neatly. There aren’t many people who attend, Childe is okay with that, he secretly wants to see his family and cry on their shoulder a bit

Instead he opts for a letter, which arrives to the family tear stained and lacking the usual penmanship ‘I’m sorry, you won’t be able to see [name] after all. They passed away not too long ago...’ he basically writes your arbitrary in the letter. And his whole heart is in every word he writes

Determined not to let anybody in Childe finds himself in a pattern, when he’s not throwing himself into battles he’s doing paper work or yelling at his subordinates and when he’s not doing that he’s doing his weekly fight with the traveller. Childe gets next to no sleep and instead opts to reading and rereading every letter and note you’ve ever given him

If Childe passes out at his desk nobody bothers him either in fear of getting yelled at by the harbinger or an understanding of losing a loved one

They never said being a harbinger was fulfilling work. Yet, he let himself believe that he could be fulfilled and content with a lover. What a shameful lie

-

Venti

He’s awfully quiet. He hasn’t experienced death in so long. Especially one he thought would be forever.

He couldn’t even get to you to hear your last words. Ironic isn’t it? He hadn’t heard that guys last words either. And yet this pains him so much more

Sure mortal lives are fleeting but he was certain he had more time with you. More time to see you grow old, more time to put off your inevitable mortality. More time to-

He’s hyperventilating, Venti’s body shakes as he finds nothing to ground himself not even the person he loves so dear is there for him. He feels like he could explode, breaths caught in his throat refusing to surface and come up for air. Despite being an immortal archon, the breaths that refuse to surface don’t fail to make him feel like he’s choking

A bard he is. And one that knows every song from the past, present and future. Suddenly the pained songs from the future make sense to him. He knew what was written. A love lost

Suddenly he finds himself crying and hunched over your deceased form making promises to the wind that he’ll never forget you. Much like he’ll ever forget that bard

He isn’t sure how long has passed but he’s still sobbing over your form, there aren’t many tears left for him to cry but he can’t find himself stopping. He feels like they’ll never stop. 

Maybe he could lay beside you and sleep for another thousand years. But that would only delay the inevitable. The inevitable sinking feeling.

Maybe it was his fault for letting himself fall in love with a mortal, but in the moment he could truly see you living life with him. He could see a marriage, children. He wanted you to have it all.

Damn celestia and all things above for not letting you ascend, at least when he inevitably ascends you’ll be there to greet him. Curse that and your mortality

Jean eventually stumbles upon him during a recon mission to find him covering your body in various flowers, a crown made of cecelias don your head. He’s quiet, but he’s saying goodbye. Who would blame him? Jean doesn’t interrupt him and only wishes you a farewell

News of your death spread around town like wildfire, your grave donned with more flowers than Venti can count. He almost feels bad about not doing a public service after seeing how many people are truly in mourning

Diluc doesn’t push Venti to pay his growing tab no matter how much he should. And Diluc doesn’t say no to Venti singing his happy tunes in the tavern

It feels like his life has retuned to normal. Though Jean can’t help but look out the library window to see Venti sat atop his statue with an expression, as Jean can only guess, of sadness.

Venti finds himself going back to an old schedule again but he can’t miss the nagging feeling of somethings missing. The something being you

Sometimes he half expects you to hug him from behind, or join him up at the statue, or kiss him on his nose, or-

Venti can’t quite comprehend how he feels, he just knows there’s a hole in his heart where you belonged. And he doesn’t want to let anyone find their way into there

He doesn’t want to lose again

It’s happened too much

[improbable-outset]

Saw that you’re open for requests and I looked through your writing prompts list sooo,,,

mayhaps Deimos/Dedmos with “i think i’m losing myself (again)” ? 😳

Of course. Here shawty, fresh out of the oven for you, a perfect blend of angst and fluff combined ! <3

𝐃𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐞

Deimos x gn!Reader

Word count: 954

MadCom Masterlist | AO3

TW and CW: Brief mentions emotional breakdowns and anxiety and descriptions of death. Established relationships. Yes I know he has a rock jaw but let’s just pretend that he can still be vocal okay??

Summary: Being a wanted criminal and a trained mercenary, one will assume that you’ll have to hide your sensitive sides - or that’s what Deimos believes.

Most may believe that resurrecting someone from the dead is absurd. Outright preposterous. How can someone bring another back right after their life has been extinguished? But in Nevada, pretty much any sort of madness is possible. That includes resurrecting someone or even zombifying them.

However, as most people would assume that being alive again is a good thing, it doesn’t always end well - once you come back to life, you don’t really forget how you died.

With Deimos, he still remembers it vividly. He remembers how his vision was slowly blurring before blacking out as his consciousness slowly slipped away. They say the last sense to go while in the dying process is your hearing which was probably why he wasn’t focused on the sheer heat of his ripped flesh but rather on the high-pitched ringing in his ears right after the shotgun which went on even after his unresponsive state.

Despite his life being restored, he feels like he still hears the ringing in his ears. Perhaps he was just going mad but the sound makes the hair stand on its end. It feels like a reminder of his mortality. A countdown to his second death.

Even as he is just sitting here in your room, watching as you help with cleaning his equipment and oiling his gun, he feels dissociated from reality. He’s quieter than usual which was outlandish for someone like him. Though he does act on impulses, it is rare that he allows the raw emotions to get to him. Raw moments like the time he realised he was falling for you and couldn’t stop spilling about how amazing you are to Sanford or the night when he finally confessed his feelings to you.

He often masks the sensitive side with humour and jokes to avoid getting hurt or at least convince himself that he’s okay and everything else is fine just to keep things moving. Tonight that humorous side seems to be dimmed out so it was hard to hide it now.

“Alright, I think that’s the last of it,” your voice breaks him out of his trance, almost startling at the sudden sound.

“Huh? Alright cool,” he drones. His words almost came out slurry. You stare at him intensely, almost taken back by his small response. He doesn’t even realise how glum he just sounded.

“What’s going on with you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Dei, you haven’t said a word since you came back. You’ve been quiet all night. What’s gotten into you?”

Of course you would sense something was up. Deimos never misses a beat when he finds the opportunity to say a witty remark. Whether it is a sly innuendo or a sadist comment. Either way, it’s never quiet with him.

“It’s hard to explain…”

“Well, we’ve got all night for you to explain and I’ll try and figure it out. I’m your partner Deimos, it's my job to make sure you’re okay,” your comment made his cheeks warm - he really admires your determination. But how exactly is he supposed to explain that the thing that was bothering him is his own death that has already happened once?

“Well… it’s been almost a year since I ‘died’. ” Deimos isn’t the best at reading people easily but right now he could almost see the gears turning in your head as you try to process what he just said - or just thinking that he’s out of his mind right now. He already feels like he’s drowning in an ocean. But watching your expression, he now feels like he’s sinking deeper and deeper. “I told you… you won’t get it-” he was ready to dispose of the whole situation and was hoping the rest of the night wasn’t going to turn out awkward.

“No no. I understand, believe me. You think I haven’t seen the outrageous experiments the agency has done?” Fair point. “I’m just a little taken back. You never told me this,”

“I wasn’t ready to tell you yet and I didn’t wanna make you uncomfortable,”

“Well, you’re alive now and hopefully it’ll stay like that for a while. That’s all that matters now, right?” you said sheepishly and gave a hopeful smile, trying to lift up the mood but Deimos’ mind is still in distress.

“Yeah, but sometimes I feel like I’m losing myself again. I can’t stop thinking about how I’m gonna die again. I know what to expect now and it’s pretty terrifying,” he grimaced at the memory again and the God-awful ringing that was in his ear.

“Sweet boy, come over here,” Deimos isn’t new to the nicknames you gave him but something about the way you said it now was making his heart stutter. He doesn’t have to move much since you’re already on your way toward him to envelope him in a warm embrace. “You always make sure that I feel safe, it’s only fair that I make sure that you feel the same too,” he already feels more secure with your arms wrapping around his form. You make him feel at home. “I know it’s hard to forget about death with all the killing on the battlefield, I can’t stop that. But I can try and make your life worthwhile, distract you from the awful thoughts.” You murmur in his neck, sending a tickling yet comforting vibration through him. He finds himself inhaling the smell of you and burying his face on your neck.

You both stayed like that for a while, Deimos can already feel the tension easing just a little. He pulls his face away to look at you. You were studying his face, eyes roaming around and trying to read him.

“Thank you, angel. Really appreciate it.”

Was this okay?? I tried my best and feedback is always appreciated!!

Last divider by @maysdigitalarts

[ackerfics]

Hello Rory! Another year draws to an end. We have all suffered and survived this year, growing up and understanding the world more and some people like me, are reflecting.

Every year at this time, I find myself in an odd, odd state of mind to say the least- filled with a melancholic blue that nothing else could replicate. I find myself listening to Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here and The Dark Side Of The Moon, soaked in a nostalgic ocean. Though, this nostalgia fills me with not the sense of longing for the past, but a longing for my lost time. I look at myself and realise how much I've matured and grown, how much I've changed and how much I've seen. Rory- I cannot even put into words my gratitude towards you.

I remember stumbling upon your blog roughly around a year ago and being absolutely enchanted by your writing- I was mesmerised by your words and stories, longing for those to occur in real life. I started writing anonymous asks and messages showing my admiration toward you, and soon, I wrote something that wasn't anonymous. Here I am today, just simply me- writing a long message to you, an author online who I had the honour of interacting with. You see, I am a writer myself, I write to express my emotions and one concept that has always captured my interest was time. I find it oddly fitting as my one of my favourite songs by Pink Floyd is 'Time' and something about it has always spoken to me. Roger Waters' lyrics made me think and ponder; what else is there to life? Does life even matter?

Yes, it does. We live this beautiful road called life that makes us cry in pain and anguish, makes us smile and laugh with the very essence of spring. We meet people, many of whom we will never meet again or even remember. However, that one day I first read your writing, something changed within me. Your writing filled me with an pastel array of thoughts- gentle like the ocean's waves on a still day. I took things I admired about your writing and made them into my own, contorting and changing them to fit my own shadow. Your stories filled me with pure, innocent joy that I looked forward losing myself into more everyday. Rory, my dearest Rory, your blog is something that I always come back to when I'm reminiscing about time. Your writing brought my own art a kiss of a cool breeze which forever changed it and made it better.

I wrote a piece about a dying woman and her lover, showing her slow but ultimate death through the change of seasons. For me, that piece was the one that forever morphed me as a person in some strange way. Rory- you are one of the reasons I began writing more, and for that, I say Thank you.

Thank you, thank you for your talent, thank you for helping this one little girl find her writing voice. Thank you for your Levi pieces that helped me become the hapless romantic I am today. Thank you for answering all my asks and finally, thank you for your blog being here for my moments of melancholic longing for time. I do not know if you remember me or not, but I know that I will remember your forever as the writer that helped me in my worst times and helped unknowingly change me. I beg of you, never ever delete your blog. I have been closing doors of my old life as of recently and I would not be able to stand this one closing as well.

Rory- I wish you a happy new year and a peaceful lifetime filled with everything you dream of. I do not know if I will write another something like this next year or not, but I am writing it now, and its just me bare and raw. I haven't been back to your blog in around 8 months and here I sit, writing my thoughts to you, knowing you as the Rory from my toughest times.

Happy New Year, and thank you

Anita

happy new year, anita! <33

receiving this message is one of the best things that happened in 2022 and answering it is the perfect way to start my 2023. i never knew i would come to a point where someone would be inspired by my writing yet here you are -- such a kind soul that i enjoy answering asks to when i have the chance. you know, i received an anonymous confession from a person in our university before the year ended as well but your message weighs so much more for me. there's no denying that your message made me teary-eyed when i first laid my eyes on it and it continues to give me unshed tears reading it now.

i'm so so proud of you for going through 2022 even with a heavy state of mind -- if only you can receive my hug from across the screen, i'd gladly give you a hundred more. this blog will forever remain your haven if you want. the stories won't go anywhere even if i decide to open another part of my life and they will continue to be a part of my past that i feel the most attachment with. i'm also thankful for you for being a part of my journey in this platform. because of you and some of the lovely people reading my works, the inspiration to create more stories never dies down. the fact that your presence in this blog continues to remind me to never let this part of my life go speaks so much. also, thank you for opening up to me like this -- my chest feels so warm whenever someone does so since your trust in me can be seen in the words.

may you have a prosperous new year, may it be kinder to you than the previous ones, and may it guide your writing in heights that it has never reached before.

i will forever cherish the words you sent to me, keeping them in my little jar.

(🌼)

[bunchofstraydogs]

Dazai Osamu character breakdown as I understand him

Meaning that this might be inaccurate and your opinion and visage of him might differ from mine, which is just fine. We perceive the world and the people around us through our experiences and expectations. I'm curious to know how you guys see a complex character like Dazai, just please respect everyone's opinions.

Warning: Manga plot mentions, s2 spoilers, BEAST light novel spoilers, Dazai Osamu

Dazai Osamu was introduced into the scene of Bungou Stray Dogs at 14 when Mori found him.

Even at that young age, Dazai had suicidal tendencies and had been wrapped in bandages similarly as he is in the present. Already dealing with too much trauma for a child his age, the fire is fuelled as he was forced to bear witness to the death of the Port Mafia boss at the hands of Mori, the person that took him under his wing. To use him; which was becoming very apparent to Osamu if he hadn't been aware since the start. Now, I'm not saying that death of the previous boss left a particular scar on Samu, he even agrees with it and is something he himself would have done. But that that is the scene that bore fruit of the following quotes:

"Or could it be that you're afraid, Mori-san? That one day i will slit your throat and take over as the boss?"

followed by

"Everyone seems suspicious to those who have an axe to grind."

This tells us right away that he can tell what type of person you are just from the way you perceive your surroundings, which is logical, but not something many think too deep into.

Even less who have their evaluations of others on point like he does. And he has to, since Dazai's plan is always to understand his allies, his enemies, possible allies and possible enemies. He also takes into account important neutral parties that can still, in one way or another, affect the outcome of his plans or decide to align with one side out of common interest. After comes realising the main goals, along with side achievements (just in case some of those maim his allies or ruin the future plans he made) of every party. Taking in their morals and motivation, and being familiar with the ground the confrontation will happen on, he now has the view of the whole chess board and it's pieces in his head. He moves his allies in the right places, knowing how they'll react in the situation to come, and awaits the enemies with open fire arms. He was tought to think like that. At all times. Mori made sure of it. You know how specialists never really stop thinking in their areas of expertise, like doctors, for example, will naturally notice people's posture and look for scoliosis or whatever? How your foot hits the floor, if you're walking straight, your knees and shoulders, etc. Same for Dazai. His brain maps out person's expressions, reactions, choices, personality, etc. in great detail. I'm pretty sure he has eidetic memory, if his conversations in manga with Fyodor are anything to go by.

Another thing his brain does is think of worst possible outcomes.

Not in a fear of what if things go wrong, but as a possible route. He uses it to determine how big of a threat the opposing force is and what steps they'll have to take to achieve that. Knowing that, he'll know how to intercept them. Also, like everything else, it's not something he can control since we're talking about thought process here and that's just how his brain works. Can't magically turn that off. It's especially annoying to him when he's genuinely enjoying himself with, let's say, ADA members and then his brain goes brrr.

•"A lot happened recently and we're a torn in many people's eyes." *Tanizaki and Atsushi drinking punch* "There's a possibility, while a small one, about 8% at this very moment, but as time goes on will increase, that an organisation outside of Yokohama decided we're an unavoidable threat and poisoned the drinks. Don't drink that. Nothing will happen, they'll wake up tomorrow in pristine condition don't drink th-"

Yeah, i feel bad for him too.

He has PTSD and insomnia, besides the hectic brain,

so he's not getting proper amount of rest. Actually, he drinks almost every night by himself at home. Pretty sure it's canon as well, because if you search for a picture of him in his room, you'll see him surrounded by multiple bottles. Two of the PTSD symptoms are hallucinations and night terrors (no, that is not the same as a nightmare). What people usually do is use opium to cause hallucinations in a safe environment so that there's little chance of them happening uncontrolled. He's probably using alcohol to numb himself while he's reminiscing, since if he does still have hallucinations after years having passed by (which isn't impossible), they're probably few and far between. Not saying there's no chance he isn't using opium. He would know where to get what he needs, after all.

Osamu's haunted by his own actions as well, not just by trauma caused to him.

At an uncountable amount of occasions, he found himself looking into a mirror and not really comprehending his image. It was like dissociation. Looking through a fog at what's supposed to be your carbon copy, but not knowing all of your features perfectly, so whatever you're seeing could only be an impostor, yet you're not sure because that would take comprehending physical proof of your life to the fullest and how it works and he just... can't. He can but he doesn't want to. He already knows he's despicable and broken, doesn't really feel the need to see just how much. He can't, for all his perfect memory, remember the faces of the people he has killed. He hadn't even seen all of them, but he was responsible for their demise. Causing havoc and misfortune in general through other crimes besides murder as well. We've seen his expression when he listened in on Atsushi talking to Kyouka over the earpiece how the 35 deaths don't matter anymore. He knows they do and he knows that the change of heart won't justify what he's they've done. Ango thought him to value each life. But he also knows that even murderers can change and become good. Oda did that. It's also what's keeping him in the agency.

When Oda died, his last words mentioned that Dazai doesn't care about good or bad and that was correct for Dazai Osamu back then. I genuinely think that his present self does mind the difference.

He believes in necessary evil and will do dark shit to get the good outcome he's envisioned.

He doesn't separate outlaws and lawful people, however.

He knows that generally speaking, the line is thin and easy to cross and that many were born or forced into the situations they are. Those that fight the life thrown at them are an exception, not a rule. That's also why he likes Atsushi, probably the main reason. The boy has every right to hate the world and yet. Dazai is envious, he doesn't really have the same capacity.

I want now to talk about why does Dazai Osamu do what Dazai Osamu does.

The reason he attempts suicide, joined the mafia, made friends at all, is because for all his intelligence and observations, ability to understand others, he doesn't really understand himself.

He doesn't understand his worth. He doesn't understand his purpose. In all of that confusion, he finds no reason to live. He laughs but can't get the high, he bruises but can't fully heal. In all of the things people find happiness in he can't feel joy from. He is emotionally stunted. He thinks too logically. He doesn't understand actions out of emotions because to him, it doesn't make sense. Emotions cloud your mind and when you're not thinking straight, you make mistakes. Plain and simple. He just accepts it, that most people simply cannot control themselves and prefer lashing out instead of methodical approach. All the better for him, he has leverage. Even when he does act on impulse, which is incredibly rare and not as explosive and dramatic, his brain rationalises it as to why his actions were a good way to go. And if his reaction was one that bore fruit, than it was a tactical one.

"If you place yourself somewhere close to raw emotions, where you're exposed to raw violence and death, instinct and desire, you can brush against man's true nature. I though that way i could find a reason to live somehow."

From this, i can tell that he was hoping that, in a situation where he's pushed far enough, he'd realise what's important to him, what he wants to protect or destroy, what's one thing he wouldn't want to leave unsettled before dying. What is that one thing he'd regret dying before achieving? What should he fight death for. What is worth living on for? To him, it doesn't matter if that something is good or evil as long as he gets to keep it in his life.

It seems he hadn't found it exactly, but is satisfied with what he has for now, in the agency, to just keep going. But he still tries to commit suicide, hoping that one day, when the clear picture of the world around him is fading away, when he's becoming light headed from the lack of oxygen, when he's loosing control over his body and thoughts don't seem to flow well, there will be one thing, anyone, screaming at him to fight it. New day new chances. It didn't happen today, better luck tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomo-.

Now, like Mori, Dazai feels the need to, at all times, be in control of the situation. Including people.

That means no one, but perhaps Ranpo due to his own abnormal intellect, is aware of their own role. They know their mission, but they're not expecting to be given that particular one because they'll come across an obstacle they would react to in a way that would satisfy Osamu's plans.

Dazai Osamu is more of a chemist, than a chess player, if you ask me.

Throwing different people into the mix, under different conditions at different times and is noting down their reactions in safe surrounding if possible, so that when the time calls for it, he'll be able to make a perfect concoction for the predicament. A chemist and his substances; A chess player and his pawns; A puppeteer and his puppets. Now, Dazai is meticulous and never rash, but like everyone else (except effin Lovecraft what is he even) he's only human and he bleeds when he falls down and humans aren't perfect. He isn't always right. That means he makes mistakes. The issue with big shot players that control the board is that, when they fall down, everyone on their side crashes and burns as well. So the day Dazai fucks up everyone else will follow because of lack of insight on their part that's completely out of their control. All it takes is for him to underestimate or overestimate one person and chaos ensues. There is no such thing as happy little accidents small mistakes for someone like him. I have crippling anxiety and a sole thought that one hiccup could blow up in everyone's face... damn. I would try committing suicide myself. But it's his fault, he brought upon himself an obligation and pressure like that. To be fair, it was Mori that drilled that type of thinking where no one should know what you plan because they can't ruin what they don't know If they turn against you, they can't stop you.

For his own sake, and everyone else's, Dazai needs to learn how to show his cards and share the burden.

Again, going back to the emotionally stunted guy that has commitment issues (where he either can't commit or can't let go) trope.

He never outright does something good for someone where people would acknowledge it, he uses his underhanded tactics here as well.

He casually makes himself look like a bad guy, an asshole, to conveniently move attention from the inner turmoil a person is struggling with to a present problem at hand that they can fix and let their frustrations out on. But he hopes that, one day, someone just might notice his intentions for what they are and do the unspeakable- see through him.

"I'm a very private person. You don't ask, i don't tell."

Yes, and your whole existence is just a huge cry for help. He wants to be asked. He's begging for attention. A specific type of attention. One that will see him without making him feel imposed on. One that will understand his sins without making a big deal out of it. Accept him as a person he is, makes him feel like one as well. Makes him feel alive. Makes him feel... period.

The day he finds that thing is the day he completely turns his life around and fully dedicates to it. It's where the part of not being able to let go commitment issue ensues.

Since Oda's death he's been secretly keeping an eye out on possible ways to bring him back. If you've read Beast AU you know that when Dazai gets his hands on the book, he'll create a universe where Oda doesn't die. Should he find an ability user that can bring back the dead, just tell him what it will take, he's ready to destroy his own soul for it and if that isn't enough, well, he'll have no hesitation ruining theirs. After all, BEAST!Dazai Osamu never actually met Odasaku, he just had the memories he'd gotten from his canon self and that was enough for him to do everything he did.

He's incredibly selfish and has a weird come in but the door is a wall dynamic he rolls with in his self imposed solitude.

It's like the walls of the space in my brain are ugly and terrifying, so i closed off the entrance to keep myself in. I'm doing you a favour but please break the wall down and tell me it's okay to come out i don't want to be here-

Happy little thoughts woah woah yeah~

That's what i got from what I've seen of him. I may have missed some things, some things might prove to be wrong as the series progress further, but yeah.

There is, however, one more thing i want to put out here. Since Dazai was already like this before Mori found him, that begs to question as to why? What happened to him?

Now, since the characters are based on real people, is it crazy to say that Dazai Osamu has had a horrible childhood because of his father? Real life Dazai was terrified of his dad and was very intimidated by him. He always tried to stay in his good graces out of fear of punishment. Neither of his parents felt like a parent to him, actually. His father didn't care and his mother was often ill, but did care for him when she could. Both of them died eventually.

This could be the plot Kafka based Dazai's background on, but we'll have to wait and see.

[ginisbetterthanfirewhiskey]

A Secure guy

Written for the Hinny Ficfest 2021. 

Thank you @clarensjoy for organizing this! Really! We're so lucky to have you!!

@thedistantdusk , you're a sweetheart and I love you. Thank you again for everything. That was the sweetest surprise.

Prompts:

#66: “That was the last time. I’m serious this time.”

#85: “She deserves flowers and gifts and a secure guy who isn’t almost murdered by lunatics left and right and I can’t give her that.”

Also available on Ao3.

TW: Rated M just in case. And really angsty.

She deserved flowers and gifts and a secure guy who wasn’t almost murdered by lunatics left and right and he couldn’t give her that.

Harry knew it was a matter of time, he wasn’t that stupid or delusional. 

He just hoped it’d never come and the emotions jostling in his heart hurt like hell, so much more he’d thought it would.

The bed bounced when she retrieved her jumper from the floor of his room and got dressed. 

“That was the last time. I’m serious this time,” Ginny murmured in the night, hooking her bra behind her back, her voice colder than ever before. 

Harry contented himself to nod, unable to come up with a reply anyway. The ball in his throat suffocated him, and yet, to his despair, he wasn’t dying. 

She meant it this time, it was evident. He had to resign himself that it was over, the end of a story, of a story he had himself destroyed. Ginny had turned the page and it wasn’t her fault if he was still stuck in the past.

It was over. Never again would the tips of his fingers graze her hot skin, his palms brush her thighs, his lips skim her face or his nails scratch at her back. 

It would be someone else’s task now, he reckoned. 

She hadn’t looked at him at all this time, keeping her eyes shut, her lips away from his, like it was now forbidden to cross that line. He’d noticed the difference right away, leaving him tight-lipped. His lips had searched hers but she’d turned her head, her long hair colliding with his face. His heart racing, his movements unsteady, he’d tried again, but she’d pulled back completely, increasing the speed of her hips connecting with his, her hands clutching his biceps.

Harry understood at this instant that something had changed in their intimate relationship, that she wasn’t interested to share that part of her with him anymore. He contented himself to observe her while he was trying to pleasure her, her silhouette blurred from his lack of glasses. He cherished every pant and sigh coming from her lips, touching, with a heavy heart, these sections of her body only he knew of.

For now. 

It had killed him to not feel her trembling on him from the intensity of their love-making. Ginny had  jumped from him the second she finished like he’d burned her. Clenching his jaw,  he realized another man would have that chance now, and that he should have relished in it more the last time they had been together. He hadn’t expected it, as stupid as it sounded, and now he was let trying to grasp at every single souvenirs of it he could recover in his memory. 

Thus far, she’d stayed close to him in bed after, her head on his chest, her sweet smelling hair tickling his chin, just like before he decided to fuck it up.

But he prefered to crush his dream life then to live with the possibility of endangering her.

She got off of the bed, the sheet moving from his bare chest at the same time. He couldn’t look at her getting dressed or leaving his room for the last time, knowing full well he wouldn’t be able to bear it, that it would be the last image of them sharing something intimate together. 

It was his decision and he couldn’t expect her to act like he hadn’t broken up with her. 

Again. 

His eyes stung, and yet, he did nothing to stop it, too devastated to sooth the pain. He stared at the ceiling of his room, arms crossed over his heart, attempting to protect the last bit of dignity he could gather. 

The door closed behind her, the click reasonating in his ears, and he was left alone to face his intolerable heartache like a big boy. But it hurt more than knowing you were the only one to save the world, more than wishing your mum would rock you at night after a nightmare, realizing your aunt would probably be willing to do that for anyone else but you. Because you were different, you were dangerous.

Because Ginny had been the only one he’d ever trusted enough to be completely vulnerable in her presence, with whom he’d accepted to share the most private parts of him. Their relationship had been a turning point in his life, raw, essential to his survival. Special enough that she could scream to the world the feel of her lips on his was the principal reason they were rid of Voldemort. 

The first threatening sob escaped his lips, the sound breaking the silence of the room, and then another, and another, and he found himself unable to control his shaken body.

Rolling on his side, he brought up his knees to his chest, struggling to breathe, the flow of his tears flooding his pillow. 

He deserved the pain. He deserved it. Because he was different, too dangerous, and Ginny couldn’t be with him. 

He grasped his comforter, bringing it to his nose in hope it was filled with her flowery scent and he could get the impression she was here, close to him. Just one last time. Just once.

Crying convulsively, shedding tear after tear, Harry didn’t even hear when the door creaked again. 

“Sorry I forgot my- Harry?!”

He tried, really tried, to stop the last sob from crossing his lips, in vain. Sealing his lips together, Harry hoped Ginny wouldn’t judge him or take pity on him, or worse, fetch Ron. 

He stayed still, hearing his heart pumping in his ears and feeling dizzy from the sadness and anger at himself consuming his insides. 

The mattress sank under Ginny’s weight and Harry felt her feet against his calves. One of her hands settled on his shoulder, the other one taking residence in his hair, tentatively brushing lock after lock. She pressed against his back, her clothes remembering him she didn’t stay this time. 

“It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m here,” she whispered in his ear.

“You-you don’t want to be here,” he managed to reply, shame rousing inside him. Harry was mortified she found him in a ball on his bed after they just had sex. His chagrin  was eating him alive, sending him spiralling in a dark void where he could only feel hatred and disgust for himself, but also heartache and something related to agony, he was sure of it. 

The silence stretched a moment until Harry sniffed, his hand squeezing the comforter tighter against his chest. An owl hooted outside, reviving Harry’s melancholy at not having Hedwig to talk to, with whom he could share without embarrassment his fright of dying without being loved. 

“That’s only because you don’t want me to be here, Harry,” murmured Ginny, her words shattering his heart. Regret burnt in his veins, knowing he’d afflicted Ginny with his deepest terror.

Being dumped, ditched by the person you trusted the most. 

Harry turned on his back, needing her to understand she did nothing wrong, on the contrary, that he never wanted her to feel abandoned or betrayed. But the words died in his throat when he saw her eyes filled with her own tears. 

“I just want to protect you from me,” he pleaded with her to understand. She had to understand.

Ginny closed her eyes, inhaling sharply, the hand that was on his shoulder now playing with the hair on his chest, close to his heart. Harry remembered that time to cherish it, to incrust in his mind the solace her small fingers on his skin brought him, soothing the violent anguish torturing his mind. “You’re hurting me more than anyone else could ever do,” she spat at him.

He sniffed again, her words like a knife twisting his heart. He searched for something to say, for the best way to explain his train of thoughts, but he’d never been the best at formulating his idea. 

“Well, I guess I have nothing else to do here,” said Ginny, and he felt her hand lifting from his chest.

He panicked. “No, no. Stay. Please, Ginny.”

She frowned. “Why? For me to hurt even more when you’ll tell me you didn’t change your mind? That you still don’t want to be with me? Just in case? You can’t, Harry. It can’t continue. You can’t fuck me, kiss me like we were still together, and then expect me to be all good with it when you gently remind me we’re not. It’s destroying me,” Ginny said, her voice cracking. Her hand lifted to her mouth and she closed her eyes before turning her back to him, exactly like she did when he let her alone in her room after their last kiss years ago. 

He let her down so many times.

But all he could think of was that: Was she really thinking he only used her body lately for his own physical needs? How could she have been aware that each time they had touched, it  had been the only times he’d felt alive lately? 

She wasn’t trusting him anymore, just like most people she knew. He was now discarded in the “dangerous category”, the same as Tom.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Swallowing, he pressed his palms to his teary eyes, begging himself to regain control of his emotions. Harry sat up, his hand shaking when he moved it to her back. “Don’t- don’t hide from me.” 

He started caressing her back, feeling more confident with her than he ever felt with any other crying girl. Merlin, he was so messed up, he didn’t even know why Ginny ever wanted him. 

Harry should have realised Ginny's trust was something difficult --maybe impossible-- to regain, and that was why she didn’t turn back, still trying to muffle up her sobs. 

He had to try though, to show her it was real what they ever shared, that he meant it when he told her he loved her. He should have said it more, showed it more.

At this point, Harry didn’t even know what he was doing, his mind confused, his needs, desires, dreams and fears all twirling and colliding in his head. There were still dangers at being with him, to be displayed by his side, to be linked to him, and his anxiety of losing her was strong enough to leave him breathless and choking in fear. Harry was unable to think straight when it happened, ready to do anything to keep her safe.

Yet, he made a mistake. Again. He knew it now. 

“I’m sorry, Gin. I never wanted to hurt you,” he said, laying his forehead on her shoulder. 

The tears started flowing from his eyes again but he didn’t hold them in, knowing it was no use. Not when it came to her being in pain, a pain he caused. 

“I-I don’t,” he tried. “I don’t know what-what to do. I don’t want you to die too.” 

There was a beat, and then Ginny turned, laying her forehead on his, keeping her eyes close. “I understand, I’m terrorized by the idea of you dying too,” she confided to him, her fingers dancing around his wrist. “Just- I’m my own person and it’s my choice who I date. Just act with your heart for once. I’ll deal with your decision, but-”

“Can I kiss you?” whispered Harry, knowing he’d made up his mind. A life without her was meaningless and he was nonfunctional without her love.  His hand went up to her freckled cheek, the skin there so soft compared to his rough palm. 

Taken aback, Ginny swallowed before humming in response. Without opening her eyes, she leaned her mouth to his, her breath warming his chin. The tip of her tongue moisted her lips in the most tantalizing way, causing Harry’s head to spin, and then she crushed her lips to his. 

He kissed her with fervor, with a passion he wasn’t aware he was capable of. She pushed on his chest and he brought her body with his on the mattress. Straddling him, she kissed his neck and he felt himself being consumed with desire, with a powerful lust leaving him panting. Ginny chuckled in his neck  and then lifted her head to look into his eyes, giving him such a sensual smile he groaned in longing. 

Their love-making this time was like he was remembering it: full of intensity and filled with love, little attentions and pure ecstasy. 

"Give me some time," she whispered when they were regaining their breath, her head resting on his chest. “I-I need time.” Harry’s breath hitch and Ginny surely heard it because she lifted her head and moved on him to rest her chin on her hands, which were close to his heart. She kissed his chin tenderly. 

“I love you, I just-”

“I understand,” said Harry, cutting her. Because he did, really did. “I’ll wait. I love you. Forever,” he told her earnestly, caressing her hair and promising himself he’d do all he ever needed to do to get her trust back.

[pitterpatterpot]

35. “Here, take my hand. Everything is fine, just hold onto me and keep moving.”

41. “I had a nightmare about you, and I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

45. “Again?”

48. “You know, it’s okay to cry.”

52. “Just say it is okay. I just need to hear you say that.”

53. “I love you and I am terrified.”

Here’s the one shot from these prompts! The rest are coming!

~~~

Aedion hiccups, the soil hard and freezing under his cotton sleepwear. The tree behind him prickles and scratches at his back while his body shivers, his stuffed lion toy pressed tightly to his chest. To the left, fires burn. He closes his eyes, sniffling as his wet nose buries against his arm, a cold little touch against his skin. The wind does nothing to soothe the situation, howling between the trees and trembling the shadows in a way that sends him scrambling back.

None of it distracts from the yells and cries in the distance, the clanging of the shields and swords ringing through the night. It prompts another whimper.

Then the tips of his red ears are suddenly encompassed, the sense of a broad hand cupping his head taking over. A thumb rubs soothingly at where his skull meets his spine, a gentle shushing starting as a larger body curls over his.

“It’s alright,” he’s lifted and held against a strong chest, a heart beating solidly underneath his ear. “It’s alright.”

His father. Gavriel. If he says everything will be fine, then it will be. Aedion reaches a small hand up, grasping the collar of Gavriel’s shirt.

“Here, take my hand. Everything is fine, just hold onto me and keep moving,” Gavriel whispers soothing, lifting a palm up in offering.

Aedion immediately releases the shirt, fingers curling around three of his father’s before letting go. He plays with the plane of his palm, tracing the lines and scars, measuring how his closed fist fits in his father’s palm. Gavriel shushes him once again and flattens out Aedion’s hand, taking it in his own.

“Come on,” Gavriel whispers. “Keep moving.”

Aedion blinks at his father. Keep moving. But he’s in his fathers arms. The shouting grows closer.

“Just keep moving, Aedion. We need to go.”

Hoof beats join the yelling. Aedion tries to twist his head to look. Gavriel bounces him slightly, holding him firmer.

“My cub. You need to move, Aedion. Hurry.”

An arrow imbeds itself in a tree, centimetres away from Gavriel’s head. Aedion whines.

“Why aren’t you moving?” Gavriel looks down at him in confusion, brows furrowing. “I need you to move, Aedion. We can’t stay here. Aedion. Go.”

Aedion twists in earnest now, wondering why Gavriel’s feet seem to have been planted deep in the earth, the frozen mud creeping its way up his ankles to anchor him in place. Aedion knows this land. Has seen soldier after soldier die on this land. It doesn’t let people go.

He drops his toy Lion, and it’s swallowed by the mud. His breathing comes faster, legs kicking.

“Hold my hand and keep moving, Aedion,” Gavriel continues with his calm orders, despite the second arrow that sings to the left, flying past them. “That’s it. We’ll be alright.”

But they’re not moving. Aedion screams in frustration, no sound leaving his lips. Muted and silent as an arrow arcs towards them.

The spray of blood from Gavriel’s neck is warm.

~~~

Aedion heaves, choking on his tears and hollowed breaths.

His body flinging upright, hands splaying outwards and eyes darting around, he inhales a deep breath that leaves his body wheezing. More soon follow, a harsh pattern of panting taking place. He stares at his hands, now the hands of an adult, and traces his scars with his eyes. Counts the edges.

“Aedion?” Lysandra turns to face him, the sheets sliding over her body. “Are you... oh, darling. Again?”

Aedion swallows and nods, a hand pressed to his heart. Lysandra slowly sits up, lifting a hand to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear. He leans into her side before pulling away, dropping his legs over the side of the bed and pulling on the first clothes he reaches.

“I just- Gavriel- I need to see-“

“Of course,” those green eyes watch him, bright and alert. “Do you want me to come?”

Aedion shakes his head. “I- no. Thank you, but this-“

“I understand,” Lysandra nods. “I’ll be here if you decide to come back.”

Aedion nods, pressing a kiss against her forehead before leaving the room. It’s when he reaches Gavriel’s doorway he realises how numb his toes have become, his body breaking out into goosebumps through the sleepwear he threw on. Standing in front of his fathers door, tear marks staining his cheeks and hair in disarray, like the child he dreamt he was instead of the man he really is.

Aedion turns and begins to walk away.

The door clicks open, Gavriel looking out in bewilderment, the Lion dishevelled in a way he rarely is. “Aedion?”

Said male freezes at his name and turns. Gavriel steps further out the room, concern taking over. “What’s wrong? Aedion, you must be freezing, walking around now. Is everything alright?”

Aedion swallows, his throat thick. It’s all he can do to keep another round of tears from being shed. The Lion steps out of his room, approaching his son, clad only in loose fitting pants and clearly bleary eyed from exhaustion. A small band aid rests on his neck, near his scar from the Valg. An injury from a stopped attempted robbery on the palace treasury. A miracle the fool even managed to shoot an arrow in Gavriel’s direction.

But the fact that it’s right next to where the Valg tore at him-

Aedion’s breath hitches, and if Gavriel wasn’t laced with concern before he was now consumed with it.

“Why are you up?” The question comes before Aedion even thinks to ask if.

“Light sleeper,” Gavriel says softly. “You stood outside my door for seven straight minutes.”

Seven minutes? It had felt like a second.

“Aedion, what’s wrong?” His father’s hand rests on his shoulder, warm and heavy in both the weight and safety it promises.

“I had a nightmare about you, and I wanted to make sure you were alright,” Aedion blurts, the words spilling forward and retraction again and again just as quickly. “But you’re fine, obviously, so I’m just-“

“Aedion,” Gavriel’s voice takes on a soft but slightly firmer note, “come sit down with me.”

“You’re freezing, come in, son.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re shaking.”

He is. He is? His hand trembles against his side. Aedion follows the hand on his lower back that urges him towards Gavriel’s room, delicious warmth simpering through the room thanks to the smouldering remains of a fire in the fire place.

Gavriel doesn’t lead Aedion to the desk or the very foot of his bed, instead sitting him on the side, closer to the pillows where the covers are already drawn back. There’s something vulnerable and strange in sitting on his father’s mattress that makes Aedion swallow once again. Gavriel settles next to him, arm dropping from his back to allow him space.

“You had a bad dream about me,” Gavriel recounts softly, “and wanted to make sure I was alright.”

It sounds ridiculous and childish when said out loud. Aedion closes his eyes in a pained response.

“Every time you have a bad dream about me dying you become distant,” Gavriel murmurs, trying to meet Aedion’s eyes. “But this time you decided to check on me. Why?”

“I don’t know,” Aedion croaks, surprised by the rawness of his voice.

“Would you like to talk about the dream?” Gavriel asks, standing and pouring a glass from the pitcher on his bed side table.

Aedion jerks. “No.”

He accepts the cup nonetheless, glad for the cool sensation it brings as he gulps down the contents, Gavriel settling near him once more.

“Alright,” Gavriel nods. “Can I hold you?”

Throat closing up, Aedion leans slightly towards his father. An arm is immediately set around his shoulders, pulling him against Gavriel’s side. His shoulders shake, breath coming through hitched and wheezing as he tries to hold his tears at bay. The dam breaks when Gavriel encircles Aedion in both arms and tucks his head under his chin.

“It’s alright,” one of Gavriel’s hands trails upwards into Aedion hair, stroking at it as he coos. “You’re alright. Breathe for me, Aedion.”

“I am.”

“Slower, for me, Aedion. You’re breathing too fast.”

It’s exhaustion that wins in the end. That causes Aedion to slump further in Gavriel’s hold, breath burning as it drags through his throat. He eventually sits back to allow the Lion to pour him another glass of water, downing in thankfully when it’s handed to him.

“I’m sorry,” Aedion apologises, rubbing at his eyes as he hands the glass back.

Gavriel examines his son as he sits. “You know, it’s okay to cry. It would be more worrying if you, and anyone who had been involved in the war from a young age, didn’t. It shows emotion and the ability to mourn.”

Aedion gives no response, simply swallowing and staring at his hands.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Gavriel asks. “In your dream. You’ve never had the desire to come to me before.”

“It- I was five,” Aedion begins, throat closing as he speaks, thickening with swelling tension. “Or younger. I don’t know. I was small. And Adarlan- or someone- they were coming. You picked me up and kept telling me to- but you were holding me and-“

“Breathe, Aedion,” Gavriel reminds him, settling a hand on his back. “What made this dream so much worse then the others?”

“You had an arrow through your neck.”

“You’ve dreamt worse,” Gavriel’s eye pierce him. “Has something happened recently?”

“No, I...”

“If you feel distressed, or have been under too much pressure lately, I’d understand.”

“Nothing has happened!” Aedion stresses. “I just had to see you this time, alright?”

“Alright,” Gavriel agrees soothingly. “I understand. It was just worse this time, wasn’t it?”

“No, it wasn’t!” Aedion near growls. “It wasn’t that vivid.”

“Alright-“

“It’s not alright!” Aedion stands abruptly. “It isn’t!”

“Why, Aedion?” Gavriel’s face twists in confusion and concern. “I won’t know unless you tell me.”

Aedion flings his arms out in anger and exasperation. “Because I love you and I am terrified!”

Gavriel stares. Aedion begins pacing in earnest, his chest heaving with each word.

“I love you now,” Aedion’s voice shakes along with his hands. “You’re my father and I love you. Do you have any idea how much harder that’s going to make ever losing you?”

Gavriel stares.

“And I’m so stupid for letting it happen!” Aedion bites out, his pace quickening. “Do you have any idea how many times this has happened? And each time I move on, I let myself get attached again, because it’s better to love and lose. I know that. I have no regrets in loving the people in my life. It was war, I knew the risk of loving, but I did it anyway, and that’s fine!”

Gavriel stares.

“But you’re a warrior. You could go fight in a far away war next week! And not because you’re forced to!”

Gavriel jolts, shoulders tensing.

“On some trip or campaign and-“

He’s cut off by Gavriel enveloping him, his father’s arms encircling him tightly and refusing to let go. Aedion sucks in a deep breath, trembling in Gavriel’s hold.

“I am never leaving,” Gavriel promises, voice deep and reverberating through his son. “No more war, or enemies, or hunts and campaigns. I swear to you, whatever fears you have of me visiting some far off kingdom and never coming back are just that- fears.”

“You’re a warrior,” Aedion responds bitterly. “It’s who you are.”

“So are you,” Gavriel responds, voice thick. “It’s who we are. But that does not mean we don’t deserve peace. Our job now is to protect, not attack. So that is what we will do. We will tend to our home. I will tend to you.”

Aedion inhales a large breath, closing his eyes. His father squeezes him tight.

“And for what it’s worth,” Gavriel continues, “I love you too.”

[fakeikemen]

The "Cave of Two Lovers" foreshadows the Zutara interactions in "Crossroads of Destiny"

[And maybe after that too; (yeah this part will be purely based on speculation)]

(See also: A meta that everybody has already written but I haven't because I was living under a rock and watched Avatar very recently)

Like seriously, it is so obvious? I see people try to interpret "The Legend Of Oma and Shu" in so many other ways; like yeah, you're free to interpret it however you want but— most people try to make sense of it while thinking that the tale is just a random occurrence? But it's not.

And here's why:

(I'm so sorry, I tried to add the "keep reading" link here because this gets kinda long but it just won't work) (Also click on the pictures if you want better resolution).

The tale of Oma and Shu is about two lovers who belonged to villages that were at war against each other. To continue meeting each other, they learnt earthbending to create caves in the mountain that divides the two villages. But one day Shu didn't come to the caves. He'd died in the war. So Oma unleashed a terrifying display of her power. And then when people were willing to listen to her, she called off the war and strived for peace between both the villages. As a result the city of Omashu was created— as a monument in remembrance of their love.

So in comparison:

1. Two people belonging to the opposite sides of the war

(Other than the 100 year old war that has been going on, Zuko and Katara are involved in a very fundamental conflict: Capture the Avatar Vs. Protect the Avatar.)

2. With the same colour scheme:

3. Share intimate moments in a cave lit by green crystals:

A popular argument for this comparison is that; Oma and Shu had a positive impressions of each other when they first met. Unlike Zuko and Katara where Katara's first impression of Zuko was pretty negative because he invaded her village.

Zuko and Katara's first proper conversation happens in "Crossroads of Destiny" i.e.; the scene I'm talking about here. After this interaction that they have, I think it's safe to say that they did have positive impressions of each other. (Until Zuko made the wrong choice.)

Other than that, about the colour scheme being a coincidence: Here and here are posts by @marsreds about how the colours are definitely not a coincidence.

But seriously guys? Oma and Shu were the FIRST EARTHBENDERS and yet, instead of greens and yellows they were designed with RED and BLUE?!? (I'll take about Oma's green dress below.)

And on that note, why were Zuko and Katara the only ones who were thrown into the catacombs when everybody else was being held at the dungeons? The dungeons wouldn't have been easy to escape, neither for Zuko nor for Katara.

It's because Zuko and Katara were meant to share an intimate moment in a cave that was supposed to jog our visual memory to remind us of the caves built by Oma and Shu.

(Seriously though, I wasn't really paying attention during CoTL and thought that the Omashu legend was just put in to consume screen time, so I missed the red/blue thing. But then I watched CoD and saw the catacombs and I was like: "Isn't this like that cave made by the lovers?" And then I proceeded to have an oh shit moment because, I knew that Zutara was not canon so I never even considered the possibility of the narrative hinting at anything between them but then this happened. I mean, it's pretty darn obvious).

The colour of the crystals being the same in both caves is no coincidence either— if they just wanted two random caves with crystals, then they could've used a different colour because crystals of different colours exist:

Moving on,

The Visual Cues:

According to the colour coding Zuko = Oma (red) and Katara = Shu (blue).

So,

EXHIBIT A:

I feel like this one speaks for itself.

(I personally think that in this parallel Oma is in red because Katara at this point still sees Zuko as the face of the Fire Nation.)

EXHIBIT B:

This sequence of frames show Oma (dressed in green, like Zuko was in the catacombs) and Shu (dressed in his usual blue), standing on neutral territory and reaching out to each other and then being torn apart by the war.

Pretty much like:

The first time they are in each other's presence without the cause of their conflict (i.e. the Avatar), Zuko and Katara reach out to each other empathetically and attain bone deep understanding of each other within a matter of minutes. This whole encounter is in Ba Sing Se, which counts for the neutral territory because it hadn't been completely taken over by Fire Nation at that point.

And honestly? The raw vulnerability and intimacy of this scene and the high emotional energy of their powerful dynamic is just— wow. (I put off my binging spree for a whole day because I didn't have the heart to see Zutara not become canon after all of this.)

And soon after, Zuko and Katara face each other in battle, their tentative friendship torn apart, as they fight from their respective sides of the war.

EXHIBIT C:

Whenever Oma and Shu appear in the same frame during the visualization of the legend, Oma is always on the left half of the frame and Shu is on the right.

Similarly, throughout all their interactions in the Catacombs, whenever the frame exclusively includes Zuko and Katara, Zuko (like Oma) is on the left half of the frame and Katara (like Shu) is on the right.

The parallels (or foils rather):

#1

In CoTL, we see Song who is a healer (cures Iroh of his poisoning). She mentions that she hasn't seen her father since a Fire Nation raid took place in her village. Zuko empathises with her and says that he too hasn't seen his father in a long while. But then he refuses to say anything else about it.

Later Song tries to reach out to Zuko and tries to touch his scar— which Zuko prevents her from. She shows Zuko her own scars to show that she understood him.

And yet, Zuko doesn't open up to her.

After a while of life-changing and eye-opening experiences, in CoD, when Katara has her meltdown and cries while saying that her mother was snatched away from her by the Fire Nation; Zuko sees an opening to offer an olive branch and he takes it, he empathises with her and tells her that how his mother was snatched away by the Fire Nation as well.

Then Zuko opens up to Katara in a show of complete vulnerability. He openly talks about his scar and what he feels about it. In response, Katara offers to heal his scar and then Zuko lets her touch his scar.

It was nothing but a deliberate choice to make Song slightly parallel Katara (a healer, lost a parent because of the war) and then making Zuko not open up to her and not let her touch the scar, only for Katara to be the one he opened up to and allowed to touch the scar.

#2

After being trapped with Aang in the cave in CoTL and sharing an intimate moment with him, as soon as they find their way out, Katara runs straight ahead without looking back.

But after her time with Zuko, trapped in the Catacombs in CoD, while leaving she turns back to look at Zuko.

Judging by the amount of time the animation puts into showing us Aang's disappointment at Katara running off and into making it clear that Katara did look back at Zuko and that Zuko looked right back at her, to me, it feels like the choice to show this was pretty deliberate.

(Turning back to look at a person while leaving is a romantic trope that has been overused to death? Or is it just bollywood?)

Also I wouldn't have paid this much attention to this small detail if not for the fact that just a hint of the Omashu legend theme is played here?

No, I swear I'm not making it up.

The Omashu legend theme is used in CoD:

The Omashu legend theme is largely dominated by the music of a stringed instrument (forgive me, I don't know what it's called) alongwith a steady melody playing in the background.

In CoD, when Katara and Zuko start conversing for real, (i.e.; when Katara says: "I'm sorry I yelled at you.") what sounds like a variation of the background melody in the Omashu legend theme, starts its subtle ascent as the background score, but sans the music of the stringed instrument.

It is when Katara says: "Maybe you could be free of it." [About Zuko's scar], when then first hint of the stringed instrument is heard. It is only a single note of the strings but it's there. And this "single note" sound keeps on repeating at regular intervals with the melody building up until Aang and Iroh burst into the catacombs.

But then, when Katara is leaving with Aang and she turns back to look at Zuko, this time the music that plays for a few seconds at best, is dominated by the stringed instrument again and this time it's unmistakable.

Also I don't think this music is used anywhere else in the course of the whole show? So it can't really be a coincidence? But I don't really know. I'm saying this on the basis of as far as my memory can reach.

And this is as far as canon stands testimony to what I am trying to say here.

But what about the second half of the story yk, the dying thing, you say?

Well this is where the speculations come in.

Speculation Time:

#1

As a thumb rule, a romance foreshadowed by a tragic tale is meant to have a happy ending.

So this time when Katara's (Shu) life is in danger (Azula's lightning bolt), Zuko (Oma) steps in at the nick of time to save her life (by jumping infront of Katara to intercept the lightning).

(Since I have crossed the limit of images in a post, here is a post by @araeph which illustrates this point.)

Yes, I am completely aware that Zuko taking the lightning bolt for Katara is not his declaration of love for her. What I mean to say is that the whole scene was so very painfully obviously romantically framed (the immediate change in music when Zuko realises where the lightning bolt was headed, both of their expressions, Zuko's agonized "Nooooo", the slow-mo throughout the shot).

I am also aware that Zuko would've taken the lightning bolt for anyone. But it is the narrative that demands that Zuko take the lightning bolt for Katara and Katara only. Because this has atleast 10 different payoffs (a direct callback to the Book 2 finale where Azula had shot Aang with the lightning; the grief of which was for Katara to bear but this time Zuko himself stands between the lightning and Katara instead of being the silent spectator, the culmination of both Zuko and Katara's personal character arcs, Zuko's scar would parallel Aang's: Aang got it because he chose Katara over the world and Zuko got it because he was willing to give up the world to save Katara, etc, etc).

Tl;dr: The lightning scene wouldn't hold all that much weight if it wasn't Zuko taking the hit for Katara because the narrative literally demands it.

#2

This is where we start wading into really murky waters.

From mucking around on Tumblr due to Zutara feels™, I came across this post where some of the ideas for Book 4 were written:

• The Southern Water Tribe experienced the longest series of attacks from the Fire Nation. Zuko and Katara become political partners and work together to help end the animosity and repair relations between their two nations.

• Just like how Zuko learned to appreciate the Earth Kingdom, he would learn to appreciate the Water Tribes. Katara also learns to respect the complexity of Fire Nation culture. There is no such thing as an “evil” nation.

And that basically means that Zuko and Katara would've been working together to de-escalate the hostility between their respective nations and improve the relations between the two nations, while learning about each other's cultures simultaneously as the world would be in the process of being rebuilt after the war and they would be major role-players in shaping the new world.

Which is quite similar to how Oma strived for peace between the two villages and then as a result of the improved relations between the villages, the city of Omashu was built as a monument to the love story of Oma and Shu; which might just be symbolic of building a new world where both the villages could live in peace due to the initiative taken by Oma on behalf of herself and Shu.

The story would've come a full circle; that's all I'm saying.

If you've stuck around for this long, thank you for taking the time to read this long ass post with points that you may already have read ♥️

[sentakushimasu]

if i can't taste your lips just let me taste blood

pairing: bakugou katsuki/kirishima eijirou summary: work studies are meant to be educational, not fatal, but bakugou and kirishima are trapped with a growing puddle of blood and no way to get out genre: hurt/comfort, whump word count: 2.6k warnings: blood, hospitals, bakugou trying to articulate emotions title from: we are the dirt - it's never enough AO3

When Kirishima came to it was with a lot of confusion and pain. The first thing he noticed was the searing pain emanating from his abdomen that blurred and subdued his other senses. The second thing he noticed was that it was really dark.

Dark to the point where he wasn’t sure if he was opening his eyes at all, unable to figure out where the hell he was or how he got there.

The pain, however, was very clearly not a fixture of his foggy and disoriented brain. It kept getting worse, the burning sensation reaching all the way down to his feet. In the haze of pain he couldn’t pinpoint any actual injury, only able to tell that there was something really heavy pressing down on his midsection.

The whine he let out was involuntary, but if he was alone he was going to make as many pathetic noises as he wanted.

Only, he wasn’t alone.

“Kirishima? Kirishima, are you awake?”

That was Bakugou’s voice, but Bakugou never called him by his name, and especially not with the worry that currently saturated his tone.

Kirishima grumbled and tried to push the weight off him. It was so heavy, borderline crushing him but he couldn’t get it to move. What he assumed were Bakugou’s hands swatted his away from whatever was pinning him down.

“Fucking hell, would you stop that?”

Kirishima squirmed again, trying desperately to get even a little bit of the weight off him. “There’s something on top of me-”

“Yeah, that’s me. You’re bleeding.”

“Hmm? Sorry,” Kirishima floundered until his fingers connected with Bakugou’s wrist, looping around the limb. “You can stop, I’m alright.”

“What the fuck? No. You’re fucking bleeding everywhere.”

Bakugou’s face came slightly more into focus as Kirishima’s eyes adjusted to the darkness. He kept looking between Kirishima’s abdomen and his face. He looked worried, and if Kirishima didn’t value his life he would dare say that Bakugou was scared. He was still in his hero gear, the stupid theatric spikes framing his head, a distinct trail of blood marring his features as it trailed down his face from his hairline.

“Are you hurt?” Kirishima couldn’t help but ask.

“What? No.”

“You’re bleeding,” Kirishima supplied helpfully.

Bakugou narrowed his eyes and turned back to the wound, applying more pressure. “Not as much as you.”

Swallowing the whine in the back of his throat, Kirishima decided to actually start a conversation with his friend. He had no idea how long they would be there and he wasn’t into spending that uncertain length of time in tense silence with Bakugou. “What happened?”

“Work study. Big villain attack so Endeavour sent us out as backup. One of ‘em cornered you in here so I came to tell ‘em to fuck off but you were on the ground and when I exploded the asshole, the fucking ceiling caved in.”

“At least I’m not stuck in here by myself, hmm? That would be unfortunate.”

It was supposed to have been a joke, something to lighten the mood between them but Bakugou’s expression remained firm as he offered no reply.

“How bad is it?”

Bakugou paused, the silence hanging heavily between them. “It’s fine, you’re gonna be fine.”

Kirishima just hummed. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Dark spots peppered his vision and he was beginning to realise how tired he felt. He knew Bakugou was fighting a losing battle.

“I’m not fucking lying, okay? You’re going to be fine.”

“It’s okay, Bakugou. Can I just ask you to do something before I die?”

“You’re not going to die, you asshole. Fat Gum is going to come for you, you know he’d never leave you here.”

The exhaustion was creeping in with the tingling sensation in his arms and legs. He was so cold. He had half a mind to ask Bakugou to set off some explosions and hopefully warm the air. But they were trapped with potentially limited oxygen and Bakugou was too smart to ever risk that. “Is he going to be fast enough? You said there was a villain, he’s probably too busy.”

“Shut up!” Bakugou snapped, his expression and tone immediately softening as the harshness registered. “You’re not dying today. Or tomorrow. Or any day that I’m alive to see. I won't let you.”

Kirishima closed his eyes, letting himself imagine what it would be like to die with Bakugou by his side. A cruel part of his chest tightened as he imagined asking Bakugou to hold him before he passed out.

The taste of blissful unconsciousness lay heavy on the back of his tongue as he spoke. “Will you stay? I don’t wanna go alone.”

“You’re not going fucking anywhere, and I’m not gonna leave you.”

“I think I’m dying, Katsu.”

Kirishima could see the way Bakugou flinched at the use of the nickname. He would have apologised for being so informal but he was tired and he didn’t have the energy to be sorry for trying to feel close to Bakugou in his last moments.

Perhaps the reaction had been to the idea of Kirishima dying, but that seemed less likely. Bakugou was persistent in reminding everyone that he didn’t care about anything or anyone other than becoming number one. Kirishima had always admired his determination but right now he just wanted to pretend that Bakugou cared about him.

Falling in love with Bakugou Katsuki was probably the dumbest decision of Kirishima’s life but he would never live to regret it. Not while Bakugou stayed with him, trying to staunch the flow of blood from a wound that was likely severe enough to render Bakugou’s efforts useless.

The older boy didn’t look at him. “You’re just delirious from the blood loss, you’ll be okay.”

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

“Because you’re fucking bleeding out!”

“Yeah,” Kirishima mumbled with the limited energy he had left, “but why is it suddenly a big deal? You've said repeatedly that you don’t care about anyone else.”

“I lied,” Bakugou hissed through his teeth, his jaw clenched with such force that Kirishima was worried the bone would shatter under the pressure.

Kirishima’s eyebrows pinched together in confusion. Well that made no sense.“Why would you lie?”

“Because I love you, goddamnit! So you’re going to stay awake and we’re going to get out of this and go on a date or some shit, but we can only do that if you stay awake, okay?”

Oh. Kirishima tried to speak, but his tongue felt like a lead weight in his mouth that he couldn’t lift no matter how hard he tried. The fog was pressing in on him much harder now.

Bakugou’s voice was muffled by the fog as he spoke again. “Fucking say something. I just confessed my feelings for you, you don’t get to fucking ignore me now.”

Kirishima was aware that he should be worried by the way it was taking more and more of his energy to keep his eyes open, but he couldn’t find the strength to care about anything other than the fact that Bakugou just said he loves him.

“Kirishima?”

“No- No, fuck, no, Kirishima you have to keep your eyes open!” Kirishima hadn’t even noticed they’d fallen shut, but he couldn’t seem to open them again, despite how much he wanted to stare into Bakugou’s red eyes forever.

Kirishima could feel something tapping on his cheek, shaking his shoulder. Bakugou’s voice was so broken and raw when he spoke his plea. “Kiri, please.”

That’s weird, Bakugou never says please.

As the last shreds of consciousness left him, Kirishima swore he could hear muffled yelling somewhere close to his head, he couldn’t make out the words.

But it didn’t hurt anymore.

-

Kirishima didn’t expect to wake up.

It was as simple as that.

He had been bleeding badly enough that Bakugou hadn’t even let him look, and had seemed genuinely worried and afraid for his friend’s wellbeing. So at that point, waking up was a feat on its own.

Waking up without being in excruciating pain was something else entirely. He just felt floaty and not real. But he definitely wasn’t dead because he was uncomfortable and the lights behind his close eyelids were way too bright.

“I would try to send you back to the dorms but I know you won’t listen to me even if I erase your quirk and drag you kicking and screaming out of here,” Aizawa’s gruff voice said from a place Kirishima couldn’t pinpoint. There was a lot of aural input that just dissolved into directionless static.

“I’m not leaving him.”

That was Bakugou’s voice, with its hard edge and underlying fire. It cut through the haze of Kirishima’s lingering unconsciousness, it didn’t have the same fuzzy edge to the syllables that Aizawa’s voice had.

Aizawa must have clicked his tongue before speaking again in his monotonous drawl. “You need to rest too. That concussion isn’t going to go away on its own.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Bakugou bit back.

“Then, pray tell, what matters more than your health?”

“He does.”

He wanted to fight against the stupor, to reach out and smack Bakugou upside the head. His friend was concussed, and chose not to rest, in favour of keeping a bedside vigil. At this point, it was the only thing that was convincing Kirishima that he didn’t hallucinate what Bakugou said before he passed out.

Not that it made much sense.

“Kirishima would want you to take care of yourself.” Kirishima is going to shake Aizawa’s hand the second he can muster up the energy to do so.

“Kirishima also wanted to die of blood loss and traumatise me instead of just staying awake, so I’m not going to listen to what that asshole wants.”

“You know as well as I do that the doctor said he probably won’t be coherent until tomorrow morning even if he does wake up tonight. I can drive you back to the dorm and pick you up before visiting hours.”

Kirishima could practically hear Bakugou shaking his head. “I’m not leaving him alone.”

“He won’t be alone. Fat Gum and I will be here all night.”

Bakugou’s next words were haunted, hollowed out to fit an emotion Kirishima had never heard from the older boy. “He asked me to stay with him.”

“And you did, you saved his life,” a third voice added. Kirishima was cognizant enough to be able to recognise it as being his mentor.

“Go to bed, Bakugou,” Kirishima mumbled, scrunching his eyes up tightly as consciousness fully came back to him. He wished someone would turn the light off.

“Kirishima?” There was too much noise in that moment for Kirishima to figure out who had spoken, but he suspected that all of them had something to say about his return to wakefulness.

He tried to lift his hand, hoping to cover his eyes from the bright lights of what was undoubtedly a hospital room, only to find it pinned in place.

Opening his eyes to the onslaught of light revealed that his hand was being firmly held in Bakugou’s. Okay, forget his previous claims, he was definitely dead. Or, at the very least, having the best dream of his life.

Kirishima groaned. “You guys are loud.”

“Sorry, kid,” Aizawa said in his usual grumble. His chair was the furthest away from Kirishima, sitting all the way in the corner of the room. He looked the same amount of disheveled as he usually did but his posture held a weird tension that Kirishima wasn’t sure he had ever seen before.

“How are you feeling?” Fat Gum asked, he was out of his hero suit which, to Kirishima, looked very odd.

“Pretty okay, all things considered,” Kirishima said, directing his gaze towards his friend.

Bakugou was the most noticeably different. His hair was scruffy and matted with blood, a stark white rectangle of gauze taped to his forehead, a few little strips holding a cut on his eyebrow together. He didn’t speak, but he didn’t let go of Kirishima’s hand either.

Feeling particularly spontaneous, probably due to the bucket full of pain meds that were undoubtedly currently in his system, Kirishima gave Bakugou’s hand an experimental squeeze.

Bakugou stiffened but the tension quickly left his body as he squeezed back, turning to meet Kirishima’s eyes and give him a soft smile.

Their exchange was silent but they said all they needed to.

I heard you.

I love you too.

Kirishima tried to adjust himself, to get a better look at Bakugou’s injuries. Only to promptly collapse back onto the hospital bed as pain blasted through all of his senses.

“Idiot,” Bakugou hissed.

“Take it easy,” Fat Gum said, “you were in surgery for a long time, you don’t need to be pushing yourself.”

Still trying to breathe through the pain, Kirishima opened one eye to look at the pro hero.

“Surgery?” he managed to grit out from between his clenched teeth.

Fat Gum’s eyes softened as he looked at his mentee. “We found you both not long after you lost consciousness, but you were in rough shape. You’re going to need to take it easy for a while.”

Kirishima groaned. “That sounds boring.”

“Not as boring as an extended recovery period because you refused to take care of yourself,” Aizawa chided.

“True,” Kirishima said. “What time is it?”

Fat Gum was the one to speak this time. Bakugou stayed remarkably silent. “A little past midnight, you spent six hours in surgery and we’ve been waiting for you to wake up for about two hours now.”

“And Bakugou isn’t in bed?”

“Nope. We tried but he won’t budge. Better to let it happen at this point.”

Kirishima rolled his head to the other side, narrowing his eyes at Bakugou and the older boy’s stony expression. “Go to sleep.”

Bakugou met his gaze with his usual stubborn fire. “You first.”

“If you stay, will you sleep?”

Bakugou nodded.

“Aizawa-sensei, can he stay?”

Kirishima had expected Aizawa to argue, but he was just met with a soft “okay”.

Whether it was the cocktail of medication or the trauma his body had suffered, tiredness hit Kirishima like a wave. As his blinking slowed down, he swore he saw a soft smile grace Bakugou’s lips before his other hand reached up to brush Kirishima’s hair out of his face.

“Goodnight, Kirishima.”

Kirishima just hummed, too tired to speak.

-

Kirishima woke up the next morning with Bakugou wrapped around his arm that was free of tubes and wires, snoring softly.

Carefully picking up his other hand and ignoring the presence of the IV in the crook of his elbow, he began to thread his fingers through Bakugou’s messy hair. The older boy didn’t stir, a true testament to how exhausted he really was, especially considering on any other day Kirishima could breathe sideways and Bakugou would all but leap to his feet.

Instead, Bakugou’s hold just tightened slightly as he mumbled something in his sleep.

A quick glance around the room told Kirishima that Aizawa was asleep in his chair in the corner, his face buried in his capture scarf, surprisingly sans his usual yellow sleeping bag. Fat Gum was nowhere to be seen but judging by the empty chair with a blanket on the seat and jacket draped over the back, he couldn’t be far away.

There was a weird bliss to the quiet atmosphere of the hospital room. The soft morning light filtered in through the window as opposed to the harsh lights of the night before.

The pain meds took away from the discomfort of being in a hospital, and with Bakugou clinging to him like he was the most important thing in the world was something Kirishima could easily be convinced was a dream, a fantasy conjured by his unconscious mind.

He could get used to this.

[prose-for-hire]

Under the Mistletoe

12 Days of Christmas: (kind of) Day Five

Pairing: Rupert Giles x reader

Request: Thank you for letting me know! I didn't want to resend just in case it actually went through. I was curious if a Giles one could be done where the reader has hung mistletoe all over to get Giles to give some kisses, but him being Giles, he either doesn't see it because he has a book in hand or he sees it and panics, so he doesn't "see" it. Finally, the reader just snaps and grabs some mistletoe, walks to Giles and holds it over his head. "For a guy who is pretty smart . . . where are my kisses?"

Requested by: @sword-sings-of-silver​

A/N: It’s gonna annoy me so much that this has been posted after Day six, but I didn’t realise I hadn’t queued it up and my Wifi was down so I’m sorry for not posting yesterday !! ❄🖤

You were in love. He was smart, witty and incredibly attractive. You had been driven wild with emotion whenever he was near. It had been almost two years now and you had yet to make any move. You didn’t know whether he felt the same which h made it hard to reveal your own deep feelings.

What you hadn’t realised was that he harboured such great feelings for you that he thought he may explode. He became nervous when your were around. You were so attractive. When you were in the room, his eyes were always on you. Until you looked his way and he diverted his gaze.

You were an assistant at the library, which meant you had a lot of time in the day with just you and Giles. Talking to him was so easy, so enjoyable. You were sure you had met your soulmate, in heart and mind. It was no secret that you loved Christmas and Giles, or Rupert as he insisted you called him, found it refreshing how enthusiastic you were. He had learnt so much about you, you spent most weekdays together and so he felt like he knew you like the back of his own hand.

At the beginning of December, Giles asked if you wanted to decorate this year for the holidays and you excitedly nodded and started to make a list of all of the items you would need to make it look much more Christmas-y in the room. You were beyond excited and your enthusiasm near made him melt. He adored you, wished he could spend even more time with you. Despite the fact you worked together. Somehow, it wasn’t even enough.

You were, of course, in on the knowledge of demons and the Hellmouth. You would have to, the amount of supernatural activity in that place would have driven you mad otherwise. Luckily, you had been classically trained. You had a degree in demonology and had originally started working there to track down a very rare tome you had wanted to research. However, you had met the man of your dreams and you loved being a librarian too.

You liked the kids that came in to save the world every now and again. They made you laugh although they were very nosy and asked you constantly about your love-life. They saw the way your eyes wandered over to Giles every time they asked.

Buffy, Xander and Willow had gotten tired of you both second-guessing the other’s intentions. So they hatched a plan. Just in time for Christmas. Xander, with a little of his Commando training still in his brain called it: Mission X-mas. Because they wanted to get you both to reveal your feelings by the time Christmas came around.

This was important because they had both found out that you were both spending Christmas day alone. They hoped if they pushed you into each other’s laps before Christmas break, they could enjoy their own holidays knowing that you may make plans together.

It was Monday morning, a day you wouldn’t usually enjoy however you found yourself increasingly enjoying it. Getting up in the morning were easier. It was the anticipation. It was seeing him. It made you smile as you packed the boxes of decorations in your trunk. You made a stop on your way to work and got in just in time. You had to make several trips with your boxes and Xander caught you in the corridor and offered to help. He muttered something about Santa’s grotto but when you asked him to repeat himself he said he thinks there’s a ghost in the room and then he sped off.

“Here, I brought you this” You offered him the to-go cup of tea you had picked up on the way to work. He smiled fondly and thanked you, offering to cheers with your cups. You met your drink with his and your eyes locked. The gaze you shared was so meaningful, so pure. You wanted to kiss him so badly it ached. He looked as if he was about to say something, but shook his head, thinking better of it. He thanked you again and offered to help you decorate. He knew this would make you smile, he loved your smile so much.

You sat together, discussing your weekend and the most recent demon problem. You finished off your hot drinks and sat in a comfortable silence together. You were so comfortable with him. You just wanted to tell him, but if you did you may lose moments like these if he didn’t reciprocate.

Suddenly, Xander ran in saying that he saw the demon summoner walking around Giles’ house that morning. Luckily, Giles didn’t ask why Xander had been there and just set off to his home. Not even a full minute after he left and you had barely opened up the first decoration box, Buffy and Willow soon followed by Xander slipped into the room.

“Shouldn’t you be at Giles’ house? With the demon summoner?”

“Ah, well, about that-”

“You were supposed to distract him not scare him!” Willow exclaimed, now worried about Giles who may think he was about to get seriously hurt.

“It got him out of the library” Xander put his hands up in surrender.

“whats going on here guys?”

“It’s Giles”

“What is it? Has he been possessed?” You asked, now worrying about him too. That would explain the draw he had. The effect he had on you. Maybe it was supernatural instead.

“well you could say that...”

“No you couldn’t” Buffy said.

“possessed by love” he said as the rest of you shared an eye-roll.

“Someone please explain” you said, moving your attention back to the box realising the situation wasn’t as serious as you once thought.

“Giles is in love with you!”

“Don’t be-”

“No really! He has a serious jones for you. Totally head over heels territory over here” Buffy confirmed. You squinted between them.

“Really?” you paused from looking in the box again. They nodded seriously.

“He just won’t tell you because he wants you to be comfortable at work”

“That’s so… sweet” you sighed dreamily and they all shared a look.

“So what do I do?” You asked them, really not sure why you were suddenly asking romantic advice from a bunch of high schoolers.

You looked in the boxes, pulling out a whole bunch of mistletoe. Everyone’s eyes landed on it and you all had the same idea at the same time.

You started to wind tinsel around the columns and sprigs of holly on different shelves. You made paperchains and decorated the tiny tree you had brought to sit on the librarians desk.

But the most important part was the mistletoe that you hung from every ceiling and every doorway. You stood with your back against the double doors to take in your handiwork and you did a little silent wish that your plan would work. You were second guessing yourself, getting cold feet. This was stupid. You had listened to teenagers that as far as you were away didn’t even date.

You shook your head at yourself, moving to go and tug some mistletoe down but just at that moment, he had returned grumbling something about Xander as he entered. That was it, there was no time to change it now. So you just let him take in the room. He loved it, mostly because you had done it. He moved to stand beside you and told you this. You shivered slightly as his body was close to yours. But he moved away too quickly.

You had both ducked under a bunch of mistletoe as you talked him through your vision for the decoration. You both looked up and then at each other. He every obviously saw it. His eyes widened as he moved away quickly. This confirmed what they had said to you. If he didn’t feel that way, he wouldn’t have so awkwardly moved away. It gave you hope. It made you smile to yourself softly. He went a bit quiet, pulling into himself to overcompensate for how much he wanted to kiss you.

It kept happening, you met under the mistletoe almost several times each hour. But he avoided your eyes, ducked his head and mumbled some kind of excuse. He was dying inside, he was so desperate to kiss you but he didn’t want to risk losing your friendship. It didn’t cross his mind that you had put them there on purpose.

For the rest of the day, he walked with a book, not looking up much. He desperately wanted to pull you into him, your lips meeting so perfectly. It was almost too much. He was desperate to be with you. To hold you. To be close to you. He wanted to keep you warm through the long winter. Wanted to be by your side.

It took you until almost the end of the day to properly work up the courage. But eventually you watched him start to get up from his office and you quickly got up to meet him in the doorway. The mistletoe hung directly between you. He started to look down at his feet and say something but you spoke first.

"For a guy who is supposed to be pretty smart... where are my kisses?" You smiled, leaning into him. He was surprised you could harbour these feelings.

“Well, ah, yes-” you rolled your eyes, pulled him into a kiss that he quickly returned. Your lips met, gliding over each other. Every move charged with such raw emotion. You both dropped what you had been holding to reach for the other. Wanting to pull each other even closer. To have each others skin against skin. His hand cradled your head and you ran your hands up his back. His lips were addictive, even better than you had imagined. He was an amazing kisser. Made even better because of how much care he harboured.

You backed into his office, smiling into the kiss. He cupped your face hungrily kissing around your lips and jaw before catching your lips once more. He had been dreaming of this and he didn’t want to ever stop.

However, at this moment Snyder walked in rolling his eyes at your decorations and pulled a large amount of paperchains from the ceiling. You heard this and moved apart quickly. You stepped out of the office to face him. Both of you a little out of breath. He snaps that your Christmas decorations are not regulation. He looks between you and scowls. As if he wanted to say something. To catch you out. But instead he just turns on his heels and leaves.

Which allowed you and Giles to slip back into the office, desperate to study each other’s bodies rather than the books you usually would. Your lips met again as he sat you on the desk, he adored the way you glowed under the Christmas lights you had just installed earlier that day. This Christmas was shaping up to be the best one yet.

[moiraineswife]

Do No Harm - A Witsnah Fic

Guess who’s back...Back again. IT’S ME. Y’all didn’t think you had escaped my Witsnah content forever did you? Because you DIDN’T. I’m back with some Highly Indulgent Content. Pls enjoy. 

Title: Do No Harm 

Rating: M (for violence and cursing) Content warnings: blood and stabbing

Summary: Jasnah is dying and Wit goes a little bit feral as a treat. AKA: Wit realises he's in love with Jasnah via the power of terror. AKA: Wit discovers he can pine while in a relationship because he’s just That Dramatic.

Someone makes another attempt on Jasnah's life within her chamber of Urithiru. Wit realises he's willing to do whatever it takes to save her. Even if that means risking his own life.

Teaser: 

Wit liked to think himself largely shock proof.

Not electrical shocks, of course, he was still working on that. But startling shocks, the jump scares of life, unexpected occurrences around every corner. Those he felt he was damn near immune to.

Jasnah Kholin stumbling from their shared chambers at sixteen minutes past three in the morning wearing nothing but her nightgown and a considerable amount of blood, gasping his name and seeming near unconsciousness? That did it.

Link: AO3

On a list of things Jasnah hated, assassins were definitely in the top five.

She felt that was reasonable. They had killed her father. They had killed her brother. They had attempted to kill her multiple times. They had threatened everyone she loved, at one time or another. 

And they were also responsible for the large bolt currently protruding from her chest.

Jasnah had been asleep in her bed within Urithiru when the fabrial device cleverly hidden in the canopy had fired the projectile directly down into her body.

Ivory's split second warning had woken her and allowed her to shift aside. Not avoiding it, but it had meant that it hadn't plunged directly into her heart. He'd likely saved her life.

"Something is not, Jasnah." Ivory said, his voice more curt and clipped than usual. His way of expressing concern.

Dimly, using one of the corner posts of her bed to haul her to her feet, Jasnah recognised the same thing.

She had experience with having things stabbed into her. Which had only increased during recent years. Though the bolt embedded in her chest would prevent the Stormlight healing the direct wound, it should still have sealed the skin and muscle around it by this point.  She shouldn't be losing this much blood.

The silk nightgown she wore was soaked in scarlet. Blood was still gushing from the wound in rather alarming torrents. The wheeze to her increasingly laboured breathing told her blood was slowly filling her lungs as well, so there was no internal healing either. Wonderful.

She had to get it out to give her body a chance to fix this.

Forming that rational thought was more difficult than it should have been.

 Panic was starting to gather in the blackening edges of her vision, like a Highstorm threatened in the sudden gathering of clouds, and it was becoming harder and harder to push it back.

Trembling, legs bowing with fatigue, she grasped the bolt in her left hand and willed it to change, to become air, free, and fluid, and no longer fatal.

Nothing.

It didn't refuse her, as objects first had during the initial fumbling attempts to Soulcast them. No. It simply didn't exist to those senses that had become so attuned to the world around her.

That confirmed the fear that had been building within her, and did nothing to still her rising panic.

Stormlight thundered in her veins, a fill, raging Highstorm's worth. She was a Fourth Ideal Radiant, with more experience and knowledge of her powers than almost any other. She had survived shipwrecks, and battles. She was faster, and stronger than any human had a right to be, and had the power to warp the world to suit her whims.

Yet Jasnah felt utterly, gut-wrenchingly helpless in this moment.

She couldn't Soulcast. She couldn't heal. Her strength was fading with every pounding beat of her heart, trying to help, but only forcing more blood from her body.

Escaping to her safe point in Shadesmar was out of the question. She had lost the ability to so much as peer into that realm, she- 

She was dying.

"Jasnah," Ivory barked, both out loud, and in her mind through their bond.

No. No. She was not going to go like this. Taken out by a single aluminium arrow. Alone in a blood drenched nightgown, cowering on the floor of her bedchamber. Helpless and terrified like that child locked in darkness.

She was not that child any more. 

She was a Storming Knight Radiant. She would die defiant and fighting to her last breath. Or not at all. She would accept no other outcome

Parting, she wrapped a blood slick hand around the bolt and tried to wrench it free. Her body screamed in protest, but she ignored it. Pain and she were old allies in this fight called life.

"Jasnah you have not." Ivory said, standing beside her at his full height, something like anguish chiseled into his sharp features.

The fear in his voice nearly reduced her to That frightened animal of panic and raw, foolish instinct. She'd never heard such a tone from him before in all their time together. Where she was logical, Ivory was logic. Any emotion that slipped into his voice told of an extreme reaction.

What was worse was that he was right. 

Her trembling muscles couldn't have pried a splinter from her finger, much less a thick bolt that had pierced her chest, the sharp point of which erupting between her shoulder blades.

She needed help. She needed- Wit. Wit was in the sitting area of their chambers, deep in his books when she'd left him to rest.

The cry of pain that would have issued from her bloodied lips was strangled by her flooding lungs as she lurched towards the door, pausing only to grab at a bundle of cloth on the floor and press it to her chest, in a futile attempt to stem the flow of blood.

It took several attempts to force the handle to turn. She would have cursed, if she'd had the breath for it. Black spots were starting to dance across her vision, though, so she had far bigger problems than an inability to unleash profanities at a door.

Agonisingly, inch- by- inch, spattering blood in a grisly breadcrumb trail behind her, Jasnah clawed her way down the passage that would take her to Wit. Her last hope.

The logical thing to do would have been to send Ivory to bring him to her. But she couldn't stand the thought of ordering him away and leaving her utterly alone. Not now. Not with the darkness crooning to her on all sides.

It was irrational, she knew. But was also deeply human. And she hadn't felt so terrifyingly, nakedly, human in a long time.

Wheezing, she dragged herself to the break in the wall that opened out into the study. 

Her heart lurched painfully as her eyes fastened on the desk she'd left Wit at and found it empty.

If the storming man had gone wandering now and wasn't here when she needed him, and so she died, she'd spit into the Beyond until she could personally kill him and drag him there with her.

With the last bit of breath and strength she could summon she rasped his name into that awful, waiting silence.

Her body was failing her. She could feel it. Every muscle shaking as though she'd been exposed to a Winter Highstorm. Her legs were buckling. Her vision was fading.

Then movement. 

A rippling shadow in the corner of her vision. 

Wit, or an assassin, or the personification of death fabricated by her fragmented, dying mind, she didn't know.

Then she did.

Warm , strong arms wrapped around her and gently lowered her to the ground.

Wit. Without doubt. He was saying... Something? His voice seemed horribly distant, but she thought that he was seeking permission. She nodded to him, tried to tell him to do it, whoever it was, but ended up only tasting blood. Still, for the first time since the bolt had pierced her chest, she felt her heart calm, and steady.

Maybe that meant that she was dying. But if she did, she would die feeling strangely safe. And she would not die alone. That was strangely comforting. Wit was speaking to her again, but she was slipping away from him, like smoke drifting free of a Soulcast object.

The last thing she was aware of was Ivory's terrified scream shattering through her mind.

Then she was darkness once again.

***

Wit liked to think himself largely shock proof.

Not electrical shocks, of course, he was still working on that. But startling shocks, the jump scares of life, unexpected occurrences around every corner. Those he felt he was damn near immune to.

After all, he'd been alive for a very long time. In the same way fans of horror plays began to sense the tell-tale warning signs that something strange and frightening was looming.

The smart playwrites began avoiding the tried and tested tropes and clues in a bid to shock the frequent theatre-goer.

Unfortunately, the truly savvy horror aficionados were able to still identify the deliberate absence of tells as tells themselves. And so, the drama reward was, one way or the other, ruined before it was ever reached.

Wit had been attending the theatre of life for a very, very long time. The writers were trying their best to catch him out, but with so much experience under his belt, it was just really very difficult to do. 

Jasnah Kholin stumbling from their shared chambers at sixteen minutes past three in the morning wearing nothing but her nightgown and a considerable amount of blood, gasping his name and seeming near unconsciousness? That did it.

In the flicker between heartbeats he had to assess the situation, his assessment wasn't good.

Jasnah's normally deep tan skin had turned a worrying gray. Her eyes, usually so sharp and focussed, were glassy and glazed with pain and fear.

Most of the blood that should have been in her body seemed to be staining her nightgown instead.

And there was a thick, wicked bolt protruding from her chest. A quick pulse of burned Steel told him it was aluminium based, which was less than ideal.

He met Jasnah's gaze and recognised her legs were about to give way under her. Flaring his pewter, he launched himself towards her and pulled her to him. 

Then he eased them both to the ground, giving her fascinating new things to bleed all over, such as his shirt, and the fluffy rug Navani had decorated the sitting area with.

She was growing cold already. 

It took everything in him to ease her away from his warmth and lower her to the ground so he could take a look at the damage. 

Flipping a simple hunting knife from his boot he split her dress down the front to expose the wound. She'd forgive him if she lived. And if she didn't, he'd see to it that he was appropriately punished on her behalf.

"That is not a good pattern." Design observed, pulsing with concern over his shoulder.

 "No," Wit agreed tightly, feeling his hand tremble even as he streaked forward to probe the bolt.

The pain he knew doing so would cause burned warningly in his chest. The Dawnshard’s lingering influence had forged a connection between himself and all living things. 

If he physically harmed them, the same damage would be reflected back to him on a far grander scale, naturally. It had become so ingrained within him now it was physically impossible for him to do it in most cases. Instincts reinforced over millennia took care of even the strongest pulses of anger and desires to inflict pain personally.

“Design, can you please find Lift, bring her here? Now." he said, with such grim finality in his tone that she didn't pause for one of her usual facetious comments before she left.

If he could get the bolt out himself the Stormlight he could sense pounding futile within her, like a trapped whitespine, should take care of the wound. If he couldn't... That was why Lift was coming. 

"Jasnah, love," he whispered softly, hoping her permission, such as she was capable of giving in this state, might make this easier for him. "I need to remove this thing that's made its unfortunate home in your chest. I'm afraid that it's going to hurt."

She nodded, and he was sure her lips formed the words 'do it' before she choked on her own blood. 

Fuck. He didn't have time to waste wondering whether he could do this. Or worrying about what would happen to him if he did. She was dying, and he couldn't let that happen.

Her body shuddered, and Ivory let at out an anguished cry as she lost consciousness in his arms.

Time stopped. 

Reality blurred. 

Something deep inside him became suddenly very dark and impossibly cold. It took him a moment to realise it was his heart. 

That fickle, feeble thing, more scar than soul at this point. It had withered, like a once beautiful blossom that since lived devoid of light and warmth and air. Both lost to dust and decay.

 Yet he felt it, now. 

He felt it on this quiet, unremarkable day, as he held Jasnah Kholin in his arms and contemplated the weight of her death. 

And he knew.

Whatever the cost to fix this, he would pay it. If he had to endure untold agonies, or shred another piece of his shattered soul, or rewrite the ending of worlds, or break an unbreakable contract, or pray to gods he'd renounced millennia ago...

He would do it. He would do it all.

Because, ah, sweet fool, he loved her. He loved this woman. He loved the breath and bones of her. The blood and soul. The logic and dreams. The wit and wonder. And the spit and bile of her, he loved that, too.

Without conscious thought, he wrapped a hand around the bolt in her chest, and pulled.

Once before he'd come close to death. True death. Not of the sort he'd described to Jannah as 'inconveniences’. That had been a permanent threat, a permanent end.

A Shard had managed to capture his essence, in his earlier years, when he’d been less careful, and more easily fooled. Then they had begun to methodically shred it, with no small amount of gloating glee.

Emotion by emotion, bit by bit, bloody chunk by bloody chunk, he'd been ruined.

In those horrifying moments, he'd felt sure he'd finally reached the last of his luck. He'd thought he was facing his end. And an end it would have been. One that would have been more final than even the Beyond. For if it had been completed, there would barely have been a memory left of him to echo through the Cosmere.

This was worse.

This was so much worse.

He had not known agony such as this in a long time. 

None of the Investiture he held helped in the slightest. It was but a flickering candle flame before the hurricane of consequence that currently ravaged him.

Some time ago, he’d learned that the line between help and harm could be incredibly thin. And that blurring it would not always work in his favour.

A part of him was sure that he was dying. And a larger part was begging for that to simply make all of this stop. But another, sharper, harsher part was convinced that if this had been going to end him, it would already have done so.

The first time he had nearly been rent into oblivion, all that had saved him had been the Shard's determination to not only end him, but to do it with as much unnecessary pain and drama as possible.

Wit enjoyed overzealous theatrics, especially when they gave him an opportunity to escape with the final shred of himself intact. Barely.

From there, over long centuries, he had painfully rebuilt what had nearly been taken from him.

He'd been careful never to go near the flame that had nearly consumed him again. Until now. Until he'd throw himself into it for her.

She returned that favor beautifully. 

For this time, all that saved him was her.

Her permission, in her final moments of lucidity, the trust she had given to him, in a way she had perhaps never given to anyone since she'd been a child. The faith she yielded to no God, she'd granted him in her deepest moment of vulnerability.

It had saved him. 

It had given him an anchor of certainty to cling to in his agony. Her conviction that, no matter the pain, he meant her no harm. And never would.

That act of love from a woman who saw harm and assassination in every flickering shadow, but had managed to find safety and salvation in him. It had been enough to save him, and now he only had to hope, in the slightest, most distant corners of his soul that were still capable of doing that, that it had been enough to save her, too.

On his knees, muscles violently shaking in spite of his Stormlight and his Pewter, Wit forced his eyes open to find Jasnah on the floor in front of him, still as a corpse.

Blood still seeped from the wound, which was smaller than before, but still deadly. Her Stormlight had run out keeping her alive as long as it had and now...Now she was not breathing.

"No," he breathed, dragging his pain ravaged body closer to her. "No. We're not yet done here, Jasnah Kholin. Not by any stretch of even my imagination." 

He breathed out, expelling all of his own remaining Stormlight in a shimmering cloud above her. Doubling over as the wave of nausea rolled over him, he clenched his fist and forced himself to lift his head so he could see her.

Breathe he willed her. I know you're too stubborn to die like this. Breathe damn you.

She did. 

First a 'breath' to draw in his Stormlight, then a wheezing rasp as she forced air into her rapidly healing lungs.

Wit slumped down onto the furry carpet, dizzy with relief and with the consequences of his foolish decisions.

He listened to the rhythmic sounds of Jasnah's chest rising and falling. And strained his Tin until he could hear the pleasing accompaniment of her heart beating, strong and defiant, like her. 

She really did make such sweet music. 

He closed his eyes, and listened to the ragged sounds of her breathing. The life he had bought with his gamble, and his pain. Worth it. So absolutely, completely, undoubtedly worth it. 

Her logic would have condemned that thinking. He’d bought her a few more decades of life with the potential sacrifice of millennia on his end? He could almost hear her voice telling him he was a Storms damned fool. 

It just made him smile. Because she was breathing beside him. And her heart was still beating. And she was still here, and still his, and that was all that mattered to him in the whole fucking Cosmere at the moment.

This symphonious serenade was interrupted by a chaotic donor at the door. Hauling himself to his feet he answered it and found Lift.

"I have obtained the strange Edgedancer!" Design informed him helpfully, sounding very pleased with herself.

"I ain't strange," Lift insisted, barging into the room and heading for Jasnah, gliding across the floor, bagel in her left hand.

"It was a compliment," Wit told her tiredly, closing the door and turning to face the chaos of the room with a wince.

"It was a factual observation," Design corrected, sliding across the wall alongside him, “I took a survey to back it up."

"Design, please," Wit groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

He was neither drunk nor Invested enough to deal with that conversation right now. 

Lift was crouched over Jasnah, examining the still healing wound. Aluminium injuries sometimes took longer to fully heal, even after the offending object had been removed. Lingering traces of the metal still caused problems with the Investiture healing. It was horrible stuff, truly.

"Damnation jester man," Lift said, whistling between her teeth, "What kind of freaky starvin' stuff have you two been doing in the bedroom? "she demanded, incredulous. "Pretty sure you're meant to stick it in her downstairs bits, not her chest. Figured you'd know that."

Regret. Yes, that was that feeling knocking against the inside of his skull like an insect trapped in a glass.

"I didn't stick it anywhere" he replied, with far less levity than he would ordinarily have mustered. It had not been a very levitous night. 

"Yeah, I've heard that can happen." she said, tone half- knowledgeable, half -sympathetic. 

In hindsight, he should have just let Jasnah bleed. The rug wasn't getting any less ruined. Unlike his sanity.

"If, could you please-"he began wearily, gesturing impatiently to Jasnah.

"Alright, alright," she said, sounding exasperated, as though he were being unreasonable in redirecting her attention to the woman slowly bleeding all over the floor. 

Her power flared, and a moment later she said, proudly, "There, see, she's waking up already." 

Wit stopped his pacing and knelt down by his queen once more, placing her head gently into his lap and stroking her hair back away from her face. Lift, for once wise, made no comment.

Jarrah stirred and groaned as he trailed his fingers gently through her hair and Ivory stood on her chest and minutely examined Lift's progress.

As her eyes opened and her vision clarified on him, those words were on his tongue. 

Those foolish, damning words that had nearly gotten him killed tonight.

The sudden powerful rush of emotion that hit him as she looked at him nearly knocked them from his lips, like a High storm wall dislodging a boulder.

But he smothered them with a smile, and held them inside. He wasn’t totally sure why. It just didn’t feel quite right. Not now. Not like this.

She stiffly raised herself enough to survey the damage.

Then she pursed her lips and said, "Rather unnecessary treatment of my best nightgown, wouldn't you say?" 

Wit choked on a laugh and pulled her close, resting his forehead against hers, keeping himself from covering her mouth with has only through millennia of cultivated restraint.

"Hello! You're welcome!" Lift’s loud, irritable voice burst in on the intimate moment, like a chull lumbering into a banquet and demanding to know where the sweets were.

Her arms spread indignantly wide to remind them she was still there and was responsible for Jasnah's current consciousness, she glared pointedly at both of them.

"Thank you, Lift." Jasnah said graciously, even as she gripped Wit's arm painfully to pull herself upright. “You may go to the kitchens if you wish. Tell them I approve the making of any dish you request." 

A gleam of near feral glee flickered into her eyes at this and she squinted at Jasnah before clarifying, “The royal kitchens, right?” 

Jasnah nodded, and Lift’s grin became absolutely and undoubtedly feral a moment before she saluted Jasnah, then shot off as fast as she could go.

"You may regret that," Wit said lightly, knowing only too well what kind of dish Lift was likely to order.

Jasnah, who probably had a shrewd idea too, allowed, “Perhaps. But it's a regret I'll deal with tomorrow. For now-" she began to rise with difficulty," My chambers must be investigated. The fabrial trap must be sent to my mother for examination. Then we must have the guards on duty interviewed, as well as any servants or maids who have had access to my quarters, and-"

" Jasnah," Wit interrupted quietly, one hand resting gently on her arm, drawing her back to him for a moment before she rose and drew away.

Some deep, instinctual part of him that he usually kept such an excellent hold on after all these centuries of civilised existence, it needed her. It needed her here with him for just a moment longer. He was not yet ready to let her go. Not when he’d come so close to never being able to hold her again so recently.

She obliged and turned back to face him, seeming to understand, though she too leashed those parts of herself as well.

Ever grateful, he dipped forwards and pressed a gentle kiss to her lips, tender and intimate, then rested his forehead against hers.

Again, his traitorous tongue almost told her, but instead he murmured sleepily,  “I'm very glad you're not dead." 

Her lips quirked into a faint smile at that, “You say the sweetest things," she deadpanned in that way of hers that he loved so well.

"I know," he sighed, with an appropriate and expected level of drama, "I spoil you so much." 

She pulled back a little and studied him with a keen eye, “I feel I should be expressing to you, too, that I'm pleased you aren't dead,” she said with a slight frown.

"Only if you really mean it," he said, with mock seriousness.

She ignored that, except for a slight frown. Then she asked, blunt and direct as ever, "What happened?"

"You ate all of my Stormlight." he returned smoothly. Technically it was true. But it was so far from the full truth of what had passed between them that it felt more like a lie, somehow.

"How rude of me," Jasnah said quietly, pressing another soft kiss to his lips.

 He could tell that she was not fully satisfied with that, however, and would likely return to it before long to tease further information from him. Damnable woman knew him too well.

"We have work to do," Jasnah said, getting to her feet with a poorly canceled wince and a wobble.

"Yes, we do," Wit agreed grimly, also rising and readying himself for a fight as he added, “We need to rest and recuperate and follow the advice of a healer on how best to recover."

Janak, as anticipated, didn't much like this suggestion.

She frowned slightly and said, “There will be time for rest and recovery later, Wit. There was an assassin in my personal chambers who made a very good attempt at killing me. I-"

"They did." Wit said very softly. 

"What?"

"They did kill you," he murmured, meeting and holding her intense violet eyes as he spoke, seeing something shift within them a moment before she blinked and turned away, unable to hold his gaze and whatever she saw within it.

Unable to stop himself, he reached out and took her hand, gently twining his fingers with hers, as the Cosmere had tangled their fates. 

"You died, Jasnah." he told her softly. " I watched you die." 

They both let that statement echo, done and unchallenged in the silence that followed. 

Then he squeezed her hand and said, "Please." 

She studied him hard, considering his words, hisintent, then she sighed faintly and nodded, yielding to his good sense. 

“Vey well." she agreed, “But I am not comfortable remaining here," She looked around at their quarters with a slight shiver. 

Once her sanctuary, now it would forever be the place where she had died. She did not get overly attached to places, or things, in general. She was the least materialistic aristocrat he’d ever met. Yet this had been a place of safety, and refuge, and the violation of that would probably haunt her more than the injuries themselves, already swiftly on the road to being fully healed. Smooth skin spread over another scar that she would never forget, regardless of the lack of physical reminder.

As if to illustrate this point, she said, with a grim expression, "But  in the morning, we find the bastards that did this."

"I've no objection to that whatsoever," he said smoothly, even though that was a lie.

Right now he never wanted her to go to work again. He wanted her to remain in his arms, safe, and whole, and unharmed. 

He couldn't have that. He knew he couldn't have that. He shouldn’t want that. That was the point of this relationship. That they each had goals larger than one another, that they had always known and accepted that from the very beginning. It was what they had both wanted. A relationship beyond simple wants. A relationship of deep, nuanced understanding of two of the Cosmere’s most complex creatures. 

And now...Well now he’d gone and fucked that right up, hadn’t he? He’d gone and fallen in love with her. Because of course he had. How could he not? 

It had been centuries since someone had challenged him as surely as she challenged him. On every fundamental level of his existence, she met, and even exceeded him. 

It was thrilling, and intoxicating. 

And more than that. More than the challenge. More than her ability to go toe-to-toe with him and even come out on top. It was her understanding of him, her acceptance of who and what he was. Even as he understood and accepted her, and- 

What an idiot. What an absolute, Adonalsium damned idiot he was. 

He could not contain this woman. He could barely even keep up with her most days. He would never be allowed to hold her gently in his arms and keep her safe from the world. No. She would not permit that. 

So he settled in the short term for pulling her into his arms now, one hand held about her waist while his other tangled in her long, black hair.

I love you. His heartbeat said, where it pounded against his ribs, pressed so close to her an irrational part of him thought she must feel it. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.

It was not some impulse foolishness from a boy panicked with his first crush. No. He was old. Old and stupid. So much so that he'd walked this path before.

The woman in his arms was not a fleeting fantasy conjured up by a frantic, terrified mind. She was solid, and real, and warm. And every inch of him was in love with her.

Truly in love with her.

Not in love with that desperate moment. Not in love with the unattainable idea of her that she could never be. No. His idiotic, foolish, witless little heart loved her in all the way it was possible for one person to love another.

Fucked. That's what he was. Well and truly fucking fucked.

But he didn't tell her. Because he was not yet that stupid.

He just held her.

Held her and kissed her and cared for her, for the few hours in which she would allow him to do so.

He helped her out of her ruined gown. Wiped the blood and gore from her skin as she bathed. Braided her still damp hair. Helped her into a clean nightgown and a different bed.

Then he held her again as she finally managed to drift off in his arms. And as he did, he thanked whichever Shard, or God, or raw force in this world had let him save the woman he loved. 

The woman he loved. 

Oh fuck him, this was unlikely to end well at all.

He did it anyway.

[chaseatinydream]

pirate king (77) || atz

You hold your breath unconsciously, gazing deep into the inky depths of the sea as the waves roll beneath your feet. Your mind begins to count each heartbeat, one, two, three, four... and that’s when you see it move again.

Goosebumps creep over your skin, and you’re ready to run when it emerges, rippling against the sea, and that’s when you realise that it looks exactly like you.

A pair of vibrant blue eyes lock onto yours - and you feel its gaze deep within your soul.

You know those eyes.

Your lips part of their own volition. “You’re m-”

“Chin Hae?”

“Captain!” Your words come out more of a startled squeak and instinctively, you whirl around and shove the coat behind your back the fastest you can, schooling your face into the most innocent expression you can muster as your captain approaches you with a mildly exasperated, but amused smile from his cabin. “You scared me!”

“Only those with something to hide would wear such a guilty look on their face.” Hongjoong raises a meaningful eyebrow at you, settling in front of you on the bulwarks, one knee drawn up to his chest and completely at ease on his perch. There’s a twinkle in his eye as he regards you, and you laugh, a little embarrassed yet set at ease.

“Well, I’ve been caught red handed. I promise I’ll confess my crimes, but not right now. Don’t peek!” You scold when he tries to glance surreptitiously around you and your captain grins mischievously at you, drawing back. “Why did you need to see me?”

At your words, Hongjoong’s previously content expression darkens slightly, worry shadowing his face with its heavy weight. A sigh leaves his lips, tired and drawn out,

“Do you know who the head commander of the Royal Navy is?”

You frown, a little surprised by such an unexpected question. “No...?”

Hongjoong’s smile is bitter, lost as he looks out to the black sea, watching as dark clouds roll in beneath the half moon.

The signs of an approaching storm.

“He’s my father.”

Your eyes widen in shock.

When he sees your speechless expression, he laughs, the sound tight in his chest. “Surprising, isn’t it? That the son of the head commander of the Royal Navy would turn out to become one of the most wanted pirates sailing the seas.” One of his hands come up to touch the eye-patch over his eye, and his expression is so forlorn you feel your own eyes sting. “Captain...”

He holds up a hand before you can say any more, smile sad. You wonder if he even knows what kind of expression he is making, that makes you want to take him into your arms and hide him from all the pain in this world. “Don’t feel sad for me. My ties with that man have been severed ever since the day he did this to me. He is nothing but an enemy to me now. What I am worried about is that the only one with the authority to approve such a ridiculous bounty would be the head commander himself, which is why I’ve been trying to think about the reason why he would possibly do such a thing.”

“Maybe he’s insane.” The words slip out before you can think them through, and immediately clap your hands over your mouth in horror. Hongjoong looks shocked for a moment, before his lips split into a smile and he laughs brightly, amused. The urge to start insulting his father suddenly wells up in your chest just to hear that sound again.

“Oh, he definitely is.” Hongjoong’s chuckles fade into a warmer smile, and you can’t help but think it much better suits his features than that bitter expression on his face earlier. “But an insane man makes a dangerous opponent, and with what’s at stake here,” his eye lingers on you and one of his hands come up to cup your cheek, an emotion far too deep to be fondness flitting across his face. “I cannot afford to take any chances.”

You recognise that expression because you’ve seen it before, in another pair of green eyes filled with anguished acceptance at your rejection. Dread fills your chest, from the tips of your toes all the way to roots of your hair. Oh no...

“Are you sure you haven’t had any encounters with the Royal Navy before meeting us?”

Your captain’s question takes you by surprise, and it takes you a long second or two to answer. “No... I don’t believe so. At least if I did, I don’t remember them.” Your mind is still swirling with tentative worry, pondering whether you should ask him outright or not.

You can’t let his feelings for you continue to grow anymore - of course, should they exist in the first place. The kindest thing to do would be to stamp them out before they bloom, for a blossom to fall would be infinitely more painful than yanking out an ungrown seedling. But how do you go about doing that?

You’re not sure if you have the strength to push yet someone else away again.

Hongjoong remains silent for a moment as he thinks on your words, his one green eye searching your face, and your heart seems to pause in your chest. “You... don’t believe that I’m telling the truth?”

“No, no, no, of course I believe you.” Hongjoong is quick to reassure you, although his gaze is still faded, lost in thought somewhere. “It’s just... a mystery to me, you see. From what I heard from the Tortuga town officials today, the Royal Navy is offering more than the entire bounty on this ship to have you taken in alive. Which brings me to the question of: why does the Royal Navy want you so badly?”

From now on, we’ll be in immense danger because of this, goes unsaid by him.

A bitter taste lodges in the back of throat when you hear the words ‘Royal Navy’, a shudder running through your body. That’s a ridiculous amount of money, you think, despair seeping into your bones. “Will the crew be in danger because of me, captain?”

Hongjoong must hear the tremble in your voice, because his expression softens, and one of his hands come up to rest on your shoulder, almost painfully gentle. “Well, it’s not like we haven’t been in danger even before you joined, so nothing’s changed there.” Still, you can hear the strain in his voice, the worry that lingers in the back of his mind that clings to him like a relentless parasite. “I promise, we’ll protect you with our lives.”

“That’s not what I asked.” Your voice sounds tiny even in your own ears, and you look down at the floorboards between your feet, unable to meet his gaze. “I wanted to know if the crew would be in even more danger because of me. Because if it ever comes down to it, captain, you should just-”

The grip on your shoulder tightens almost imperceptibly. “Chin Hae. Hey, Chin Hae, look at me.” He coaxes you to look into his eyes, his fingers lightly grasping your chin to tilt it upwards. “Don’t go getting any silly ideas now. You’re a precious crew member to me. As the captain, I would do anything in my power to keep you safe from harm, and I know the rest of the crew feels the same.”

“But is that really all there is to it?” You’re shocked at the boldness of your own words, and for a second, your captain falters, eye widening in stunned surprise. Before you can catch yourself, the words that have been dangling off the tip of your tongue finally burst out, like a dam that has crumbled in the face of his raw sincerity. “Or is it because your feelings for me extend past that of a captain and his crewmate?”

You’ve seen many sides of your captain, angry, cheerful, drunk and mad with worry, but it’s the first time you’ve seen your captain truly stunned into silence, his mouth opening as if to say something, but then closing. His hand falls from your face as the two of you stare into each others’ eyes, searching for something.

You don’t know what you hope to find.

“So... you know.” Hongjoong’s the first to break the silence, running one hand through his hair as he turns away from you, and you feel as if a musket ball has just slammed you straight in the chest, the agony there radiating outwards. Something hurts there, so badly you nearly can’t stand it, but all you can do is to continue staring at your captain in shock.

“Yes, I do confess that my motives to keep you safe are not completely pure.” When Hongjoong speaks again, his voice is steady, eyes fixed firmly on the sea, unrepentant in the least. “I’ve grown fond of you, unimaginably so, it seems to me. I will keep you safe with all the power I have, and as the captain of the Treasure, the power afforded to me includes that of the crew.”

“But they’ll be even more likely to be hurt!” You protest weakly, fingers twisting painfully in the fox fur jacket tucked behind your back. Hells, what do you say - how do you respond? “There’s no rule that demands them to be taken in alive!”

I’m already dying anyway... you want to say, but the words remain trapped in your chest. Hongjoong’s smile is tender as he rests a hand on your head.

“And that’s what I love about you. You’re too selfless.” He says gently, and you choke back a sob. Look at yourself before calling me selfless, you big fool. “I apologise for being selfish, but I keep close what I value. I am a pirate, after all.” His green eye burns near iridescent in the night. “I fight till my last breath to protect my treasure. That’s what a pirate’s life is all about. The rest of the crew know that too, the day they choose to follow me.”

“Captain-” You try to speak, but your words can’t seem to escape your throat. Hongjoong releases you from his grip. His warm gaze remains firmly fixed on you. It burns, like salt water on an open wound. “I don’t... I can’t... return those...”

“I’m already aware that Wooyoung has already propositioned to you, and that you may not return my feelings at all.” Hongjoong says easily, but you can hear how carefully he’s choosing his words in an attempt not to put you in a difficult position, and the pain in your chest only grows. “I want you to know that there is no need to, and I’m doing this completely out of my own selfish desires. Even if I did not hold any romantic feelings towards you, I would still lay down my life to keep you safe, as a captain should to his crew. That was all I wanted to say.”

The two of you stand there in silence, seemingly trapped in a single moment under the storm and the faded light of the trapped moon.

“Stupid...”

The words escape you and then before you know it, you’re pounding on his chest furiously with your hand balled up into a weak fist, tears streaming down your cheeks. “Stupid captain... stupid, idiotic, moronic captain...”

There’s no point in keeping me safe when I’m already dying, stupid...

“Don’t cry.” Hongjoong brushes your tears from your eyes as you continue hitting him weakly, before he tugs you into his chest. You wail quietly into the shoulder of his shirt, and his fingers card through your hair, a pained smile on his face as he looks down at you. “I’m sorry I’m stupid.”

“Damn right you are.” You choke out between sobs, hitting him on the shoulder with each word. “I can’t repay you with anything, and yet you’re willing to give up so much to keep me safe? You’re so idiotic, captain.”

An insincere, apologetic hum. “I’m sorry.”

“So dumb.”

“Mmhmm.”

“So foolish.”

“Yup.”

He holds you close until your sobs have subsided into quiet sniffles, before he speaks out loud once more. “But this stupid captain is the pirate king of the seas, and he’s really selfish about guarding his treasure.” He pauses for a moment, pressing his cheek against the top of your head. “So can you have some faith in him, that he’ll keep you and the crew safe to the best of his ability?”

“Stupid captain,” you sniff again, into his shoulder. “If you ask like that, how am I supposed to say no? You don’t play fair at all...”

“Good.” You feel his smile, and he slides down from the bulwarks to crush you against his chest. “Now I have the strength to think of a way to run from the Royal Navy for the rest of our lives - and the courage to face them in a battle, if necessary.”

With a final ruffle of your hair, he turns around to head for the cabin once more, tossing ‘it’s late, you should get to bed,’ over his shoulder. But you find yourself watching his retreating back, as it moves further and further from you.

Unable to take it anymore, you run after him and grab him by the wrist, stopping him dead in his tracks. “Chin Hae, what are you-”

“It’s my turn to confess. I made a jacket for you.” The words spill out, unchecked, like a rushing river as you yank out the garment to wrap it around his shoulders. Hongjoong’s mouth parts slightly in shock, and you take the opportunity to adjust it on him. It fits him perfectly, you think, and your lower lip quivers. “More than me being safe, I want you and the entire crew to stay safe too, understood? So please...” your fingers clutch the lapels of the jacket tightly. “You have to stay safe too, Hongjoong... That’s me being selfish right now.”

Before he can reply, you run for the infirmary, slamming the door behind you. Hongjoong stands there for a moment in silence, before he looks down to run a finger through the red fox fur. The stitching is a little clumsy, but it only makes it all the more precious to him.

“You called me Hongjoong.” He whispers quietly, a gentle, sad smile touching his lips.

>>>

From the depths, a pair of blue eyes watch, unfeeling as the coldest depths of the northern sea, before they ripple and vanish with the riptide.